It’s pit setup day, and the one for my team is only half up, yet I’ve already sweated through the back of my shirt. Someone is arguing about canopy height, and my mechanic is swearing at the zip ties as if they personally offended him, but honestly?
I love this part.
The chaos, the chatter, the smell of tires and chain lube in the air. It feels like home since I’ve spent half my life in places like this.
All around us in the parking area, other teams are doing the same, unpacking toolboxes and unrolling banners. From the next pit over, I hear Delacroix’s laughter ring out, obnoxious and bright. He’s already holding court with some techs who probably wish he came with a volume knob.
“Yo, Grandpa,” one of the juniors yells as he hauls a tool chest past. “You need a chair break yet, old man?”
I flip him off with a grin. “I’ll race you for it, sweetheart. You bring the walker.”
A few of the techs laugh, and someone tosses me a bottle of water. It’s all light and easy. They respect me,maybe not as much as they would a coach or a manager, but as someone who’s survived the sport longer than most.
Still, survival is not enough, not anymore. I want to build something that lasts past my last finish line.
I’ve been following the juniors closely, and none of them are better than the two kids I train back home in Canada during the off-season. They’re siblings, a girl and a boy from my hometown, fifteen and fourteen, both better on a bike than I ever was at their age. But their mom has to work two jobs to get by, and downhill mountain biking is a fucking expensive sport.
So I gave them everything I wish someone had given me. Paid for what I could, begged for discounts when I couldn’t. They’re why I stay up late watching management and sponsorship webinars and why I keep pushing through pain that would bench anyone with half a brain. Staying in the top five and keeping my name in the rankings is not just for pride anymore.
It’s for a chance to build something worthwhile.
A team of my own. For the two bright-eyed kids who deserve to be here.
I promised them I’d have a junior team ready by next year, and if I can stay relevant, I’ll have leverage for deals, and there’s already a brand interested, a big one. They’re supposed to call me this week, and if it happens, it’ll change everything.
And if it doesn’t…
No. I can’t go there. Not yet.
When you promise kids a future, you don’t get to flinch. You either build the path or you go down trying.
The thought snaps me back to work, but halfway through adjusting one of the workbenches, my thoughts drift again, unhelpfully, to the drive over here. To the hours trapped in that clunky bus, Dane behind the wheel, Alainapassed out at the table like someone who hasn’t slept in years.
She and Dane are the reason I started training those kids in the first place. Spending four seasons with the two of them, watching Dane have Alaina’s back no matter what, making sure she had a shot, that she was seen, supported, and unstoppable, gave me something I didn’t even know I was missing.
A family.
The kind you’d bleed for without even thinking. The kind that shows up when shit hits the fan. I didn’t grow up with that. My parents are amazing, but they had me pretty late, and I’m an only child.
I didn’t know what it felt like to have such a bond until I was pulled into theirs. And then, just as fast, it was gone. Dane vanished, Alaina disappeared, and suddenly, everything was quieter than it should’ve been. I have been missing that noise ever since.
That sense of belonging, of backing someone so hard that they rise just from knowing you believe in them. I think I’m still chasing that, chasing the feeling of being part of something that matters.Or maybe just being a part of them.
And now they’re back, but Alaina is not the same person I remember.She’s so much more.
More fire, more steel. Less laughter, maybe, but every ounce of her has been alchemized into something stronger. She’s not the kid who used to trail after us, wide-eyed and too eager. And yeah, maybe she’s only dragging herself forward on vengeance, but given what she survived, and knowing what I know now, I get it.
She knows I know it’s her, right? Just as instinctively as I knew itwasher, the second I saw her ride.
God, she’s messing with my head.
Because she’s too much like the girl I used to believe in and too far from the girl I thought I’d lost.
But somehow, impossibly, she’s better than both.
It’s like hearing a song you forgot you loved until it knocks the breath out of your lungs.
Straightening, I look around for a glimpse of her. I’ve been doing that a lot since we arrived here. Maybe if I see her enough, I’ll figure out what the hell this ache in my chest actually is.
