Page 40 of Broken Breath
“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.”
Paul grunts. “You hungover or actually in pain?”
“Bit of both.”
He gives me that sideways look of part exasperation, part surrender, but I know he’ll make it happen, even if it means juggling the schedule again. We have two physios for the team, including four elite riders and four juniors, and their time is strictly divided. No favorites, no extras.
Except for me.
When I go for too many days without having my muscles tortured, my back turns into a disaster. And yeah, I’m aware I take more than my share of physio hours, but Paul lets it slide. He likes results, and I bring them, including flash, drama, and podiums, even if I need more time on the massage table than most to keep making it look easy.
It isn’t.
My legs still move, the bike still obeys, but somewhere between the start gate and the finish line, the fun packed its bags and left. I’ve been off this season. Not enough to derail me, but enough that the itch under my skin feels more like a splinter I can’t dig out. I’m winning, still grinning, still being the Luc Delacroix everyone expects.
But on the nights that are not like last night, the nights I don’t throw myself into chaos, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, feeling as if the whole damn world is on mute, my back hurting with the weight of carrying a version of me I’m not sure I can keep being.
The big silver cabin sways gently on its cables as we reach the gondola platform, and it’s already half-loaded with at least fifteen riders and their entourage. I come to a stop just short of the door and tug at the edge of my hoodie.
Toulouse peeks out, ears twitching in the breeze.
“Stay tucked,mon amour,” I murmur, gently nudging him back inside. “It’s going to be crowded.”
Behind me, someone calls, “Let’s go, sixty-nine.”
Probably one of the juniors. Smartass.
I flash a grin over my shoulder and step aside. “After you, peasants.”
They do as they’re told, leaving me to step in last, just as the doors slide closed.
Boots scuff, backpacks thud, and bodies press too close.Funny how I don’t mind the closeness in a club, but cable cars?
Fuck no.
The gondola sways slightly as it climbs. Otis is somehow next to me again, rambling about line changes and course conditions in a way only someone still green enough can. Meanwhile, I’m fantasizing about throwing myself out the window.
Toulouse’s nose twitches near my neck as we pass a patch of sunlight. He’s the only reason I haven’t gone fully feral this morning. I lean against the cabin wall, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding how much I’m checked out of the conversation.
The gondola jolts as it reaches the top, and everyone piles out, our bikes having been left behind at the bottom. Track walk is just that. A walk. No tires, no speed, just boots on dirt and too much talking.
I hate it.
It’s not that I don’t care about lines, I just know I’ll feel them better on the bike, and I don’t need to stare at a root section for thirty minutes to know whether I can float it. I’ll know when I hit it.
