It tastes like home.
Like Bonneville.
Like summer days before anyone knew my name.
Bombing hills with no brakes and no plan, laughing until my stomach hurt, free in a way that didn’t come with contracts or qualifiers, back before Luc Delacroix™ was a brand. Before I became something people expected to perform, to shine, to never fucking fall apart.
The sound of the storm rushes in my ears. Wind, water, and something high-pitched and thin, like tinnitus. But maybe that’s already living inside me, a scream that never quite makes it out.
I always thought I had control. Of the bike. Of the brand.
Of myself.
But now, everything is slipping.
I kind of want to cry.
And just when I think I actually might, as the static threatens to shatter something deep in my chest, that other sound cuts through.
Hiccup.
That stupid, nervous, adorable little hiccup that’s beenhaunting me since he let it slip. And just like that, I want to punch a wall. Or fuck something. Or maybe lie down and let the rain rinse this version of me away, the one who’s not fast enough.
Not enough.
But I don’t. I don’t scream or break or crumble. I just stomp off the finish line, my bike in tow, and my jaw so tight it might snap. My mechanic waves from the pit, shouting something, probably about the press, about who I’m supposed to be for the cameras.
The Champion.
The Showman.
The Brand.
But I can’t be any of those things right now.
I shove my bike at him, not caring if it topples or makes me look like a sore loser.
Hell, I am.
“Do it without me,” I snap. “Let him have his moment.”
My mechanic keeps yelling, but I don’t turn back. Instead, I just walk through the rain, through the mud, through the deafening roar of everything I’m supposed to be, all the way to the only space where I don’t have to beon.
The door to my hotel room slams behind me, and I’m left with silence, but I’m not alone in it, because that fucking hiccup is still echoing in my head like it left a bruise on my brain.
Toulouse peeks his head out from the little fleece hammock hanging in the corner of his cage.
“Hey, mon amour,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my soaked hair as I toe off my shoes. “I need a shower.”
Toulouse blinks slowly, judgingly. It’s like even he knows I fucked that run.
Stripping off my jersey on the way to the bathroom, I peel the clingy, sweat-slick layer off and dump everything on thefloor. I don’t need to see my reflection to know what I look like. Not bruises, blood, or whatever road rash I’ve collected this week. No. It’s the years I’ve practiced avoiding the mirror, so I don’t have to see it. The shame.
I step into the shower and crank the water to nearly scalding, needing the burn to cut through the mess inside me. It hammers down on my shoulders, and I welcome it. I let it try to peel me apart.
My fingers move through my hair with more force than necessary, nails scraping my scalp, trying to claw the confusion out of my head. The scent of my shampoo mixes with the steam. It’s lavender and arnica, something Karl mixed up himself for sore muscles. I’ve used it for years now, and normally it soothes me, bringing me back to myself after a race or a party, but today it doesn’t work.
I shut my eyes and breathe in the scent as the water pounds down on my shoulders, and try to think of anything else.Anythingelse. But every path leads back to the same things.
