He’s not warming up like the others. He’s qualified in first place, so he’s got even more time to kill than I do. Instead, he’s just standing there, every inch the goddamn king. Toulouse, the tiny, scrappy rat he insists is his son, supported by a dozen social media declarations and photo evidence, is perched in his palm, and two fan girls who absolutely shouldn’t be up here are losing their minds over both of them.
Apparently, he really brings that thing everywhere.
Ew.
He’s laughing loudly, his blue eyes full of mischief, and his short brown mullet is a little messy like he just rolled out of bed or maybe came straight from a party. Probably both. A mustache sits above his smirk, the kind that somehow makes him look even more annoyingly charming instead of ridiculous, because Luc Delacroix is the definition of effortlessly cool.
He’s tall, maybe six-foot-one, all muscle and bold, colorful tattoos that sleeve both arms. He moves like a man who never hesitates, doubts, or loses sleep over anything.
And, yeah, even I can admit it. He’s annoyingly, disgustingly attractive. Every girl here thinks he’s the hottest racer on the circuit.
Because he is.
That stupid accent and that reckless French charm, paired with that ridiculous confidence, somehow always works in his favor.
Three years ago, he was just another kid from a smalltown near Les Gets, France. Then the best team in the circuit scouted him, plucking him straight from obscurity and throwing him onto the world stage. Now, soon to be twenty-four, he’s on top.
The media loves him, and fans eat up his every move. He’s theirFlying Frenchman, the reigning champion. Luc won the last three World Cups, and if he wins this one, he’ll do what Dane almost did—secure the most back-to-back titles in history. But he won’t.
Because this year, I’m here.
I try to move past, but he’s still in the way, grinning like he’s the main attraction and the whole world should be grateful for it. Dane clears his throat, and Luc finally moves, but only just, making it clear he’s doing us a favor.
“Apologies,mes amis.” He dips his head dramatically. “It is hard to remember that not everyone is here just to see me.”
“Yeah.” I roll my shoulders, forcing my voice to drop, roughening the edges in hopes of sounding like a guy as I squeeze my bike past him. “Must be exhausting carrying around an ego that big.”
“Ah,Petit.” I turn just in time to see his grin stretch wider, and his eyes fill with wicked delight. “My ego is not the only thing that is big.”
What a dickhead.
The girls giggle, and Dane exhales sharply through his nose, apparently trying really hard not to laugh as he follows me.Traitor.
I keep walking, face heating like an idiot under my helmet as I push my bike farther away from them and toward some other riders in the back.
Most just show up here to warm up, letting their mechanics handle the rest like hauling up their bikes,checking tire pressure, making last-minute tweaks, but I don’t let anyone touch my bike.
I’m my own mechanic.The only one I trust.
Dane nudges my shoulder and steers me toward a free spot he’s apparently arranged for me. There’s a trainer stand already set up, waiting for me to clip in, and I roll my bike onto it, locking my frame into place before strapping my shoes into the pedals.
The second I sit, the sock shifts.
Perfect.
I subtly squirm in the saddle, trying to adjust without drawing attention, but it probably just looks like I’m wrestling a half-chub mid-warm-up. Around me, riders are already spinning, heads down, lost in their pre-race focus, and I wish it were like the races we did before the World Cup. There was no circus and no spectacle then. You just warmed up by yourself, got to the top, raced, and left,not like this. Not having to be side by side with…
None of them are wearing a helmet.
Fuck.
I grit my teeth, gripping my bars tighter for a moment before I begrudgingly release them and yank my helmet off. I shove it at Dane, who takes it with a laugh, fully enjoying my suffering.
Justin Bieber, here you go.
My now-short hair falls loose, and I blow it out of my face with an irritated huff. The air feels weird against the back of my neck, too exposed, but no one flinches or double takes.
That should be a win, right?
