We ride up three escalators to what appears to be the main floor out of a dozen other identical floors. From here you can walk in a circle around the perimeter of the stadium, which is what we do while Dad looks for their seating section. There are tons of concession stands and merchandise vendors that sell the same type of shirts we had at the Nationals.
“Section 141, here we are,” Dad pockets his tickets and glances at me, probably wondering if I will join them or leave since I don’t have a section 141 ticket.
That’s when I realize what I am about to do. “I’m just gonna… go, um …go meet Shelby,” I sputter and turn to leave.
“Will you be okay by yourself?” Molly calls after me. I nod and give her a thumbs-up before getting lost in the crowd around me. My original plan was to meet up with Shelby and then decide if I should actually see Ash face-to-face. But now that plan seems too lengthy – I want to see Ash now. I want an explanation for his note. It is obvious that I’m forgiven, but am I still girlfriend material?
I step onto the escalator and watch the floor below me sink as I ascend to the skybox level. He will probably tell me that we should take things slow. I hate slow.
A burly man who looks as though he failed Bouncer School holds out a hairy arm to stop me at the top of the escalator. “Ticket?”
I dig through mounds of lip gloss, spearmint gum and Starbursts that fill my purse to retrieve my ticket. I should play it safe and see Shelby first. She could tell me what Ash was thinking and if he was going to tell me to take things slow.
“You can’t get into the skyboxes without a ticket,” Mr. Beer Gut grumbles.
“I have a ticket, thank you,” I snap back. Finally, I find it and wave it in his face. While he checks it for authenticity, I decide I don’t want to wait any longer. I need to see Ash now.
Doing things by myself sucks. Although I am surrounded on every side by diehard motocross fans, I am consumed with loneliness as I step outside of the stadium and look for the entrance to the pits.
A cool breeze joins the dark clouds. It is a nice break from the scorching sun back at home. I notice a group of people holding pit passes and follow them. Soon, we are walking up a flight of concrete stairs that takes us across a four-lane highway adjacent to the stadium. And that’s when I see the pits.
On the other side of the stadium is an entire parking lot full of motocross rigs and tour busses. Monster trucks tall enough for me to walk under play music so loud it reverberates through the ground. Every company that has anything remotely to do with motocross has a canopy set up that advertises themselves and gives out free stuff. It is a lot like the pits at Mixon’s National race, only a dozen times more extreme.
I can’t help but put on a cheesy grin, knowing somewhere in the commotion is Ash – the newest member of Team Yamaha. I wonder if he is thinking about me, expecting me to show up, nervous that maybe I won’t. Ryan is also out there, the newest member of Team FRZ Frame. He probably isn’t thinking about me. I don’t know why that makes my self-esteem drop a notch.
A line of at least a hundred people wait to get into the pits. Thunder rolls again and I see a bolt of lightning flash from behind one of Houston’s skyscrapers. I look around me at all of the excited faces waiting to meet their favorite professional riders. A hurricane could blow through here and I bet these people would grab on to the fence and ride it out like a kid on a mechanical bull.
The preteen duo in front of me can attest to that. They wear matching Dylan Bakers shirts, the same kind we sold at Mixon. I cringe, remembering I no longer work at Dad’s track and correct myself: the girls wear the same shirts they sold at Mixon. Their ponytails are held back with a homemade ribbon with the number thirty painted on in blue glitter.
The name and number are familiar, even though I still don’t know any of the professional riders by heart like Shelby and virtually everyone else around here does.
I take a place in line behind them but stand far enough away so any passersby won’t think I am with them. They share a race program and gush over an interview on page twenty-four. I’m exactly eavesdropping, but I have to do something to take my mind off Ash, so I listen to their girlish giggles. Every second I stand in line makes me want to turn around and run for the safety of the stadium. Can I actually face Ash after what happened?
Thunder sounds again and one of the girls shrieks, but not because of the weather. “Oh my gosh, that’s him. It’s him!” The girl’s friend and I turn to see a man with short brown hair, dressed in riding gear. He walks with an uptight manager-type man with graying hair, khaki pants and a walkie-talkie. I recognize the rider instantly. He is the famous guy I had inadvertently yelled at during Nationals. Dylan Bakers.
“He’s so cute,” Girl One says. “His wife is really pretty too, have you seen her? She is so lucky.” Girl two shakes her head and her eyes glaze over as they watch him walking toward the entrance to the pits.
