Yeah,come on, Luc.
Of course, it would be better for me if he weren’t beating my time, but I’d take him beating me over Raine taking the win any day.
He will beat him. Hehasto.
I watch the screen showing Luc on the track, the way he moves. It’s fast, reckless, and effortless.The Flying Frenchman.It’s easy to see why everybody calls him that. His tires barely seem to touch the ground, and gravity doesn’t apply to him.
Most of us calculate our lines and strategize every move. We pick apart the track before we drop in, dissecting it to the second, knowing exactly how to attack each turn, rock, and drop.
Luc once said in an interview that he doesn’t think when he rides. No plans. No overanalyzing. Just instinct. And it’s apparent right now to everyone watching, especially in comparison to the rest of us. We fight the course, while Luc doesn’t fight it at all.
He flies.
Like the track bends for him, not the other way around.
The crowd roars, eating it up. Somewhere behind me, a girl shrieks, “I’d let him ruin my life!”
I snort.Yeah, well, he probably would.
Luc is getting faster, shaving off fractions of a second, inchingcloser to Raine’s time, but it’s not enough. My knee bounces slightly as he eats up the track. Then comes the final jump, and Luc fucking takes it, and not just the jump, he flies way too far and clears the next drop with it too.
What the fuck?
“Did he just…” Mason exhales sharply.
Isaac shoots to his feet, yanking at his hair. “Son of a bitch.”
Mason and I stand, too, as the crowd erupts, the noise turning deafening, and my lips twitch, a grin threatening to break free. Luc found a line no one else even considered, and it just bought himtwo whole seconds.
“That’s it!” The speakers crackle, the announcer’s voice barely cutting through the roar of the crowd as Luc carries the speed straight into the finish area. “Luc Delacroix takes the first win of the season and claims the World Cup title in Fort William!”
I snap my gaze to the screen. One second faster than Raine.
Fucking maniac.
Luc slams on the brakes, his back tire skidding out as he lets go of his bike, sending it clattering to the ground. His arms shoot into the air, his chest heaving, and the finish corral explodes around him. Media, cameras, and fans surge forward, grabbing at him, slapping his shoulders, shoving microphones in his face. He soaks it up, bouncing on his feet and hyped as hell, obviously eating up every second of it.
Stupid, reckless bastard.I’d already thought he was hot, but this just made him fuckingscorching.
I glance at Raine, who looks furious, but before I can revel in it, I feel eyes on the side of my face, and when I turn, I find Mason looking at me. His dark hair is a mess, fallingover his forehead, damp with sweat from his helmet, but his deep brown gaze latches onto mine and holds it.
I don’t look away. Instead, I meet his stare, searching.
Do you remember me?
The moment stretches, uninterrupted for too long, while everyone around us celebrates. Cowbells, revving chainsaws, people shouting over each other, it’s so damn loud, and everybody is in motion, except Mason and me.
Then, just barely, his brows pull together before he jerks his head away and stomps off. Pushing his way through the chaos, he disappears into the throng of bodies around Luc, leaving me standing alone.
My chest flutters, breath catching on nothing, like I’m inhaling through a pinhole, and the pain in my hip reminds me again that I’m not as invincible as I thought.
I scan the crowd, but Dane isn’t where I expect him to be, making my heart kick even harder. He was just there, I know he was. I just handed him my bike.
He was right fucking there, standing by the fence, watching, and now he’s not.
Where the fuck is he?
My pulse slams in my ears as my gaze jumps from face to face, searching for familiar shoulders, a worn Team Crews hoodie, a flash of dark hair.
