by Amy Sparling
Another woman about Bayleigh’s age walks up and squeals when she sees Bayleigh. They start talking, but after a quick introduction, I turn back to the gate to watch Jett.
That’s when I realize that although most of the racers have a mechanic (or dad, or in Jett’s case, since it’s the same person) with them, several of the guys also have a beautiful girl standing nearby.
I squint to see better and watch a gorgeous supermodel of a girl wrap her arm around a racer’s back and lean up on her toes to kiss him. The racers to the left and right of Jett both have a hot girl on their arm, fawning over their dirt bike and leaning in to whisper, probably telling them good luck.
My stomach twists into knots. Those are all girlfriends, standing by their man. Jett didn’t even ask me to go down there with him.
Is it because even though they’re several yards away, I can tell they’re all super-hot and done up like they’re attending a red carpet event instead of a dirt bike race?
Is he embarrassed of me?
I look down at my crappy jean shorts, my plain tank top and my chipped toenail polish. I didn’t even put on any makeup today, besides some BB cream that I used for the sun block. Ugh.
I came here expecting yet another hot as hell day of sweating and feeling sticky and gross. December in Texas doesn’t really mean anything as far as the weather. I didn’t bother trying to look hot. But it’s clear that every other girlfriend puts their looks above comfort.
I glance around the bleachers and suddenly feel like the loser on the playground. Everyone looks nice. I look like a bum.
The gate drops and forty bikers take off, all headed toward the starting turn. Jett’s bike pulls in front, barely skimming past the guys in second and third place.
If not for the big number twenty-four on his number plates, it’d be hard to tell them all apart.
Their four laps around the track take no time at all, and soon I’m standing and cheering with Bayleigh while Jett soars over the finish line jump. The checker flag is waving and he turns the bike sideways, doing a little show off move where he points straight at the crowd. At me, but it’s not like anyone knows that. Even if the whole world knew that Jett Adams’ girlfriend was here in the bleachers, they’d never suspect me, the plain boring slob of a girl.
We scale down the bleachers quickly, eagerly ready to get back to the truck to congratulate Jett on his win. Bayleigh grabs my hand while we walk and squeezes it. “This is really good. He’ll be happy.”
Jett’s already back at the truck when we get there, his bike on the stand and his helmet hanging off the handlebar. I watch him pull off his jersey and toss it on the chair, his tanned skin glistening in the sunlight. The taunt muscles in his back twist as he reaches into the ice chest in the back of his truck and grabs another bottle of water.
If I could pause time and stand here, watching how sexy he is for all of eternity, I’d seriously consider pressing the button.
Instead, I settle for taking a photo on my phone. Now Jett, standing there with the sun shining behind him, chugging a bottle of water while sweat drips down his chest is immortalized forever in my phone.
Yes, please and thank you.
“Great job, babe.” I go to hug him but then stop, realizing how sweaty he is.
“Thanks.” He grins and throws both arms around me, holding me in a rocking bear hug. I squeal. “Gross! So sweaty!”
He just laughs and kisses me on top of the head when he finally pulls away.
I put my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Now I smell bad.”
“You smell delicious as always, babe.”
Jace walks up and pats his son on the back. “One down,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “Good job.”
Jett nods, but I can tell it means a lot to have his dad’s approval. Jace readjusts his baseball cap and glances at his watch. “Only three more to go, but you might have time for lunch if you want it.”
“Three more?” I say, looking up at him. “I thought you’re only racing two classes?”
“Each class races twice,” Jett explains, but now I remember that I’ve heard that before. And although I’m excited for him to be here representing Team Loco, I am so ready to go home. I need to get back to our familiar little neighborhood track, where I don’t have to dress like a supermodel to feel like I fit in.
Jett pulls on a white T-shirt and it’s a devastation to all of womankind to hide those abs. “Wanna grab some nachos?” he asks.
I nod. “I always want nachos.”
He slips his hand into mine and although it’s a little sweaty, I still get butterflies in my stomach. Jett leads the way to the concession stand which is practically across the entire track. At some point our hands break free as he’s caught up saying hi to other racers and shaking a ton of hands. The moment we get to the long line for nachos, I can smell them before I see them.
A flock of moto girls, decked out in pristine sweat-free cute outfits, jewelry and fancy hair. Their flirty gazes are all fixed on Jett. And they’re coming straight toward us.
Chapter 10
“Ugh.” Keanna’s groan is kept to herself but I hear it and look over.
“Don’t worry, the line usually moves fast.”
“Huh?” she says, looking at me as if she’s forgotten that I’m even here.
“The nachos?” I say, gesturing toward the long line in front of us. “Is that why you groaned?”
Her features soften, her gaze now peering at me as if I were a lost puppy. “No babe. I don’t care about the nacho line.”
“Hi Jett!” The perky voice of an adoring fan makes me turn around. Three girls around my age are all smiling so big, I’m not sure which one said hi to me.
Behind me, I hear, “That’s why I groaned.”
All three girls kind of look exactly the same, even though one is a brunette Hispanic girl and the other two are blonde. They must have dressed each other this morning. “Hello,” I say, looking down at my wallet like I’m counting money.