“Go ask him to take a picture with us.”
“No way, I’m too scared!” I can’t help but laugh as I overhear their annoying little-kid babble. I bet they would ask for my autograph if I told them their gorgeous Dylan Bakers had spent the night in a motor home just yards away from my bedroom and that I had even yelled at him for breaking and entering.
I bet he would remember me too; the girl my dad yelled at in front of everyone on amateur racing day. I swallow. Why do I have to keep remembering that day? I bury the painful memory and come back to reality. The girls still plead with each other to approach Dylan and ask for a photo. Teig will be their age soon. I hope he will never be that annoying.
“Just go ask him,” Girl One whispers through clenched teeth and pushes her friend toward Dylan who is now only a few feet away. She stumbles out of line and is about to face-plant on the concrete but out of some instinct I’m not aware I have, I reach out and catch her arm, softening her fall.
“Are you okay?” Dylan Bakers asks as he takes the girl’s other arm and pulls her up. She nods and mumbles something incoherent while Girl One turns as green as a Kawasaki with envy. I have a feeling the girl won’t wash that hand for weeks.
“Good save,” the famous racer says to me. The moment I look at him I can see the light bulb turn on behind his hazel eyes. Crap. He recognizes me.
“Damn girl, what are you doing standing in line like a normal person? You’d think Mixon’s finest rule enforcer would be given special privileges.” He turns to the man with him and tells him the story of how I was rude and thought he was an intruder at my dad’s track.
I feel the eyes of a dozen curious motocross fans burning into me. If I want to turn around and run, now is the time. But Dylan isn’t going to have any of that.
“I know why you’re here,” he winks. I turn an even darker shade of crimson. Did he really know why I am here? “Come with me.”
To the dismay and jealousy of everyone in line, I step out of place and join him. The two girls stand in silence, mouths agape, no doubt taking in every moment of Dylan Bakers so they can retell the story for years to come.
“Wait,” I say. “Would you take a photo with those girls first?”
My heart pounds as everyone watches us walk to the front of the line. I know they are staring at Dylan, the World Champion for the last two years, but I still feel like somewhat of a celebrity standing next to him. When we reach the man taking pit passes, Dylan nods to him and he lets us in without a word. For these thirty seconds, I have completely forgotten Ash.
And then we approach the Team Yamaha rig and I remember exactly why I am here. Goose bumps cover me from head to toe as I follow Dylan around the line of fans waiting to get autographs, and inside the gate for riders and their families.
Team Yamaha’s pit is comprised of two longer than usual motor homes lined up next to each other with a canopy in front. There are tables and chairs and barbeque pits on one end. I see the beautiful blond who is married to Dylan playing with their two-year-old daughter.
The opposite si
de of the canopy has a row of dirt bikes, squeaky clean and ready to be raced. A few mechanics mull around, checking air pressure in the tires and adjusting bolts. I follow Dylan past the bikes, and notice the last one has the number 336 on it. This is a real, modified to the extreme, factory bike; not the outdated model in Ash’s garage he worked so hard to keep running. It is brand new, unscratched and put there just for Ash.
My heart is going so fast, I keep watching for the signs of a heart attack because that is surely about to happen to me.
“Hey rookie, look who I found,” Dylan grabs a marker from the table and chucks it in Ash’s direction. The marker bounces across the table and he catches it, then turns to us with an eyebrow raised.
All I can do was stand here. It is possible I have an awkward look on my face, maybe a deer caught in the headlights expression, or a nervous twitch that matches the shaking in my knees, but I have no idea. I am unaware of everything in the universe except for the crooked smile on Ash’s face. The smile brings me back to the beginning of summer, when everything was perfect and no hearts had been broken.
Ash steps toward me and for a while we say nothing. He wears riding boots and pants with a blue Yamaha shirt. His dreads are pulled back in a low ponytail and his eyes are the perfect shade of blue. Yamaha blue.
Thunder rumbles again, closer this time.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” We are inches apart now.
Raindrops start to fall and land with a soft patter on the vinyl canopy above our heads. A sea of umbrellas opens in the line of fans eager for autographs.
“Thanks for coming.” His smile grows wider and his hand reaches out for mine. I don’t accept it at first. As sudden as the rain had appeared, I go from speechless to having a million things to say.
“Ash, I didn’t mean to-“
He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. Seriously.”
