Page 59 of Rogue Riders Duet

“Didn’t ask him to,” I mutter. “And that wasn’t a punch. That was a flailing attempt at violence. He slapped him like someone trying to swat a wasp. He has no idea how to fight.”

“Well, fuck. That makes it even more impressive. Maybe the kid’s never had anyone show him how.”

I huff out something like a laugh. “Yeah, well, you made sure I knew how to throw a punch by the time I was ten.”

“And look how well that turned out.”

He grins, but I don’t.

“You know,” he adds casually, “I remember when you were a junior, all bright-eyed and mouthy. Used to look up to a certain Crews back then.”

I groan. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting. You looked at Dane Crews like he hung the bloody moon.”

“I did not.”

He gives me a knowing look.

Okay, maybe a little, ’cause yeah, Dane Crews was my hero, everyone’s, really. Back when I was in juniors, he was the guy in downhill mountain biking. Untouchable. Legendary on a bike.

Getting signed to Crews Bikes was the dream, the endgame, the goal I built everything around, until the team imploded before I even got my shot.

“Maybe now you’ve got your own fanboy,” Dad suggests. “No harm in that.”

“He’s not a fanboy,” I grumble, frowning into my cup. “He’s kicking my arse. And I just can’t figure out his angle.”

“Why would he need an angle?”

“Why else would he be on my side?”

I don’t say, no one is on my side anymore besides you.

Dad shrugs, that kind of shrug that somehow manages to say both maybe you’re right and you’re being ridiculous in equal measure.

“I don’t know, maybe because being associated with you is such a good look,” he says with a smirk.

I scowl harder.

“Or maybe…” he adds, setting the tool down with a little clink, “… this kid just has a spine.”

“Or he’s an idiot,” I counter.

Dad glances over at me, quiet for a beat.

“I didn’t believe it,” he says softly. “Does that make me an idiot too?”

I flinch.

Fuck.

The words dig in somewhere deep, pressure against something that already hurts. Dad leans back in his chair, eyes tilted up toward the sky like the constellations will offer him backup. “All I’m saying is, it’s okay to make new friends. Not everyone’s out for you.”

“Sure feels like it, though,” I mutter, feeling that familiar pang in my chest. The one I can’t name without sounding pathetic. It just sits there, heavy, old, and stupid.

He brushes his hands off on a rag as he gets up. “From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re the hang-up here. Not the guy who’s trying to be your friend.”

I don’t reply, but my eyes do wander to where the obsessive little gremlin is still crouched over his bike, seemingly checking the bolts again. When the light inside their bus goes out, he clicks on his flashlight.