BONUS Chapter
“What about us, coach? No pep talk? Nothing inspirational?” Luc yells after me.
I lift my hand and lazily flip him off over my shoulder without breaking stride. “There’s your inspiration.”
“We love you too, Papi!” he calls, his voice carrying all the way down the slope.
I shake my head, a grin tugging at my mouth.
How the hell did I end up here, loving that maniac like a brother right back?
His sunglasses sit crooked on my nose, oversized and ridiculous. I tug the hood of my hoodie a little higher, more for the tiny crew snoring inside it than for me. Four tiny heartbeats drum against my neck like bad punk drummers who never learned to count.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I steer toward the gondola station. My reflection in the glass doors catches me—Rogue Riders hoodie, sneakers, four sleeping rats, rockstar shades.
Team Manager of the Year, right here.
The volunteer nods me through, his eyes darting to my wriggling hood. I shrug. “Emotional support staff.”
The gondola rocks as I step in. Doors hiss shut, cutting out the crowd, leaving only the creak of cable and the faint squeak of tiny dreams against my collar. I sink onto the bench and exhale, shoulders slumping.
“All right, Sleepyheads,” I murmur. “Question of the day, who do you think’s gonna win?”
A rustle. A squeak. Then a tiny face pushes out from the hood.
“Well, look who’s awake.” I lift my arm, and Pheonix scampers down the sleeve to my palm.
“My money’s on your mom, too,” I tell her. “Smart choice. She’s amazing, isn’t she?”
Phoenix tilts her head, then starts washing her face with both tiny hands like she’s agreeing.
“Yeah.” I stroke her soft fur with my thumb. “She deserves it. More than anyone.”
The gondola hums along the cable, trees sliding past in slow motion. Below us, the track snakes through the woods, sections flashing silver in the sun.
“Who would’ve thought dreams come true, huh?” I add. “A broken girl, a busted-up career, and two idiots who keep stealing my snacks. Somehow, this was the dream all along.”
There’s another rustle from the hood before Toulouse emerges, climbing up to perch on my shoulder. He stretches, yawns, and sits tall like a tiny, proud king surveying his kingdom.
“You probably knew from the start, didn’t you?” I say, turning my head so we’re eye to eye. “You and your crazy dad. The Delacroix boys knew before the rest of us did.”
Toulouse chitters softly, rubbing his nose against my ear. I chuckle. “All right, all right. You can take partial credit.”
Phoenix squeaks in protest, and I laugh outright this time. “Fine, all of you get credit.”
For a minute, I sit there in the swaying gondola, nerves and excitement mixing inside me.
“She’s gonna do it,” I murmur finally. “I can feel it. Hell, maybe I just know it. She’s got it.”
Toulouse chirps again, as if he’s echoing it for the universe to hear.
We slow, pulling into the station, and the trees break open, sunlight flooding in.
“All right, gang. Showtime.” I lift Phoenix back toward the hood, and she dives in willingly.
Toulouse follows, curling right against Bristol like the tiny gentleman he is.
“Nap time’s over, my little pit crew.” I pat the hood lightly. “Let’s go see history.”
The doors slide open, and the roar hits me like a wave—cowbells, cheers, whistles, the unmistakable electricity of a finish line.
I step out into the light, Luc’s stolen sunglasses coming in handy now, and walk toward the rail, glancing at the Jumbotron.
Otis’s name is sitting pretty in the hot seat by a few tenths, and he appears thrilled and vaguely shocked.
“Attaboy.” I grin, stupidly proud. The kid found his melody and hit it until it purred.
A murmur rolls through the corral, and the split screen flashes pink, black, and blue, tightening on a rider dropping through the trees like a hurricane.
Luc-fucking-Delacroix, green at the first split.
Of course he is.
The crowd’s pitch climbs a notch, the way it always does when a rock star walks on stage, and the amps hum. The whole mountain seems to lean forward.
My hood stirrs as Toulouse pokes his nose out for a heartbeat, whiskers twitching like he’s catching the same current running through the crowd for his daddy. Different tiny paws flex against my neck, making me shudder. Even half-asleep, they seem to know it’s Luc on the course.
My pulse kicks up right with them.
I rest my forearms on the rail, breath tightening in anticipation.
“All right, Frenchie,” I mutter, eyes glued to the screen. “Show me something dumb and glorious.”
Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about sliding into Mason’s perfect, clenched, oh-God-yes ass.
Another berm, another root. I’m flying, heart kicking like a drum solo in a strip club, brain short-circuiting on leftover adrenaline and very, very bad ideas.
Focus, Delacroix. Line, brake, pump. Not the thing. Definitely not the thing. Not the way Mason’s back would arch, all that muscle going tight as I ease in slowly, his breath hitching like he’s trying not to beg.
