She leans against the counter, folding her arms. “Well, if I’m wrong about it being the drink messing with your stomach, you’re about to make history as the first guy on the circuit to get his period.”
“Ha ha,” I deadpan.
“Speaking of gender crises, Otis told me he found you in Delacroix’s room yesterday morning. What wasthatabout?” Her smile is pure maniac.
Fisher, you little gossip.
I sit up. “I’ve got shit to do.”
“No waaait,” she whines as I start pulling down my hoodie. “It was just getting interesting.”
“Uh-huh.”
I’m halfway to the door when she says, “Wait, hold up.”
I stop, glancing back, and she grabs her phone and holds it out. “Put in your number so I can text you mine. Next time, instead of stomping in here like it’s an ER, you could just call.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, taking the phone and typing quickly.
Piper steps forward and hugs me before I can make my exit. “Call me if it gets worse.”
“I will,” I promise quietly when she lets go of me.
The moment I step out of the pit, it hits me just how alive everything is, with people everywhere. Riders laughing, mechanics hauling gear, someone walking past with fries drowning in cheese, and something that smells suspiciously like bratwurst. The whole place buzzes with energy. Adrenaline and carbs in equal measure.
My stomach growls, hunger now overriding the nausea and pain. Maybe I should get some food for Dane and me. He’s probably hungry for more than the sad crackers and canned soup he’s been living on. Putting something in my stomach will probably help settle it.And maybe I’ll find Luc there.
I start toward the gondola station, since there’s a restaurant next to it, tucked just above the pit level with a little walk-up takeaway counter. Fries. Schnitzel. Kaiserschmarrn.
But I barely make it to the edge of the locker room zone when a sharp voice cuts through the air.
“Crews! Number seven!”
I go rigid like I’ve been shot.
One of the UCI officials waves me over, stepping fully out of the big white tent half-swallowed by the gondola building. “We’re doing doping tests. Come on.”
“Wait, what? That wasn’t on the schedule.”
“That’s why they’re called surprise tests.” He points toward the men’s bathroom. “Go ahead.”
Fuck.
I step inside hesitantly and immediately want to back out. Two officials in blue lanyards are posted like statues beside the row of urinals, each holding a clipboard, supervising the racers standing at the second and fourth urinals. One of the racers is Mason.
He’s got his back to me, thank God, but the sound of him pissing into a cup might be the most mortifying thing I’ve ever heard. I whip my head away so fast I nearly sprain my neck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My breath hitches, and my pulse is in my ears.
Breathe, Alaina. Just breathe.
This isn’t news. We knew this could happen.
You can’t ask for privacy during a doping test. The officials are literally allowed to stand there andwatchyou piss into the cup. That’s the whole point. No switching samples, no cheating, or faking it. And yeah,I don’t have a fucking dick.But Dane prepared for this.
“My manager…” I start, sounding a little shaky. “He arranged for me to do all doping tests via blood.”
