Page 35 of Rogue Riders Duet

Fuck.

“Look, I’m just gonna be straight with you.” Rob’s tone is already halfway to apologetic. “The higher-ups had a meeting. They talked it through, looked at the numbers, and they’ve decided to sit this one out.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and somehow keep my voice even. “What do you mean? I thought we were… this was almost locked in.”

“I know,” he says sympathetically, trying to soften the blow. “You made a strong case, but in the end, they just didn’t feel it was the right fit for the brand right now.”

“They’re making a mistake,” I grit out, heat creeping into my chest. “These kids? They’re the real deal. I’ve been working with them for a while now. They’ve got the talent, the mindset, the discipline, and like I told you, I’ve got the structure planned, everything from training to travel⁠—”

“Finn,” he interrupts, then sighs. “Come on. I get it. I do, but you’ve got no track record managing a team.”

“I’ve been in this sport for more than half my life.”

“As a rider. That’s not the same thing. Managing a junior team isn’t just about race day. It’s budgets, logistics, schedules, sponsorship coordination, athlete welfare, insurance, gear deals, it’s a lot, and if something goes wrong, it’s a big hole for us financially.”

“It won’t go wrong,” I argue, the desperation threading into my voice. “I’ve thought it through. I’ve got spreadsheets. Projections. These kids are hungry, and I wouldn’t let it fall apart. I can’t let it fall apart.”

“I hear you, mate. I do.” He pauses. “But you’re not quite the name they want to build around. They’re looking for headline potential. I’m sorry. We wish you the best, honestly.”

And with that, he hangs up.

I stand there, the silence roaring in my ears, the phone slack in my hand.

That’s it.

Weeks, hell no, months, waiting for that call. Running scenarios in my head, planning out answers, and all I got was a thirty-second no.

Falling into a crouch, I brace my forearms on my thighs, my phone dangling loosely between my hands. My knees feel like they might fold, and I just missed a landing by an inch too far, and now everything is about to crash.

Shit.

Shit!

My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt as I stare down at the dirt. The ground is solid. Unforgiving. Like everything else in this sport.

What the hell do I tell the kids?

I’ve always felt like an imposter to them, but lately, that had been changing. They’ve always thought I’m something I’m not, looking at me and believing in me like I’m some kind of lifeline, and now the team I promised them might never exist. The future I promised to build for them, for myself, just slipped right through my fingers.

What the hell do I even say?

“Sorry, guys, guess I’m just not famous enough?”

Maybe I should get a pink jersey and a rat? God, I’m a fucking loser.

Mediocre. That’s all I’ve ever been.

The finish line has been creeping up on me for years, but I always thought I’d have something to show for it before it caught me.

Now I’m just crouching in the dirt alone, my only dream gone.

My breath catches when I straighten, and I have to press my palms to my thighs to stop the shaking, just as my phone buzzes again with a call.

I glance at the screen. It’s a FaceTime call from Kevin and Rachel.

Fuck.

My stomach twists as I swipe my palm across my thighs, then over my face, trying to scrub the failure off. Then I force the grief back down and take the call.