Page 310 of Rogue Riders Duet

It’s gone.

Poof. Just like that.

Luc is sitting at 1025. Raine is creeping behind with 975. Mason’s win bumped him to 950. And I’m sitting on a shaky fifth-place finish and 755 points.

Even to beat Raine, I’d have to win Canada and Snowshoe. Not just podium. Win. Back-to-back gold, which would be a miracle considering how difficult racing felt today.

And Raine would need to tank the rest of the season.

Yeah, not likely.

I adjust Toulouse slightly, careful of his little paws, and close my eyes, letting the feeling of Mason’s fingers on my skin distract me from the bad feeling that’s stretching out in my chest.

I was bitching about it to Piper earlier, during our physio session after the race, and she listened without a word, until she asked the question I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

“What will happen if you don’t beat Raine?”

I didn’t have an answer.

And that scared the shit out of me.

Can Allen Crews disappear without me outing myself?

Can I let go of the revenge that brought me here if I’m not good enough to pull it off?

The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to stop breathing, no matter the outcome, and that feels like a win.

Even when everything else about my racing career doesn’t.

I shift my hand from Toulouse’s head to Mason’s knee, running my thumb over the scuffed hem of his shorts. He doesn’t open his eyes, just hums a little and tightens his fingers around the side of my neck, anchoring me there. Not speaking, just being here, and maybe that’s the answer.

Maybe I don’t have to have it all figured out yet, and it’s okay to sit here in the shade, pressed against the man who rebuilt himself from ashes and made space for me in the wreckage. Maybe it’s okay to rest for a second.

Piper did a session with Mason too. She volunteered even though she didn’t have to, and I can feel the difference in him. There’s a new softness in the way he touches me, his default scowl replaced with a little smile playing on his lips. Shifting behind me, he lets out a long, contented breath, like he finally belongs in his own body again. He’s blooming, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The tension that’s been wound around his spine since the start of the season is finally loosening.

So why do I still feel like shit about that fucking fifth place?

Luc had his session with Piper last, and she told me he said he’d grab a shower before coming by, but it’s been forever, and he still hasn’t shown up. No texts. No calls. Just empty space and silence where he usually is.

And Finn is nowhere either. He didn’t race today, since he didn’t make it to qualifying, and I haven’t seen him since the finish line. A prickle of guilt builds behind my ribs at the thought.

He gave up his race so I could ride.

Before I can spiral deeper into it, that shitty old car he was driving in France sputters up the gravel and parks beside the bus.

We all look toward it, and I sigh. Of course, he needed to buy a car. We didn’t let him drive with us in the bus, and his team bus hit the road to Italy the day after my crash in Les Gets.

The guilt invades me completely then.

It’s always guilt with him. Always this sticky, swallowing thing I can’t crawl out of, no matter how much I try.

The passenger door flies open, and Luc practically launches himself out, arms overflowing with greasy cardboard boxes and a triumphant grin on his face.

“Viva l’Italia!” he yells as if we’re standing in the streets of Rome and not behind a half-scorched race bus in a dusty gravel lot.

Mason’s thigh shakes under my cheek as he cracks up. “What does that even mean?”