Page 39 of Rogue Riders Duet

“You coming?” I ask him, tugging on shorts and a fresh hoodie, black with a pink stripe down the side, my signature.

I reach out to him, and he blinks up at me, slow and judgmental, then stretches with a tiny yawn, tongue flicking out. A moment later, he hops onto my sleeve and easily scampers up until he disappears into the hood.

Good man.

I grab my phone from the bed, and the screen lights up with chaos. Group chats blowing up, DMs stacked in the triple digits, and half a dozen notifications from girls I don’t remember meeting last night.

But tucked in the middle of it all, lost between the noise, is the only one that matters, because she’s the only one who really cares.

Maman

Bonjour, mon soleil. Track walk today, right? I’m proud of you. Call me if you have time. Je t’aime.

A lump lodges in my throat before I can swallow it, and I text my mom back quickly.

Je t’aime aussi, Maman. Have a great day. I’ll call you tonight. Promise.

I stare at the screen longingly, missing her more than I’ll ever say out loud. Maybe I will actually call her tonight, then maybe I won’t need to go out to chase extra noise again.

Maybe it’ll keep the silence from eating at me.

The hallway smells like cleaning spray and tired athletes. Otis leans against the opposite wall, scrolling on his phone, but he looks up when I approach.

“There he is. Was starting to think you died.”

“I did,” I say with a smirk, sliding my sunglasses onto my face. “Came back hotter.”

He snorts, shaking his head. Otis is one of the newer additions to our squad. He’s tall, dark skinned with a bald head, light brown eyes, and a big smile. He is always unnervingly put together for someone in our line of sport. There’s something about him that’s too neat, too polite, but he’s quick, and he doesn’t flinch when I needle him, which earns him points.

Otis still watches me like he hasn’t decided whether I’m the devil or just French. I like that in a teammate.

We head down together. Half the team is already gathered by the hotel entrance, and our manager, Paul, who’s in his mid-fifties and built like a brick wall, waves me over. “Glad you made it, Delacroix.”

“Couldn’t bear the thought of missing all this exciting dirt.”

A few of the juniors snort, but Paul doesn’t.

“Last week, I let you skip track walk because I assumed you were doing sponsor content. And yesterday, I let you skip the team meeting because I assumed you’d get some training in. Now I’m assuming you’re about one hangover away from making me regret all of it.”

He’s not wrong.

“You worry too much, bossman.” I flash him a smile. “I’ll be golden on race day.”

“You’d better be,” he says simply, his tone indicating it’s already written on the gravestone of my contract.

And yeah, if I weren’t winning, none of this would fly. Not the drinking, the partying, or the missed meetings. He could fire me easily, but he won’t. Not yet.

I tug down my sunglasses to rub at my eyes before I think better of it, and Paul catches the bloodshot mess underneath.

“Luc. Jesus. I thought you were on detox until the break.”

I flash him my best smile. “I was. I detoxed between drinks.”

Paul doesn’t sigh so much as deflate. One massive hand scrubs his face like he’s trying to erase me from memory, then jerks his chin for Otis to round up the others. As he walks away, I fall into step beside him.

“You’re a pro athlete, Delacroix. Try acting like it.”

“So winning the World Cup last Sunday doesn’t count as acting like a pro?” He doesn’t answer, which means I’ve already won. I let the silence stretch just long enough to taste it, then toss in, “Also… I need my usual before Sunday. Back’s stiff.”