average human’s Reviews > Broken Breath > Status Update

“Luc Delacroix. I know who you are, of course. Honor to meet you, mon ami. But I’m very sorry, I’ll be taking my fourth overall title this year, and nobody will talk about you anymore.”
Dane laughs and shakes my hand. “At least you’re polite about it.”
Beside him, the rookie mutters, barely loud enough to catch, “You wish.”
I blink. Slowly.
“You want to say something, seven?” I ask, all teeth and sweetness.
He shrugs. “Already did.”
Cocky little shit.
What’s his fucking problem?
“Come on, Al. Let’s figure out the next section.” Dane nudges him to move, probably because I was starting to look at the rookie like I was mentally mapping out where to aim first.
I’ve got a bit of a reputation for letting my fists handle my translation issues.
Dane and the rookie drift ahead, and I fall into step with Finn.
“Who is that kid, anyway?” I ask.
“As if you haven’t heard of him by now.” Finn gives me an unimpressed look. “Allen Crews, Dane’s cousin.”
I raise a brow. “Same Crews?”
“Same blood.”
Interesting.
We round a switchback, and I catch sight of another bad attitude, this one dressed in all black, much bigger, and eyeing a narrow rock drop with a scowl.
Mason Payne.
Of-fucking-course.
What is it, National Asshole Day?
My jaw clenches automatically. Once upon a time, I used to light up at that perfect little scowl because it meant game on. The jabs would be thrown like confetti, him with his smug shit talk, me firing back twice as hard. We trashed each other all season, and yeah, it was fun. Fired me up like nothing else. Not that I ever said that out loud, but I know he felt it too.
Then he went and ruined it. Shattered something that actually meant something to me, and I hate him for that, for making me miss it.
For being part of the reason this whole season feels so goddamn wrong.
I hate him for what they say he did too. Nobody wants a rapist in the circuit. I never would’ve guessed it, though, since he’s the type girls line up for. Deeply tanned skin, deep eyes, that broody charm. He’s a pretty boy. But apparently, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
When he stopped speaking, I didn’t. I kept on throwing punches, and they keep getting louder, meaner, because someone has to fill the silence he left behind.
Enculé.
I stride past, shoulder clipping his just hard enough to make a point. “You’re a compost of a man, Payne.”
Finn snorts.
Ugh.
I meant to say something cooler. But French brain. English tongue. Whatever.
Turning to glare at Payne, I find him just standing there with his jaw set, eyes cold. Taking it like he always does since everything changed.
It bugs the fuck out of me.
“What? Nothing?” I fold my arms across my chest. “You gonna brood me to death or what? Come on, say something. Grunt. Blink. Flare a nostril.”
“You done?”
It’s quiet, flat, and comes from behind me like a slap across the back of my neck.
I turn, and the rookie stands there, gaze locked on me.
What the hell?
Even Payne shifts beside me, frowning.
Well, well.
“Standing up for trash, Petit? Careful who you’re friends with. Some will pull you down faster than a flat tire in a rock garden.”
“Good thing I’m not your friend then, huh?”
I laugh the words off, but it comes out wrong. Too manic, too exposing.
Payne looks like he doesn’t know what to do with it either, appearing just as confused by the backup as I am. Dane claps the rookie on the shoulder once, and the kid falls in step beside him like nothing happened. I watch them go, wound up and unsatisfied, my body buzzing.
“Good talk, Pretty Boy,” I mutter to Payne, not even looking at him as I walk away.
I quicken my pace to catch up to Finn, drawing a grunt from him when I run into his side, trying to expel some of the strange energy. “Did you hear that? The little rookie’s mouthing off. Maybe he’s fast, but he needs to learn some fucking manners.”
Finn stops, and I stumble when he turns to glare at me. “After yesterday, I’d say you’re the one who needs to learn some fucking manners, Delacroix.”
