Page 61 of Rogue Riders Duet

“We’re privateers.” He looks baffled. “This is the hotel for the media and the teams.”

“And the circuit pays every hotel they’re staying in for the season to keep the gym open all week for all riders. It’s not exclusive. How do you not know that?”

“It wasn’t like that seven years ago.”

I stop walking. “How would you know?”

Something flickers across his face, too fast to pin down. “Dane told me about it.”

Right.

“Anyway…” I start toward the entrance again, “… we’re not breaking any rules. Relax.”

We move through the quiet hotel, all polished floors and too-bright lighting. The gym is nearly empty, except for one guy jogging on a treadmill, too absorbed in his headphones to notice us.

As we walk past the mirrored wall, I glance over at Mini Crews again.

He only comes up to about my nose. There’s no way to tell whether he’s got muscle under the oversized hoodie he’s always wearing when he’s not in a race jersey, but I know he has to have. You don’t ride this level without it. I’m lean, too, but I can throw a punch when I need to.

Let’s see if he can.

We head to the back where the mats are, and I stop, then turn to face him. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

He looks around before his brown eyes come back to me. “Do what?”

“I don’t want you jumping into my shit again. But if you do, you can’t just slap a guy over the helmet. That’s not…” I scrub a hand over my face. “That’s not a good look. Not for me. Not for you.”

He winces. “Sorry.”

“You ever thrown a real punch before?”

“Sure have,” he says, way too fast, making me squint at him. He clears his throat. “Maybe just… not so recently.”

Why is this guy so obsessed with looking and sounding tougher than he is?

I step onto the mat and motion for him to join me. He does, dragging his feet just a little. As he steps up, he pushes the sleeves of his hoodie higher, and I get a proper look at the tattoos I’ve only ever caught flashes of before.

I’d assumed they formed some random dark pattern, abstract, maybe geometric, something edgy for the sake of it, but it’s not.

It’s flowers.

Flowers I recognize from too many childhood hours in overgrown gardens. Cosmos. Cornflowers near the elbow. Something like forget-me-nots winding down his forearm. The ink is dark and bold, like he tried to turn flowers into armor.

My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I have to shake my head once to clear it.

Weird kid. Weird vibe. Weird choice.

I square my stance and wave him closer. “Fists up.”

He mimics me, but one hand is too high, the other is sagging, and his elbows are flared like chicken wings.

God, he really is like a baby deer. All startled stares and shaky legs.

I huff a laugh. “You’re not in a Disney montage. Let’s fix your stance.”

Stepping closer, I lift his arm by the elbow, and he tenses immediately, breath catching in a tiny hitch. I glance at him, but he’s looking dead ahead, eyes wide and locked on some invisible threat across the gym.

“You okay?”