“What are you doing there?” Finn drops to the ground on my other side. Close. Too close. His shoulder brushes mine as he leans in to get a better look. “Doesn’t look like your usual bracelets.”
“A crown.” I lift the half-finished loop. “One day, I’ll wear this and gold at the same time.”
“Gonna be hardto race with that on your helmet.” Finn chuckles.
“Not if I glue it on.” I grin, already imagining it.
“You’d really race with a damn flower crown on your helmet?” Dane gives me his patented, exasperated big-brother look.
“If it made you two ride faster trying to catch me? Hell yeah.” I finish off the crown, closing the circle before holding it up. “I see a future in flower crowns and first-place trophies.”
Dane reaches for the band of flowers. “You making us one too?”
“No.” I swat at him again. “You don’t deserve it. You both rode like garbage.”
“Then show us how it’s done, baby girl.” Finn nudges my shoulder, a full grin in place.
I look away from him just in time to catch a rider coming down the track in front of us with a wobbly line and bad entry.
Amateur.
“Already did.” I nod toward the trail. “You just didn’t see me.”
“Impossible,” Finn simply says, making me glance at him again. His gaze catches mine, and for a moment, gravity shifts. My fingers falter on the flower stem, my breath catching in a way that feels too noticeable. “And you’re gonna win everything,” he adds, like it’s not up for debate. “Crown and all.”
Fuck.
Stop crushing, Alaina.
Dane’s eyes flick between us, lingering for a second too long. He doesn’t say anything, but the corners of his mouth flatten.
I clearmy tight throat and hold my finished flower crown out to Finn. “Flattery still won’t make me give you this one.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He takes it anyway and sets it gently on my head in an informal coronation. “I’ll see you wearing it on the podium.”
A loudthudjolts me awake.
I lift my head from the table, my cheek peeling off the vinyl with a stickyshhk. Pain lances through my spine as I move, my hip screaming at me for sleeping curled up around myself. For a split second, I don’t know where I am, caught somewhere between a dream and reality. Then the rattling hum of the road and the familiar creaks of the bus register.
Right. Race circuit. Somewhere on a mountain road between Scotland and Poland, chasing the next muddy slope we’re supposed to throw ourselves down with a smile and a death wish.
I shift in my seat, biting down on a groan as my hip pops and my spine realigns with a dull crack. Everything hurts. Already. Still.Always.
My eyes flick to the notebook in front of me. It’s crumpled, smudged, and bent under the weight of my sleep-heavy arm. I was logging everything I did to my bike last night. Every bolt, cable, and tiny adjustment so I could go over it all again in my head.
There’s no room for error. The last time I left my bike unattended, it cost meeverything,and thanks to Dane doing exactly that, I ended up tearing it apart and putting it back together in the freezing dark because Ihadto.
Which was how I found myself sitting on the cold ground beside Mason Payne, way too close to someone who looks at me like he sees straight through my cracks.
He never even said a word.
“Good morning, sunshine.” The greeting comes from beside me, and I startle.
Fuck.
I shove the memory down and lock it away for later. I can’t think about one pro rider when anotherone is standing right in front of me, especially not whenthisone is Finn Greer. The smug, long-limbed, snack-hunting demigod is framed by the glow of the refrigerator light as he casually steals one of my energy drinks.
His shirt pulls across his shoulders in a way that should be illegal as he shuts the refrigerator door with his hip and turns to me with a slow, amused smile.
