Page 395 of Rogue Riders Duet

He kisses me sweetly before murmuring against my lips. “Kick our asses, Bambi. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I’ve already got everything I ever wanted, but yeah.

Let’s go win a World Cup.

Mason walks off toward the gate just as I grab my bike, and the world goes quiet, the way it always does when a race is this close. My heart is thudding hard, but it’s not from fear. Not pain. It’s readiness.

I roll forward and line up behind him and Luc, tires crackling over the hard-packed gravel. The start gate looms ahead like a guillotine, and I take a long, deep breath.

I take my helmet off my handlebars. It’s matte black like the others, but mine is a little different. Painted pink and blue wildflowers curl around the top like a crown. Finn did that for me before the first race last season.

My fingers tighten around the straps, and I slide the helmet on, then pull the goggles down, setting them in place with a familiar plop. The sound steadies me.

Just like seeing us all in the same colors always does. Our tricot is black with a pink wildflower pattern throughout, and the names and numbers printed across our backs are inked in blue, just like the big RR sprawled across our chests.

I focus on the Payne and the 21 stitched across Mason’s back and let out a slow breath just as he glances over his shoulder. He flashes me a quick smile before tugging on his helmet. Luc is already at the gate, the Delacroix and 69 on his back stretching to its limit as he crouches into position, ready to launch.

I smile when I think about what’s written on my back.

11.

Big and proud above Crews.

Luc drops in with a shout that echoes through the trees, and Mason steps up next. He doesn’t say anything, just turns his head again for one last look. I can’t see his eyes through his mirrored goggles, but I feel that look. It’s a touch. A promise. Then he’s gone, too, tires spinning into the first corner.

My turn.

The gate locks with a heavy clunk that echoes in my bones, and my final five seconds start with a beep.

Inhale.

My hands wrap tightly around the grips.

Exhale.

I shift my weight, lean in, every muscle coiled, ready.

Inhale.

The last beep rings out.

And I launch on an exhale.

Everything narrows to the trail in front of me, and the world tunnels into dirt, speed, and instinct as wind roars in my ears.

God, I love this.

The bike moves beneath me like it knows what I want before I do. We’re not fighting each other anymore, we’re synced. Every shift, corner, and second are fluid. I trust it now. I trust me now.

The pain that used to own me doesn’t have a say today. It’s quiet.

For once, it’s just me.

And I’m fast.

The crowd is everywhere, lining the course, screaming my name. I hear it—Alaina! Eleven! Crews!—but it folds into the pulse in my veins and becomes part of the air rushing past.