CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Luc
Wind slices through the trees, the sound needle-thin and biting through my helmet vents. The storm the UCI has been nervy about is almost here, clouds bruising darker by the second. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a low growl that vibrates through the soles of my shoes.
My back hurts, even though I had a long physio session yesterday, and I shift my weight, restless as I look around forhim. I don’t know why I care this much. Why I keep trying to get a better look atPetitCrews, hoping I’ll find something in the curve of his shoulders that will make this gnawing feeling make sense.
The holding area at the top of the mountain is a cramped stretch of packed dirt bordered by pine trees and temporary fencing. We are lined up in order of qualifying, spaced out by staggered markers. A metal start gate squats at the edge of the drop-in ramp, one rider at a time feeding into it as the UCI crew barks out countdowns over tinny radios.
I angle to the side, trying to see around Raine’s oversized fucking helmet, but all I get is the back ofPetit’s.
Greer has already dropped in, so Payne is at the gate, all stiff-backed, with a just-as-stiffPetitCrews next in line.
I didn’t get to talk to him after the physio session, didn’t get to ask how it went, or say something that might’ve meant something, like asking about the scars on his stomach and hip.
But would he have told me anything real anyway?
I’d trusted him, opening up about my temper, about things I don’t share with anyone, but what does he do? Fucking ghosts me.
At qualifying yesterday, our eyes met across the pit, and I thought he might say something, but he just looked away and then walked off like I wasn’t even there. And then today, he tells me we’re not friends.
What the actual fuck?
As if I didn’t carry him across the lot. As if I wasn’t decent for once.Merde, I was ready to give up my physio slot for him. And IknowI wouldn’t have qualified first if I hadn’t gotten my back loosened up before. Whether he realizes it or not, I might’ve sacrificed a potential win for him.
And he treats it like it’snothing. LikeI’mnothing.
People come to me. I don’t chase them. They orbit, hover, pull at me for scraps, attention, a joke, a look, a brush of skin. Even when it’s fake, they want it.
But not him.
Instead, I’m the one standing here, peering around Raine like a creep, trying to get a glimpse of a guy who couldn’t care less if I existed.
I clench my jaw as Payne drops into the course, ignoring the echo of the shit-talking that would’ve volleyed back and forth right now this time last year. The beeps ring out into the mist, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the trail and the trees.
Good riddance.
To him and our rivalry.
Payne is a bitter, joyless dick half the time, and still,Petitlikeshim. What does he have that I don’t? I mean… okay. He’s decent-looking in a moody, scowly, broody kind of way. But still, I’m fun, I’m hot, and I’m the fucking main prize.
And I don’t have allegations following me around everywhere I go.
Well, notsevereones like he does.
And yet, I can’t get a smile out ofPetitCrews.
“Rider up,” someone calls.Petitrolls forward to the gate, finally giving me the view I was looking for, and I take advantage of it.
His body is wired tight with tension. I can see it in the way he leans over the bars. His fingers flutter, not fidgeting, more coaxing. Calming. Like he’s talking to the bike without words, syncing his nerves to it. It’s weirdly mesmerizing.
I trace the curve of his back as he leans forward, the way his jersey wrinkles the number seven above the waistband of his pants. He’s small, but not fragile. My gaze drifts lower to the sharp taper of his waist, to the rise of his hips, to the way his pants cling just tight enough to suggest the curve of his…
My cock twitches, and I jerk upright so fast I almost lose my footing.
What the actual fuck?
Non. That did not just happen.I did not just get half-hard staring at Petit’s ass.