It isn’t okay. Before he can forgive me, I have to apologize. It was easy to feel guilty lying in my bed at night. But now, standing inches away from him and looking into his eyes – they are as pure and honest as always. The weight of my guilt threatens to crush me. He deserves a heartfelt apology. He deserves so much more than I can ever give him.
I stare at the blue and white logo printed on his shirt. “I know this isn’t a good time and all – since you’re about to race, and you’re busy – but, I’m sorry.”
He takes another step closer, grabs me around my hips and pulls me to him. And right before his lips touch mine in what will go down in history as the best first kiss ever, he whispers, “You’re wrong. It’s the perfect time.”
AKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks and bro-fists to my friends, who support and encourage me in my writing endeavors. My BFFEK Felicia, you are the world’s best fairy grandmother. Brad, even though I constantly veto your plot ideas, Melissa, Kim, Jamie, Christin, Kayla, Kelsey and Chris, who is the world’s cutest motorcycle salesman, pilot and, well, everything.
To Dad, who bought my first dirt bike and still let me ride after I crashed the second I pulled the throttle. To Mom, who only laughed a little bit when I told her I wanted to be a writer. Thanks for being a trooper and powering through that first draft of Motocross Me. I’m surprised you didn’t disown me with how horrible that thing was. But then again, you could have disowned me for much worse things in life and you haven’t. So thanks Mom and Dad. I love you guys.
Lots of thanks to my very own Motocross Family, in particular Lenny and Robin Brown who are like second parents at the track, and Tyler and Seth who always brighten my day. Kristen and Courtney Hargrove, you girls rock. Rob and Sandra Lewis inspired many parts of this book—I’m not sure where you guys are now, but I hope you’re doing well. To the Finchers, Baney and Trish, who are two of the most incredible people you’ll ever meet. Shawn Fincher, you are my brother from another mother, my sister’s best friend, and without a doubt the most considerate and wonderful person anyone could be lucky enough to know. Thanks for loading up my dirt bike all those times without complaint. Thanks for taking care of my sister. And thanks for everything else, too.
Thanks to the Riders Down Foundation for all the hard work they do in helping injured riders get back up.
I may be a tiny fish in a gigantic pond of indie writers, but I want to thank all the bloggers who took notice of me and my little book, who helped me promote and sent me encouraging comments and Tweets. Thanks to every single *like* on my Facebook page, and thanks for the blog tours, Retweets and Favorites. It’s a little gesture, but it means a lot.
Susan Connally, for the squees and giggles in the good times and the encouraging words and threats to murder people in the bad times. For the years of lunchtime plotting and book talk. For the shoulder to cry on, and the That’s What She Said jokes and for introducing me to Zumba. Thanks for almost chopping off your hand getting a bottle of wine open for us…if that isn’t friendship, I don’t know what is.
Nikki Godwin, my beta-reader turned best friend and fellow indie author. You are the only person on earth who knows the full extent of my crazy, and yet you still haven’t blocked my number. I’m not sure if that makes you the world’s greatest friend, or just batshit insane like I am. This writing thing is hard, and you always have inspiring, practical advice for my late night, ten page email freak-outs. I love plotting new stories and talking trash with you. Thank you so much for everything. This book is just as much your success as it is mine.
Thanks and hugs and enchanted voodoo dolls go to the other Godwin sister, Emily, who I love like my own family. Thanks for having your head on your shoulders and taking care of Nikki and me. We may be a tiny triangle in this vast world of writers, but we’re the best triangle, dammit.
To my own sister, Katie-bug, Katie Fabulous 336, Buggie Smalls. You’re five years younger than me but you’re still my hero. If you’re a bird, I’m a bird. Olive juice. Olive juice so much.
To my beautiful angel of a daughter, Hallee. You never once doubted that the words on my computer screen would one day become a real, live book. Thanks for letting the TV raise you while Mom typed away at all hours of the night. I love you more than life itself. And oh yeah, you are never, ever, allowed to date a motocross boy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cheyanne is a native Texan with a fear of cold weather and a coffee addiction that probably needs an intervention. She loves books, sarcasm, nail polish and paid holidays. She lives near the beach with her daughter, one spoiled rotten puppy and a cat who is most likely plotting to take over the world.
FIND CHEYANNE ON THE WEB:
www.CheyanneYoung.com
@NormalChey
www.Facebook.com/AuthorCheyanneYoung
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Motocross Me Page 21