Page 92 of Rogue Riders Duet

Gritting my teeth, I drag him back to his bunk. He lands with a grunt, too weak to even sit up again.

“Alaina,” he pleads again, but I leave him behind without another word.

Pulling the switch to open the bus door, I step back out into the night air. The cold slaps my face, but I barely feel it as I walk fast to nowhere, as if I can outpace the burn behind my eyes and the memories of that day.

The day Dane made that promise, the one he’s intent on breaking now. The day I gave myself my real finish line.

And even though I swore I wouldn’t cry again, I do as the memory pulls me in.

I’m sure Dane doesn’t know it, but I can hear the physio’s voice through the crack in the door.

“Her body’s not the biggest issue here. It’s her mind,” he says, exasperated. “She’s not trying. I can’t do anything if she won’t work with me. She’s not even sitting up, let alone putting weight on it. She’s going to lose hip and leg function permanently if she doesn’t start moving. Really moving.”

Silence.

Then Dane’s voice, flat but tight. “Another week. Just give her another week.”

“More than enough time has passed, Dane. The wounds from the surgeries are all healed. Now she needs to work those neglected muscles. She’s still so young, she could recover some of it, but not like this. I know you’re trying to do this your way, but maybe it’s time to think about… a facility. Somewhere she can get the mental help before the physical even starts. She needs more help than I can give her at home.” A pause. Then lower, “I spoke with Mr. Crews. He suggested medication. Something to make her more compliant.”

Compliant.

Bile rises in my throat so fast I nearly choke on it.

I haven’t seen my father eye to eye in months, and he hasn’t asked what I want or even how I am, but sure, he still gets a say.

He gets a say in me.

Like I’m a project to be managed. A broken toy to be passed around between professionals until I’m polished enough to be tolerated again.

“Stop right there,” Dane snaps. “I don’t give a shit what our father thinks is best. I will not let her be turned into a fucking zombie.”

“Dane…” The physio’s voice softens. “Have you seen your sister lately? She’s already there.”

My stomach clenches, but I don’t move.

He’s right.

I haven’t gotten out of bed, haven’t tried, haven’t done anything but lie here in this room like a ghost in training. The last of the surgeries was done months ago. The pain is still constant, but at least it’s not the blinding one anymore, the one that made me scream for painkillers.

Or death.

It’s been a year, a whole fucking year, and outside these walls, the world kept turning, while I was lying there, hoping just to not wake up one morning.

The World Cup is on again.

Even if I tried to shut myself off from the living, I know that today is the final race of the season. In Snowshoe, just down the damn mountain from here.

The door creaks open, and I shut my eyes, pretending I’m asleep, pretending once more that I’m dead. But curtain rings screech, then light stabs the darkness, and I flinch.

The window opens, too, and air rushes in. Then the television clicks on, with the volume on low, but not so low that I miss what’s showing.

“Hey, Speedbump.” Dane comes to sit at the edge of the bed. “Look at this.”

I don’t want to. I really don’t, but I do.

The broadcast shows the final standings. Isla Raine is in first place in the women’s category. First in the men’s is Isaac Raine. I’d love to punch them both right in their pretty faces, but I don’t even have the strength to lift my hand.

“They won,” Dane says quietly. “Took the overalls as well.”