The course flashes by in streaks of mud and pine. My hands tighten on the grips. The bike hums under me, alive and mean and not vibrating like I did the first time I let Mason finger me open.
You’re a world champion, I remind myself. A man of control. Precision. Discipline.
Then a flash of his tanned ass hits my brain again, and I snort mid-corner, nearly eating shit on a slick rock.
“Merde,” I hiss out, saving the slide with a foot tap and a prayer. “Get your shit together, Luc, or karma’s gonna make this real personal and shove him up your ass instead.”
I shift my weight, lean into the next drop, air roaring in my ears. Every rock garden hits like a dirty thought I didn’t order.
Mason’s thick fingers curling just right, his cock dragging over that spot until I see stars.
Fuck.
I laugh because the rush and the memory blend until I can’t tell which one’s the drug—speed or the idea of Mason on his knees later, cheeks flushed, biting the pillow while Petite murmurs filthy praise, and I sink in deep.
“Come on, bébé,” I mutter to the bike. “Let’s fly. Let’s win. Let’s make sure someone is walking funny tomorrow.”
I pump once, twice, launch off the lip, and the wind tears a shout from my throat. The track below blurs—roots, dirt, glory—and for a single heartbeat, I’m nothing but speed and chaos and every wild thing I’ve ever loved.
Alaina’s laugh.
Mason’s growl.
The way they both look at me like I’m the prize.
Not in his ass. Not in my ass. Maybe in Petite’s ass? God, that would be glorious. Her perfect little peach, all flushed and trembling, taking it slow while Mason and I take turns kissing the gasps off her lips.
I land hard, both on the ground and in my pants, the suspension groaning in approval, and drive for the line like my life depends on it. Because it kind of does.
Because third place means consequences, and I am not losing my own bet.
Green lights flash.
The crowd explodes.
I throw my head back and laugh, breathless and high on everything, the race, the noise, and horny as hell.
Whoever ends up losing today, I’m going to enjoy every second of this.
Every squeal.
Every curse.
Every filthy, perfect inch.
The house is a war zone of half-empty Gatorade bottles, crumpled race kits, and three bodies sprawled like casualties.
Luc’s face-down on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, fingers twitching like he’s still gripping handlebars.
Alaina’s curled in the armchair, legs tucked under her, braid unravelled into a messy halo.
I’m flat on my back on the rug, staring at the ceiling fan like it owes me money.
Two hours of press, photos, and podium champagne that tasted like victory and battery acid, my legs feel like someone replaced the bones with wet cement.
“Don’t think we forgot,” Luc mumbles into the cushion, voice muffled and smug. “That you’re the one getting the pink treatment tonight, mon Payne au chocolate.”
I flip him off without looking. “You came in second, genius. That’s still losing.”
“By point-two seconds,” he whines, rolling onto his back.
“I beat you both.” Alaina snorts, eyes closed. “I’m the only one who gets to gloat and top.”
“Cruel,” Luc sighs dramatically. “Beautiful, cruel woman.”
I drag a hand down my face. “We’re all too dead to fuck. My quads are staging a coup.”
“Same,” Alaina murmurs. “I could fall asleep mid-thrust and suffocate someone.”
Luc lifts his head with a grin. “I volunteer as tribute.”
A low, pained sound escapes me—half groan, half laugh.
“Was that a groan or a moan?” Luc perks up.
“Both.”
Alaina laughs. “Everything hurts. Even my soul is bruised.”
The door clicks open, and I turn my head the tiniest bit to see Finn stepping in, carrying a tray like he’s done this a hundred times. Which, let’s be real, he has. He’s got the dad instincts of a saint and the patience of a sniper.
“Mon Dieu.” Luc cracks one eye open. “Papi’s here to tuck us in.”
“Shut up,” Finn says, but there’s no heat in it. He sets the tray on the coffee table. Pain pills. Muscle rub. Bottles of water. A stack of those fuzzy blankets élise brought with her last time she visited that smell like lavender and safety.
Finn tosses a blanket over Luc first, who immediately burrows in like a feral cat. Then he drapes one over Alaina’s shoulders, tucks it under her chin, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She sighs, already half-gone.
I’m last. He kneels, slides a pillow under my head, and covers me with the softest damn blanket I’ve ever felt. His fingers brush my hair back, and I lean into it like a touch-starved idiot.
“Ibuprofen,” he says, pressing two pills into my palm. Then he uncaps the muscle cream, warms it between his hands, and works it into the calf that gave me grief this season, with slow, firm strokes.
This time, I groan for real.
Luc watches through one squinted eye. “If you start jerking him off, I’m gonna remind your nose what a fist feels like.”
“Jealous?” Finn asks, not looking up.
“Murderously.”