Page 309 of Rogue Riders Duet

But the glove and hook hold. My grip is supported and secure, and I don’t have to fight to stay connected to the bike. It fights for me, and with every corner, every drop, I remember why I’m here.

I reach the bottom with my lungs burning and adrenaline right where I like it to be, and when I glance up at the time board, I blink hard.

Third place.

I won’t stay there. Luc is still up top, so he’ll push me into fourth place. But still, fourth. With broken fingers. Fourth with pain like this and everything stacked against me.

I tug, and the hook lifts, and the Velcro gives before I step off and roll toward the barriers. Dane meets me and reaches for my bike, but I don’t even register what he says as I pull my helmet off and hand it to Piper.

Because Finn is there, too, standing off to the side in the grass, watching me. There’s a soft smile on his lips, but his eyes send me running straight to him.

My gloves slap against my thighs, heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. I launch myself into his arms, and he wraps me up without hesitation. One arm around my waist, the other sliding to the back of my head like he wants to shield me from the entire fucking world.

He’s never stopped being where I land.

Burying my face in his neck, my breaths are fast and shaky. “Thank you.”

I mean it with everything I have.

Even if this—us—was never meant to be.

Even if we never find our way back to who we were.

Having Finn Greer in my life?

That’s something I’ll never stop being grateful for.

Just when I think I might fall apart from the sheer weight of it all, his lips graze my temple.

“I’m not gonna flinch, baby girl.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Toulouse is asleep on my chest, his little body rising and falling with each of my too-shallow breaths. My fingers card slowly through the scruff between his ears, more to keep myself grounded than to give him attention. He’s already melted into me like butter.

Mason has one knee crooked and the other stretched out, and my head rests on his thigh. He’s half-reclined against the back tire of the bus, eyes closed, one hand lazily stroking the side of my neck in a motion that feels like a lullaby I don’t deserve.

The air is thick with heat. There’s barely any breeze, and the bus casts a narrow strip of shade that we’re all crammed into. Somewhere nearby, a cicada screams.

To our left, Dane has Piper in his lap, her head is tucked under his chin, and she is giggling at something he just whispered in her ear.

Next to them, Jim is perched on his camping stool, wiping down a wrench with a rag that looks older than most of us. His phone is propped up against a water bottle, and the tinny sound of the race replay drifts through the stillness.

“There he goes,” he mutters, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Look at that line. Clean as fuck.”

A second later, Mason’s name blasts out of the speaker, the commentator announcing the win like it’s a miracle. Jim whoops, slaps his thigh, and rewinds it again, playing it louder this time.

Mason won today.

He fucking won.

And it was perfect. Clean, fast, fearless. I’ve never seen him ride like that, and I couldn’t be prouder if I tried. I want to bottle that feeling for him, pour it over his skin, make him drink it in because he deserves it. He deserves everything.

But I only made fifth.

Fifth after braking too early in the rock garden and almost eating shit on the lower berm. Fifth, when it was supposed to be now or never.

Because the shot at the overall title?