I’d say I’m “Fat Lip” by Sum 41. I never had that killer instinct to win. I just want to be here, to live in the sound of it, to exist in the song.
But right now, Alaina is coming for the win, and judging by the way she’s tearing this course apart, she’s not planning on leaving without it.
The speakers overhead crackle before the announcer’s voice booms through the air. “What a run! Looks like this Crews is keeping the family legacy alive! Number seven is throwing in the flair here.”
What the hell are you doing, baby girl?
The final section of the track is brutal, but she threads through the rock garden, barely braking, and then she’s at the final stretch in a full sprint. She pedals harder, milking every last drop of speed until she launches off the final drop and lands so cleanly it’s insane.
“This is notjust a World Cup debut, it’s a statement! The rookie has arrived!”
The crowd roars as she crosses the line, but she barely reacts. No fist pump or celebration, not even a glance at the screen, but I look at it.
Andholy shit.
She just ripped a run so fast it blew mine out of the water.
Alaina brakes hard, tires skidding, dust kicking up like a goddamn smoke bomb. Then she swings her leg over the bike and rolls it toward Dane, who’s waiting off to the side. He just takes it, grinning, tapping the top of her helmet as he always used to, and nothing has changed, like this is still normal for them.
But nothing about this is fucking normal.
She finally pulls off the helmet, shaking out short, sweaty hair, her breathing still sharp. Sweat darkens the neck of her jersey, and there’s dust streaked across her arms, matching mine, as she walks toward the hot seat.
I shift over, making space for her in the middle seat, the one reserved for the rider who is currently sitting on top of the leader board. I slide into the second spot, which has already been vacated by the guy who was just a little slower than me. He waits a beat for the former third-place holder to get up, then drops into that seat without a word as the last guy disappears into the crowd.
Alaina drops onto the chair beside me, but I don’t say anything at first. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.
Seven years.
Seven years since Dane left.
Seven years since the Crews name vanished from the circuit.
In the moments between practice runs, in hotel roomswhere the silence was too loud, in bars when the others laughed too hard and I wasn’t quite drunk enough to forget, and in those quiet spaces between races, I always wondered about them. What they were doing, or where they were. If they were happy.
I sure as fuck never saw this coming, though.
The way she sits now, right fucking here, next to me, breathing the same post-run adrenaline, feels like a glitch in reality.
I keep stealing glances at her out of the corner of my eye, taking in what should have been obvious when I first laid eyes on her on top of the mountain.
She’s still small, but not in the way she was at seventeen. She’s filled out with some mad muscles. Alaina pushes up her jersey’s sleeves, and my gaze catches on her forearms. Black ink. A tattoo sleeve of flowers, spanning both arms, climbing up her skin.
Wildflowers.
Of course.
“Good job, rookie,” I tell her, testing, watching her for the slightest reaction, but she doesn’t even look at me.
She just gives me a sharp nod, eyes fixed on the leaderboard. She’s still panting, her breath coming in sharp through parted lips, and my gaze flicks downward, a passing glance.
She’s flat.
My brain hiccups.
She’s not supposed to be flat. Even the seventeen-year-old version of Alaina wasn’t flat, not that I was watching or noticing.
Fuck, no.