“You did so great out there,” the brunette says. “It was like watching a professional.”
“Thanks,” I say at the same time one of the blonde clones says, “He is a professional. He’s Team Loco now.”
I rub my forehead. “Well, it’s an internship.”
“You’ll make it.” The other blonde smiles. She reaches out to touch my arm, and although Keanna is standing to my side and back a little, I can practically feel the anger rolling off her in steady waves. Honestly, it’s cute. She has nothing—not a damn thing—to be worried about. But I guess the moment she stops being affected by her boyfriend’s attention from other girls, I’ll have a problem.
It would be kind of fun to tell them all to screw off and make sure they know the gallon of eu de track slut they doused on themselves this morning is a big of a turn off, I have to maintain professional and courteous contact with all the race fans. It’s part of my Team Loco contract and I am not going to screw it up on my first official race for them.
I take a step backward, which moves me closer up the nacho line. “Ladies, this is my girlfriend, Keanna.” I put an arm around her and smile. “I didn’t catch your names.”
#
“That was really sweet of you,” Keanna says. She studies her plastic tray of nachos and fishes out one by the smallest piece of the chip that’s not covered in cheese. She’s sitting on the tailgate of Dad’s truck, her legs swaying in the air.
I’m sitting in a folding chair on the ground next her, but under the blue canopy. It’s hot as hell, but Keanna insists that she’d rather be in the sun to work on her tan.
“What was sweet of me?” I ask, tilting my head back and eating a soggy cheese-drenched chip.
“Calling me your girlfriend in front of those fangirls.” Her voice is a little softer than usual.
I snort. “What else am I supposed to call you?” I lower my voice and give it a British accent while rolling my hand as if I’m introducing her again. “Why, allow
me to introduce you to Keanna, my female consort. I am in love with her and we often enjoy canoodling in bed.”
She bursts out laughing and covers her mouth with her palm, making sure to keep her cheesy fingers off her face. “You know what I mean,” she says once she’s calmed down. “Those girls were practically supermodels and I’m just—” she looks down at her lap, her lip curling. “Ugh.”
“You are not ugh,” I say kicking out my motocross boot so it taps the bottom of her flip-flop. “You’re the hottest girl here.”
“Maybe in terms of temperature,” she says, fanning herself with her hand. “But you should have warned me, you ass hat.”
My mouth falls open. “How am I an ass hat?”
“You didn’t tell me that coming to a motocross race is a fancy event,” she says, eating another chip. “I look like a homeless person compared to all these other girls.”
I shake my head. “You’re the only girl who matters and I know how hot you are so who freaking cares what you wear?”
She sighs. “Again, thank you for saying that.”
“It’s the truth,” I say. But it’s obvious by the look on her face that she doesn’t quite believe me.
#
Dad grills me while we wait at the starting line for my second race. This is the two-fifty pro class—a much tougher race than my first class this morning. I’m in here with guys in their twenties who have qualified to race a professional supercross race or two in their time. One of them, Tony Baker, has a dad more famous than my own.
Dad rests one hand on the front fender of my bike after he’s tamped down the dirt in front of the wheel. “You can’t let up on the holeshot this time,” he says. “Do it just like we practiced.”
I nod since he won’t be able to hear me over my helmet and the roar of all the surrounding bikes. My heart jackhammers around in my chest. I’ve raced a million times in my life but only once with the Team Loco logo on the back of my jersey and on every graphic on my bike.
This is a whole new kind of nervous. Not to mention, I can’t stop thinking about that weird look Keanna had on her face when I kissed her goodbye just now. She looked hurt, insulted even. But why? I had to go race and she knows that, so why did she seem like I had disappointed her?
I draw in a deep breath and try shoving those worries to the back of my mind. Emotional stresses are the last thing I need when I’m in the middle of a race. I must keep my head in the game, stay focused, and win this race.
Engines rev and I lean forward, elbows high and toes barely touching the ground. I stare at the gate until everything else around me disappears. It drops, and I pin the throttle.
Tunnel vision has me seeing only the dirt in front of me. I shift gears and lean back, letting the bike pull me into the lead. I round the first corner with other bikes nipping at my heels. There’s a tire right next to me, the other rider gaining on me every second. I slide to the front of the bike, drop gears and dive into the sharp hairpin turn.
There’s a loud clang of metal on metal and then I go down. Dirt fills my vision, pain rockets through my shoulder. Exhaust fumes and loud engines overtake all of my senses and for a few seconds, I only know one thing: I crashed.
Dammit.
Chapter 11
I blink. Please, please don’t be Jett. But when one of the three fallen riders jumps up, shakes himself, and grabs the number twenty-four bike, I know the worst has officially happened. Bayleigh curses under her breath but she never takes her eyes off her son.
Luckily, he doesn’t appear to be hurt and he yanks his bike back upright and hops on, cranking the engine and taking off faster than any of the other guys who fell over. My heart races and anxiety consumes me as I watch him fly through the track, trying to catch up to the rest of the racers. I’ve never felt so hopeful and helpless at the same time.
