Chapter 33
A bullshit penalty cost me the podium.
I stood in the garage afterward, helmet off, sweat dripping down my spine, jaw locked tight as the footage replayed.
“That was not a false start,” I muttered, like saying it enough times might make it true.
She found me without asking, sliding into my space like she always did—flushed, half-undressed, eyes still bright from the fight. For a split second, all I wanted was to be anywhere but here. Back home. The countryside. Quiet mornings. Her bare feet on stone floors.
She pressed a cold water bottle into my chest, grounding me, lips curling into that maddening, knowing smirk.
“Let it go, mon amour,” she told me softly. “One race doesn’t define you.”
The irony hit hard enough to steal my breath. I glared at her. She just grinned wider, unbothered, unafraid of the consequences. Actually, the consequences are probably what motivated her bratty comments.
Even on the worst days, she pulled me out of my head before I could go too far. I thanked her for it every goddamn day, and yet still I wanted to give her more of me.
So I kissed her—quick and rough—because I’d never stood a chance of resisting her. Because if this really was the end of something, then she was how I wanted to remember it.
Not the penalty.
Not the number.
Just us.