Dane doesn’t even spare him a glance, but I do and catch the split-second flicker in Isaac’s eyes, the way his jaw tightens, and fingers flex subtly on his grips.
Then Raine’s gaze flicks to me.
Shit.
I look away fast, pretending I didn’t just get caught looking.
Isaac Raine is thirty now, but he still looks just like his sister, Isla. They have the same blond hair, blue eyes, and cut-glass jawline. And just like back then, he carries that self-righteous I-own-this-fucking-place energy.
I saw Isla yesterday after qualifying in the pit, walking around like she owned it. She’s still racing, and since I left the circuit, she’s been the best in the women’s category, as if nothing ever happened, and she doesn’t carry the same blood as the person who took everything from me.
I turn again when we’re a few steps away to see that Isaac still has the 43 on his back. Riders pick a number between 1 and 100 when they go elite, something that sticks, because it becomes part of their identity on the track.
It’s printed on their plates, the back of their jerseys, and sometimes they even get called by the number rather than their name.
Dane was number 11 when he ruled the sport, and no one has dared to take it since. It’s been unofficially retired, the ghost of his legacy keeping it out of reach.
I never had a number back then, since juniors don’t get that kind of permanence, but I always knew I’d take 11 when I moved up to elite. I would’ve been in the women’s category while Dane was in the men’s, so we could’ve worn the same number.
Now, the number is still sitting there, untouched, but I couldn’t take it, not when I’m not racing as myself. It felt like bad karma.
So instead, I chose 7, for the seven years since it happened. Seven years since Raine stole everything.
He won’t get the reference, of course.
But I will.
Every time I see my number, I’ll remember exactly why I’m here.
I roll my shoulders, forcing myself to focus forward, only to find Mason Payne warming up on the outskirts of the area.
He’s locked into his rhythm, head low, legs a steady blur on the trainer. Everything he’s wearing is black—black jersey, black riding pants, black gloves. Even his bike is matte black, no logos, no flashy designs. The number 21 flashes white against his darkness, effortless in its statement.
Mason is not the biggest guy out here. He’s maybe three inches taller than me, five-foot-ten at most, all lean muscle built for speed. His dark brown hair is a mess of waves, pushed back, but somehow still manages to fall forward like he ran his fingers through it and called it good. It matches his tawny brown skin and his eyes, which are a deep brown, the kind of eyes that don’t give anything away.
He’s from Redcar, England. It’s one of the few things people actually know about him besides the rumors. He barely talks, but when he does, it is with that rough voice and English accent, and yeah, it does things to me. Always has. Even back when we were both racing as juniors.
Not that he ever talked to me then, either.
Since my crash, I’ve kept up with his career too. They call him Pain, half because of his last name, half because of what he did four years ago in Val di Sole, Italy. That World Cup race was a disaster. A downpour turned the course intoa mudslide. Riders crashed out left and right, only a few making it down the mountain. Some went off track and were disqualified, others wiped out so hard they had to end the season right there. I watched it on television, thinking even Dane would’ve struggled.
And then Mason crashed in a brutal wipeout. Slammed into the ground so hard that his shoulder dislocated on impact. Anyone else would’ve been done, probably screaming in the dirt, waiting for medics, but Mason got back on his bike, one arm barely working, rode the rest of the course like that, and won.Fucking badass.
But that was before.
Before his name became something people whispered about instead of cheered for last year. Before the accusations came out, and his team dropped him, his sponsors vanished, and the world decided that Mason Payne wasn’t a hero anymore. The golden boy turned pariah overnight.
He’d had a great season and signed with a big team, including a massive announcement, glossy campaign, photoshoots, the whole deal. Mason was their new star. A few weeks later, he posted on social media that he was now riding as a privateer, and no one knew why he’d suddenly walked away from that huge contract.
Then the bike forums lit up. Rumors started spreading that he’d been kicked from the team for sexual harassment. The whispers said he’d raped someone, but nothing ever went truly public. It was all just speculation, half-statements, and anonymous posts, but it was enough to ruin his reputation and make everyone distance themselves from him. It was almost enough to make me think he’d done it.
But I had more trouble believing the allegations when I heard who was making them.
I tear my gaze away, and we try to keep walking, but we can’t, because Luc Delacroix, draped head to toe in hisusual pink, a walking fever dream, is standing in the dead center of the path, blocking the way like it’s his personal runway.
Which, in a way, it is.
The number 69 is slapped across his back because, ofcourse,it is. Subtlety has never been his thing.
