Chapter Nineteen
Wolfe
The Mountain Course doesn’t leave much room in my head for anything except whatever’s coming next.
That’s probably one of the things I love most about it.
The bike is pulling hard beneath me as the road opens up, engine climbing while I tuck lower behind the screen and let my eyes work farther ahead than the front wheel.
There’s a patch of darker asphalt coming up on the left side of the lane, rougher than the rest and just uneven enough that I noticed it yesterday
I adjust my line before I reach it, barely more than a few inches, then let the suspension do its job instead of trying to fight every little movement through the bars.
Better.
Echo’s adjustment helped, not that I’m surprised, little firefly knows what she’s doing.
The front still gives me enough feedback that I know exactly what’s happening underneath me, but it isn’t resisting me the way it was yesterday every time I load it hard.
I make a mental note because I know the second I get back she’s going to ask me about it, probably before I’ve even got my helmet off.
She never settles for it feels good either.
Front under braking. Rear on transition. Whether the throttle response stayed clean. If I felt anything strange through the faster direction changes.
If the bike settled properly after the rises.
I’ve never met anyone who can make a simple answer feel like I’m sitting an goddamn exam, but I’m starting to like it.
A stone wall flashes past close enough to remind me that this is not the time to be thinking about Echo.
My attention snaps back to the road.
This place is fucking ridiculous. There’s really no better way to describe it.
One minute I’m cutting through open countryside with fields stretching out beyond low walls, enough space around me that for a second I could almost pretend this is just another road race.
Then the course tightens again and suddenly there are houses sitting so close to the racing line it feels like I could reach out and knock on somebody’s front door, trees crowding the edge of the road and corners disappearing between buildings that were never designed with any of this in mind.
That’s the thing about the Mountain Course.
Nobody built it for us.
The road was already here. The walls, houses, trees, elevation changes, all of it existed long before any of us showed up wanting to see how fast we could get around it.
It doesn’t care whether something would be safer with runoff or whether a corner would make more sense if the camber went the other way.
You learn what’s there, you respect it, and you don’t get fucking arrogant enough to think being fast means the road owes you anything.
There are riders who talk about fear like admitting you feel it makes you less brave.
I’ve never really understood that. There are sections out here that scare me, and I’m perfectly fine admitting it.
I mean, it’s not the kind of fear that locks my arms or makes me hesitate when I shouldn’t, but it’s enough to remind me that one bad decision can carry one hell of a consequence.
That isn’t weakness, it’s information.
I brake earlier for the next section because I already know what happens if I try carrying too much speed into it. Yesterday I had to make a correction farther into the corner than I liked, so today I finish the braking sooner, get the bike settled and tip in cleaner.
The line is better.
The front stays planted, and I’m back on the throttle earlier.
“Fuck yeah.”
The words disappear inside my helmet.
Probably for the best.
The road rises again and the bike gets light under me for a beat, enough that my stomach follows half a second behind before the suspension settles and the tires find the surface properly again.
I laugh. I can’t help it as that familiar feeling builds.
I’ve tried explaining racing to people who don’t do it, and it always sounds stupid when you say it out loud. From the outside it’s a bunch of idiots throwing expensive motorcycles down roads at speeds that probably look like a cry for help.
From here, it’s different.
Everything sharpens.
The vibration through my gloves and the pressure through the pegs. The wind is trying to pull at my shoulders. The front loading when I brake, then getting lighter again as I release and let the bike turn. My breathing inside the helmet.
Every little change in the road surface feeds back through the machine.
There isn’t enough room left in my head for anything else, that’s the part people miss.
It’s not about wanting to die, I like being alive far too much for that.
It’s about feeling all of it at once.
By the time I start heading back toward the paddock, my hands are buzzing, my shoulders are working, and sweat is cooling underneath the leathers every time the speed drops enough for the air to move differently around me.
I’m also grinning like a fucking idiot, which is totally worth every fucking second.
****
Echo is waiting before I’m completely off the bike.
I get one boot down, kill the engine and barely manage to pull my first glove free before she’s beside me with her notebook already open.