“Wait, what?” I laugh awkwardly. “I thought we were… we had fun, non? I mean, after you said that thing about the junior team and…”
“We remember yesterday very differently, asshole.” Greer’s scowl deepens. “You had fun. I left after one beer. You were on your third shot, talking to strangers and acting like I wasn’t even there. It took me an hour to get a fucking taxi in Polish, and you didn’t even notice I’d gone.”
Merde.
I had wondered when he left, but not enough to do anything about it.
“Mon ami…” I start, reaching for some kind of reset button.
“I’m not your fucking friend, Delacroix.”
And with that, he heads straight down the track for Dane and the rookie.
Cool. Very cool.
That’s two for two.
I run a hand down my face and huff out a laugh. “Well, Toulouse, looks like it’s just you and me again.”
Who needs actual friends when you’ve got a rat that bites strangers and a mother who calls twice a week to ask whether you’re still alive?
I glance back toward Payne, still standing on the track, silent and stormy. At least with him, I know I’m not the problem.
Toulouse’s whiskers tickle my cheek, and I pet him lightly, just to feel something.
“You’re the only one that gets me, mon amour,” I whisper, tapping his nose. “The only one.”
He squeaks, then curls closer.
And I pretend that’s enough.
It has to be until I can find the right kind of noise again.
I’ve given up on the right kind of silence completely.

30%

If he knew I was Alaina? The girl he barely looked at in juniors?
Before I can even guess at an answer, a blur catches my eye as another rider barrels into the rock garden at a speed that speaks of either confidence or stupidity.
But I know that posture, that helmet tilt, that fuck-you stance he carries into every race like he’s untouchable.
Raine.
He hits the rocks hard, and it’s messy and unrefined, but it’s still fast enough for him to get away with it.
Of course, he gets away with it.
He always did.
When I woke up in a hospital bed with metal in my hip and a lung that wouldn’t inflate, he walked away clean.
When my body forgot how to breathe, he just kept winning.
My fists clench on the grips, and I stare down at the trail like I can burn a hole through it. I want him confused and shaken. I want him to feel powerless, as powerless as I did when I woke up in that hospital room. I want him to look up at the leaderboard and not understand why he’s losing.
I want him gutted.
Humiliated.
Ruined.
I want to take everything from him and make him watch.
Exhaling slowly, I try to ground myself, but I’m distracted when a rattle breaks through the trees.
Ah shit. Here comes Luc. Again.
He blasts into the clearing above us at high speed, but doesn’t slow as he approaches, just cuts the bars and skids to a stop right next to Mason. Way too close. Dust erupts around us in a thick, choking cloud, and the grit hits the back of my throat like a punch.
I cough hard. Once. Twice. But it’s no good, my chest seizes with it. Suddenly, it’s not just a cough, it’s fucking pain. There’s not enough space for air. I grip my handlebars for life as I fold forward, trying to swallow it down, trying not to make another sound. My pulse jackhammers, but the debris coats my throat, rubbing it raw.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
I look toward Mason as he tilts his head, angling his body toward me, and I catch my reflection in his goggles. I’m folded over, shaking.
Something about that forces my panic to pause, like a hand on a volume knob, turning the fear down just enough for me to remember myself.
Get it together.
I suck in a slow breath. It’s shaky and shallow, but it’s enough.
Calm the fuck down. You’re fine. You’re okay.
There isn’t a branch in your lung.
The air tastes like dust and shame, but I’m breathing again at least. As discreetly as possible, I slowly straighten my posture as if nothing happened.
An almost imperceptible nod comes from Mason, so small, I think I might’ve imagined it.
“Pardon, Petit. Did I leave you in the dust?” Luc lifts his goggles, eyes full of mischief and fire.
Mason lifts a foot and kicks Luc’s rear tire. Hard.
Luc’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh, you did not.”
Still on his bike, he launches forward and slams into Mason. The impact knocks them right at me in a blur of limbs, metal, and fury.
I scramble backward, dragging myself and my bike out of the way just in time as they crash into the space I vacated.
They hit the dirt hard, half-wrestling, still tangled in their bikes, neither apparently willing to give the other an inch.
