The line goes dead, and Dane drops his phone onto his knee.Then my brother breaks, and sobs tear out of him, the force of them shaking his entire frame.Dane never cries,not even when I broke my arm when I was six and he was sixteen, and he had to carry me three miles home, but he’s crying now, because hefucking knowswhat I just lost.
I want to tell him it’s okay, that I’ll be fine.
But that would be a lie.
I don’t know how to exist without racing. Without purpose.Without wind in my face and fire in my chest and the finish line ahead of me.
So I do nothing.
Because there’s nothing left to do. I’m trapped in a body that no longer feels like mine, with pain, weight, and silence where speed used to live.
So, I lie there, broken and still in the dark that has no light left, and my brother chokes on grief that sounds too much like goodbye.
CHAPTER SIX
Mason
The sky is already getting that pink edge when I crack open an eye and stare through the plastic window of the sprinter van’s roof bed.
I didn’t sleep for shit, my bloody thoughts wouldn’t allow it.
Fourth place.
That failure kept me company, spinning around and around like a chain slipping its teeth.
Dad is still snoring beside me, curled awkwardly on the thin mattress.
At least one of us is getting some rest.
Pulling my shirt away from me, I try to breathe deeply, to find a way to relax, but I can’t. The van is too damn small and hot, and I needout.
I shove the thin blanket off and push myself up, my back cracking in at least three places as I stretch. My spine feels like a misaligned derailleur, and my whole body is still sore.
Good.I deserve that.
Swinging my legs over, I drop down from the rooftopbed, landing softly on the cramped van floor. I duck to avoid slamming my head on the upper bunk, rubbing the back of my neck as I straighten.
I miss the team buses, the space, the proper beds. Not that I’d ever say it out loud.
Not that I have anyone to even say it to.
I glance around the van, the cluttered shelves and the tangle of tools and gear. Everything in here costs something, not just in money, but in sacrifice.
He gave everything up for me.
It’s what makes fourth place feel so unbearable.
Looking up toward the roof, I grimace at the sounds of Dad adjusting, trying to get comfortable in his sleep. He traded his comfort and stability so I might have a chance to rebuild my life. My career. I wouldn’t even be here, breathing in this stale, overheated van air, if it weren’t for him. I wouldn’t get a chance at chasing the World Cup overall title, at clawing my name back from the mud it got dragged through. To win enough money, enough redemption, to make starting over even a possibility.
Everything depends on that overall win now.
I pull on a clean shirt, the pressure in my chest making me dizzy as I brace a hand on top of the toolbox to steady myself.
Fuck, I have to do better.
Dad believed me when no one else did. When the world turned its back, when my name became something people spat, he stood there, his grease-stained hands tightly fisted, daring the world to come for us.
And it did.