I want him to win so bad but there’s not a damn thing I can do. This is all him. The emotional rollercoaster is driving me crazy. He zooms through the track, easily passing all the guys at the back of the line. But there’s thirty-something other racers and he has to catch up with every single one if he wants a chance of winning.
My bottom lip draws blood before I realize I’m biting it. My hands hurt from being clenched into fists. A few laps go by and Jett is now in third place, gaining on second.
“Come on, come on,” Bayleigh says, squinting so she can see him clearly. I force myself to take a deep breath and then I let it out slowly. This isn’t the end of the world, but damn it feels like it.
Jett’s bike is just inches away from the second place guy. They hit a sharp turn and Jett pins it, kicking the bike out sideways and then hauling ass through the turn, blowing past the other guy like he was sitting still.
Hell yes!
Now he just has to beat the guy in first place, but unfortunately he’s pretty far ahead. They’re now so fast and so far ahead, they’re passing up guys who are in last place. Jett flies past one of the last place guys and charges toward first place.
The checkered flag whips through the air and Jett’s bike soars over the finish line jump, simply and quickly. There’s no flair to his jump this time because he’s in second place. I let out the breath I’d been holding and tell myself that winning isn’t everything. At least he is healthy and in one piece. Second place isn’t too bad.
Bayleigh leans over, her hair wafting coconut shampoo in my direction. “Be careful. He’ll be pissed.” She holds up her hands and wiggles her fingers. “Kid gloves.”
Jett’s still on his bike when we get back to the truck. His helmet blocks any emotions on his face and he’s listening to his dad, who is talking animatedly with his hands. Jett nods, and then nods again. Then he hops off the bike and practically tosses it to Jace.
I hang back, pretending to examine some T-shirts for sale in the booth a few cars down from us. In the corner of my eye, I watch him yank off his helmet, then his neck brace, then finally his jersey. Shirtless and sexy as hell, he paces the few feet of shade underneath the canopy, his hands running through his hair while he stares at the ground.
Bayleigh walks right past him and talks to Jace instead. This must be what she means when she said to use kid gloves—just ignore him completely. I study his movements as he gets a water and sinks into his chair. He’s definitely disappointed but he seems a little out of it. He hasn’t even looked around for me. Maybe he knows I’m staying away on purpose.
When the lady at the T-shirt booth starts looking a little annoyed that I’m not there to buy anything, I start walking slowly back to Jace’s truck.
I can’t stop the onslaught of self-depreciating thoughts that flow through my mind as I slowly put one foot in front of the other. If I were hotter, would he be in a better mood? If I were the kind of girlfriend he could be proud of, and I got to stand with him down on the starting gate, would he have done better? Never wrecked in the first place? The lump in my throat is unbearably huge.
Jett’s sitting in the chair, elbows on his knees and his eyes watching the ground. I try not to focus on how hot his biceps are—this isn’t exactly a time to be sexually objectifying him or anything.
When I’m a few steps away, he looks up slowly. His eyes catch mine and a small smile spreads across his lips.
“Hey, you,” he says, his grin getting wider.
“Hey,” I say, biting my bottom lip. Two seconds of silence pass but it feels like ages. I’m standing here awkwardly, wondering if I should say something about the race—some kind of trite feel-good saying about never giving up, or if I should just tell him he did good anyway, or—ugh, I don’t even know.
I bet the hot motocross girls would know what to say. I bet those girls on the starting line have an entire speech of great things to tell their boyfriends after a bad race. But here I am, the dorky loser with no motivational skills whatsoever, standing with my toes curling into my flip-flops as I internally freak out over what to do.
Jett slouches down in his chair, his head tilting to the
side. “Come here,” he says, beckoning me with the wave of his hand.
I take a tentative step toward him, still weighing the options of saying something or keeping my mouth shut.
He holds out his hand and I reach forward to take it. Then, swiftly and like nothing is wrong, he pulls me into his lap and wraps his arms around me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers into my ear. “I love you.”
Chapter 12
I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure my dad made me work today just as punishment for sucking at the races two days ago. It’s Monday, my first day of homeschooling, and here I am stuck at work. In the front office, no less. It’s safe to say my first race for Team Loco wasn’t the best of my life. I did place first overall in the first class, but the two-fifty pro class kicked my ass both times. I finished second overall after failing yet again to get the holeshot and keep it. Second place out of forty racers isn’t the worst thing in the world, but it’s not the best. It is second best.
“Absolutely!” Keanna says to a client’s mother. She’s working the front desk like usual and although I’m supposed to be helping her, she’s cool if I work on the computer instead. I brought my laptop and set up my online profile for homeschooling through TSU. I have four classes: History, English, Geometry, Biology. They all have the same assignment for my first week. I have to write a short essay introducing myself and my skills and deficiencies in each subject.
Although I’d met with the main professor for homeschooling, each subject has a different teacher who will grade my assignments. They all filter through the main professor. It’s weird, but at least it’s not normal public school.
“Here’s the main schedule,” Keanna says to the woman. She leans over the counter and turns the paper around, pointing out various things. I’m guessing the lady is a new client because I’ve never seen her before. I shift my gaze back to my laptop and try to focus.