“Stop it!” I yell on instinct, forgetting myself and letting my voice come out way too high. Fuck. My breath catches in my throat as I scan the trail. Riders could come flying through any second. I force my voice lower, almost a hiss. “You’ll get disqualified if the wrong person sees this.”
They either don’t hear me or don’t care.
I shove my bike out of the way and throw myself between them, jamming my body into the narrow space where fists are still flying.
When Luc rears backward, I slap him hard across the helmet. “Enough!”
His arm shoots out, shoving me aside. My foot catches on that loose Polish dirt, and I fall backward, tumbling over the edge. Right into the rock garden.
I slam into the ground on my side. My left hip takes the brunt of it, a jagged stone punching through muscle just before I roll and roll, eventually coming to a stop at the bottom.
I only get one dazed second before the pain explodes through me.
A scream claws up my throat, but I choke it down so all that comes is a raw, gasping sound somewhere between a cry and a curse.
The world tilts, and I roll onto my side, curling in on myself. The nausea that’s been simmering all morning seizes that exact moment to roar up and strike.
I can’t feel my fingers as I fumble at my helmet strap, shaking all over as I tear it off just in time.
This morning’s energy drink and that half-dead cereal bar burn as I heave them up, worse than the dust in my throat before. My ribs contract painfully with every retch as my stomach tries to turn itself inside out.
Fuck.
My ears ring from the pain, and my vision is blurry with tears I desperately don’t want to let loose. My hip screams in a different way than its usual soreness, the pain coming white-hot and sharp, like someone is trying to carve it out of me with a dull blade.
When I finally stop retching, I’m left a sweaty, trembling mess.
“Merde, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. You okay?”
Luc’s voice is wrong as he drops to his knees beside me. Too high. Too real.
Just like mine was. Does he have a fake voice too?
I glance up, and his blue eyes are wide, flicking over me, trying to assess the damage while also acting like he didn’t just cause it. His jersey has been pulled off one shoulder from the fight, and he’s covered in dust. He looks like a fucking mess, his eyes completely panicked.
Probably because he knows damn well he could be kicked off the circuit for this.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my gloved hand as he reaches toward me, a small tremble in his fingers like he doesn’t know what to do.
I lurch back. “Don’t touch me, asshole.” My voice comes out harsh and low, and it wasn’t even a mask this time.
His hand freezes midair, and he looks like I slapped him again, this time without needing to lift a finger. Maybe he realizes his charm can’t fix this.
I breathe through my teeth as I turn away from him to catalog my injuries, blinking fast against the tears that still want to fall.
Gritting my jaw, I heave myself up onto my knees.
Fuck, it hurts.
I have to plant a hand in the dirt just to keep from eating it again.
Black boots come into view, and even with my brain partially checked out from pain, I know it’s him. Mason stands silently over me with my bike in one hand and his other hand held out to me.
Another one of his offers.
I hesitate for one shaky breath, but then I take it. His grip is solid as he helps me to my feet, then steps back so I can get to my bike, like it’s nothing to him.
But right now, for me, it’s everything.
I don’t even care that he touched my bike as I swing one leg over with a grunt of pain and no grace or skill, but it doesn’t matter because I manage it.
“Should I call a medic?” Luc asks from somewhere behind me, sounding guilty. “I didn’t mean… fuck. I didn’t see you.”
I don’t answer him. I can’t.
I’m afraid to open my mouth.
Pulling on my helmet, I focus on nothing but forcing my legs to pedal just enough to nudge me into the line of the trail. Every bump brings fresh fire in my hip as I descend slowly, paying no attention as other riders overtake me. When I look back, I’m not surprised to find Mason riding behind me.
Silent support.
The only kind I can handle, apparently.
Every breath is a battle, every pedal a struggle, but I don’t stop.
I make it down the mountain one aching push at a time, and when I finally coast toward the bus, my vision is so blurred and spotty that I can barely see it.
I need ice.
I need pain meds.
And I need to be alone so I can fall apart for real.