Page 134 of Broken Trails
Come on. You’ve got this. You’re so close. Just finish. Just win.
The final bend looms, and Michael’s front wheel inches forward. The crowd gasps, a collective breath held in suspended chaos. Then he flies. Past the person in front, past the roar of engines, and into the open. Over the finish line like he was always meant to be first. The sirens wail. The chequered flag flutters wildly.
Michael Pricewinsfirst place, and everything around me erupts.
Xavier lets out a shout. “Atta-fucking-boy!”
Olivia screams beside him, hugging Amelia, both of them bouncing with giddy disbelief. “He bloody did it!”
“He actually did it!” Amelia laughs, eyes wide. “He freaking won!”
Bradley whoops as Joseph shrieks with joy, smacking his palms together from high on his shoulders.
Isla spins in a circle with Callie on her hip, laughing so hard her braid whips across her face.
Imogen’s hand clamps around my arm, shaking me. “He fucking won, Zoe!”
I nod, a smile stretching across my face. It’s bright, beaming, and believable. I clap. I cheer. I force myself to soak in the celebration surrounding me.
But inside? Inside, I’m breaking apart.
Because this was it. This moment. This perfect, impossible win. Things were finally starting to make sense, to fall into place like they were always meant to.
We end up at a place called Madison’s in town—one of those nostalgic places with flickering neon signs everywhere. Just as we’re about to walk in, Michael slaps my ass—quick, and every bit cocky—before slinging his arm around my shoulders.
I shoot him a look, brow raised. “What, no celebratory ciggie?”
It’s a jab, but a knowing one. After that first race I went to, he lit one up the second he got off the track, grinning like a madman, with sweat still clinging to his skin. He did the same after practices, too—always the same brand, always the same satisfied smirk.
He shrugs, grinning. “Don’t need one.”
I pause mid-step, pretending to be stunned. “Really?” Yet, as I say this, recognition suddenly crashes into me. Because when was the last time he actually lit one? “Wait… did you quit smoking?”
“I did.” He winks. “Cold turkey, baby.”
My mouth parts. “How? Why?”
“It wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be.”
I narrow my eyes, suspicion curling in my chest. “And why’s that?”
“Because I’ve found myself a new addiction.”
“And that would be?”
“You.”
Holy shit. He says it so easily, so nonchalantly, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t splinter something inside me. He winks at me again, and this time, butterflies erupt in my stomach so violently, it makes me feel sick. Oh, I’m truly fucked.
The weight of it presses into my chest, hot and nauseating. Because the worse it gets, the better he treats me. The more I want to believe it’s safe to fall. I swallow hard, force the ache back down where it belongs, and roll my eyes like I always do. Michael laughs, and just like that, the moment passes. At least for him.
Once inside, we squeeze into two long tables pushed together, the red vinyl creaking beneath us. There’s not enough room, but nobody seems to mind.
Michael is still riding the high, body relaxed in a way I rarely see. His cheeks are flushed from celebration, his smile wide and boyish as he leans back in his chair and lets the praise wash over him. Harrison claps him on the back, and Xavier keeps raising his glass and shouting, “To the fucking champ!” every five minutes, which only fuels the chaos at the kids’ end of the table. Michael steals a chip off my plate, then laughs and tosses it into his mouth, grinning like he’s daring me to call him out.
I narrow my eyes at him, and he answers with a wink, then leans in, looping his arm around my shoulders. His fingertips drag lightly along the curve of my upper arm as he leans in, his breath tickling the shell of my ear.
“Been thinking about that pretty mouth wrapped around my cock. How you’ll sound when I fuck you so hard, your legs give out.”