“So, how’s the front?”
I flip my visor up and let my eyes drag over her for a second before I answer.
Hair tied up, a few loose pieces stuck around her face, grease smudged along her hand and another streak near her jaw.
Somehow she still looks fucking good standing there with a notebook like she’s about to interrogate me.
“Mmm. Morning to you too, wa?yé?a. Looking real pretty for someone who’s about to start bossing me around.”
She doesn’t even blink. “Hello, Wolfe. I’m thrilled you survived another lap. Now tell me how the front feels.”
That gets a laugh out of me as I pull my helmet off. “See? There she is.”
Her pen is already poised over the page.
“It’s better,” I tell her. “A lot better than yesterday. I’m still getting enough feedback through the front that I know what it’s doing, but it isn’t fighting me anymore when I load it hard on entry.”
Her pen starts moving immediately. “What about under braking? Are you getting any chatter or anything that feels too soft now?”
“No chatter. It’s staying stable and I’m not getting any weird dive when I’m really on it. There’s one rough patch before that faster right I mentioned yesterday where I could feel it working more, but that’s the road. It settles straight away.”
She glances up briefly, then back at the page. “Rear?”
“Good. There’s a little movement coming over one of the rises, but nothing I’d change the bike for. Throttle’s clean too.”
She taps the pen once against the paper, reading through whatever she’s written.
“So you’re saying I fixed it.”
“I’m saying you improved it.”
Her eyes narrow. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re trying not to give me full credit.”
“I’m Canadian. We’re humble.”
“That is absolute bullshit.”
A smile pulls at her mouth before she looks back down at the sheet, and I catch myself watching her instead of the notes.
She gets this little crease between her brows when she’s concentrating, like the rest of the paddock has stopped existing and the only thing that matters is whatever problem she’s decided to solve.
“I’m tempted to take one more tiny bit out of the front,” she says, tapping the end of her pen against the page, “but if you’re happy with where it is, I’d rather not start changing shit just because I can.”
I hum quietly. “Look at you being all restrained.”
She glances up. “You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised.” I shift a little closer, resting my forearm against the bike while I look at her. “Just enjoying it.”
“Enjoying what?”
“You standing here covered in grease, telling me exactly what my bike needs like you haven’t been doing this since you started riding yourself.”
Her expression softens for half a second before she catches it.
“That’s a very elaborate way of saying I’m good at my job.”
“Yeah, but mine sounded nicer.”
She snorts and looks back at the sheet. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe. Still think you look good doing it, though.”
That makes her pause, pen hovering over the page.
I smile and reach over with my thumb, wiping the small streak of grease from her jaw before she can ask what I’m doing.
“There. Been bothering me since I pulled in.”
She stares at me for a beat. “You could’ve just told me.”
“Could’ve.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a smile trying to happen again. “Go get changed, Wolfe.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I grab my helmet and step away, still grinning when I hear her mutter something about irritating fucking Canadians behind me.
I should probably leave.
Instead, I stay there a little longer.
Because something about watching her today feels different.
A few weeks ago, Echo walked into our garage and every person who didn’t already know who she was looked at her like they needed an explanation.
Talon and Sayshen’s sister. The new mechanic.
The girl who appeared out of nowhere.
Now nobody asks.
Talon finishes talking to one of the sponsor mechanics and waits because Echo is busy. Reign walks over with his setup sheet already in hand. Thorne remembers another small issue and goes straight to her instead of looking for Andre.
Nobody is telling Echo where anything is, or even fucking checking whether she understands what they mean.
They trust her to know, and she does.
She’s become part of the team so gradually that I don’t think she realizes it happened.
I’m not sure any of us noticed exactly when it happened either.
She just stayed, then somehow it stopped being strange that she was here.
The rest of the afternoon slips back into the usual paddock rhythm.
Bikes come in, riders give feedback, Echo makes notes and disappears under fairings or around tool carts, then starts the whole process over again.
By the time things finally settle enough for everyone to breathe, I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve seen her cross from one side of the team area to the other.
So when I notice she isn’t there, it stands out.