Chapter 21 #3
He squints down again, unconvinced. “Nothing here says that. No flagged notes. No UCI clearance filed.”
“I can go get him. Dane, my manager. He has the documents. Just let me…”
I move to turn, already halfway to the door, when his hand closes around my arm.
“Once an athlete is notified of a doping test, they’re not permitted to leave. It’s a WADA rule. You step out now, it’s logged as a refusal, and a refusal means automatic disqualification, Crews.”
My stomach lurches as a hot wave of panic shoots up my spine, hotter than the pain that’s been gnawing at me all day. The walls feel too close, the air too thin, and my skin starts to crawl.
“No. I can’t. I lost a kidney. You can’t ask me to…”
“You can provide a urine sample now,” the official says evenly. “And if there’s a medical issue, we’ll follow up with a blood test. That’s the standard protocol when something seems off.”
“I can’t!” My voice cracks on the last word. “I’m not supposed to. I’m flagged for blood testing only.”
“Not according to my list.”
“Can I at least call my manager?” I ask, already digging my phone out of my hoodie pocket. “Please.”
He hesitates, then nods once. “One call. He needs to come here himself with the documentation. No phone confirmations.”
The relief has me nearly sagging to the floor. “Thank you!”
I hit Dane’s contact and hold the phone to my ear.
One ring.
Two.
Voicemail.
Shit.
He’s probably asleep again. Cold, dead to the world, of course, he is. My hand drops to my side slowly, and my heart pounds in my ears. “He’s not picking up, but I can’t do this. Please? I need the blood test, it’s a medical issue.”
“Then we’ll follow up. But right now, I need a urine sample. Like I said, it’s this or it gets reported as a refusal.”
Mason seals his sample and places it on the tray, his face set in that unreadable scowl he wears as he walks to the sink to wash his hands.
When he goes to leave, I reach out before I can think, fingers curling into the sleeve of his hoodie. “Mason, wait.”
His eyes flick to me, and his brow furrows, the crease between them deepening as he takes in the room.
The official, the tension, my visible distress that I’m too panicked to mask.
He looks at my hand bunched around his sleeve before his eyes come up to mine again.
They’re not soft, but not cruel either. Just wary.
I turn to the official, swallowing hard. “If he goes, if he gets my manager, can we wait for him? Just a few minutes?”
The official exhales hard, already tired of this conversation, and checks his watch. “Five minutes. Tops. Then you’re pissing in this cup, Crews.”
I look back at Mason. “Please. Can you go grab Dane for me? Tell him to bring the medical exemption. He’s in the bus.”
Mason scans me like he’s trying to figure out what I’m hiding, and yeah, it probably looks pretty sketchy. He holds my gaze for one more long, silent beat, then he dips his chin, turns, and takes off at a sprint.
The official walks back out and calls out another name, motioning for the rider to step in. The guy walks past me, all easy swagger and zero anxiety, and takes the empty urinal like it’s no big deal.
Because it isn’t, for them.
But I’m standing here, heart in my throat, palms sweating, stomach cramping from pain and all the what-ifs clawing through my head.
“You know…” the official says, not looking up from his clipboard, “…. not doing the test just makes you look suspicious. You riders act like refusing is safer, but it never is. You do the urine test, and we compare it with blood later if there’s anything off. Easy as that.”
“Or…” I say sharply, “… we could just do the blood as we’re supposed to. With the kidney issue. Like it was documented.”
He huffs at me, clearly losing patience.
Another rider is called in, another bottle cap is unscrewed, and there’s another splash of sound I try not to hear. Then there’s a thundering of footsteps from outside.
Thank fuck.
Dane skids to a stop just inside the threshold, breathing like he just ran a full stage uphill in jeans. His hair is flattened on one side, and he’s clutching his tablet as he coughs violently into the crook of his arm, nearly folding in half.
“Step back,” the official snaps. “We have riders here who can’t get sick.”
“Sorry,” Dane rasps, trying not to wheeze. “Here. Allen Crews has an approved medical exemption on file. All anti-doping tests are to be conducted via blood, no exceptions.”
He holds out his tablet, a document already pulled up on screen, turning it toward the official and leaning against the door frame, probably to help him keep upright.
Shit.
The guy takes it with a sigh, scans it quickly, and makes a noise in his throat that sounds suspiciously like ugh, fine. He frowns and mutters into his walkie-talkie, radioing someone from the anti-doping team.
Only then do I breathe.
Not fully.
But enough to stay standing.
Dane’s face is pale and clammy, the tension in his shoulders wound tight, but his eyes are on me when I look at him.
“Thank you,” I murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
“Anytime, Speedbump.”