Luc huffs a disbelieving laugh next to me.
“That doesn’t help,” Dane snaps, glaring now. “And how about the fact that they…” his eyes cut to Luc, “… know about your secret, and the season is over?”
Panic claws at my chest at the reminder that my secret is out, but then the rest of his words sink in. “What do you mean,the season is over? It isn’t over!”
“Alaina—”
“Yeah, they know…” I interrupt, “… but honestly, I don’t think they’ll rat me out to the UCI.”
“I won’t,” Luc says firmly, kissing my temple. “And I’ll make sure Payne won’t either. Not that I think he would.”
Dane doesn’t look convinced. “Even so, Al, you’re done. You crashed, you broke your fingers for fuck’s sake.”
“It’s just fingers, Dane!” I snap. “I’m already broken from head to toe, that shit doesn’t matter. I’ve got a few days off now, and they can heal somewhat, then I’m back at it.”
“You could ruin your hand doing that.”
“Who fucking cares!”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back. Dane flinches like I hit him, and guilt overwhelms me.
He growls low in his throat. “Alaina.” He’s not angry, just hurt and disappointed. That’s so much worse.
“Listen,” I push on, desperate now. “You crashed once and still managed to grab the overall.”
“True,” Luc adds. “I did too.”
“Right! He did too.” I point at him. “This race was adisaster. Half the circuit got disqualified or crashed. I can still grab the overall. Who won anyway?”
Luc’s smirk stretches as he tugs me closer. “I did.”
“And who came second?”
“Mason,” Dane replies.
“And Raine?”
“Third.”
“That’s good. That’s really good.” My brain is already calculating. “So that brings the overall points to…”
Luc lifts a brow, smug as hell. “I’m at eight-fifty.”
I scoff. “Show-off.”
He grins and shrugs like he can’t help being disgustingly talented. “Raine’s next with seven-seventy-five. Mason’s at seven hundred.”
“And me?” I ask, even though I already know.
“You’re at six-twenty-five,” Dane grumbles, leveling a look at me like that should mean game over.
But it doesn’t.
Because I need this, I need to finish what I started. If I walk away now, if I let this go, I’m afraid I won’t recognize myself when the dust settles. Afraid I’ll just be what he made me—wreckage.
And I can’t be that, not again.
Not when I’ve come this far on blood, rage, and bones that haven’t quite set right.
