by Amy Sparling
Yep. I’ll think on the bright side.
I slow down as I ride to the edge of the track where the entrance is. It also happens to be right where Liam’s truck is parked. I see him standing there, his elbows resting on the wooden fence that separates the track from the pits. He’s staring at me again, and I sit a little straighter, hoping I look like I belong on this new bike and not like it’s kicking my butt with its powerful engine.
I know it shouldn’t matter what Liam thinks, but the last thing I want is for a guy like him to think I’m a pathetic weak little girl.
Dad is sitting on the bleachers next to Ray, which is one of his oldest friends. They both wave at me as I ride by, and I wave back.
Once again, I park my bike and pull off my helmet. Only this time when I turn around, Liam is standing right in front of me.
“Hi there,” he says, flashing me that same grin he uses in his professional motocross photoshoots. It’s a good grin.
But I don’t want him to know that.
“Can I help you?” I ask. I pull off my gloves and slap them down on the tailgate before sitting on it.
He holds out a lemon-lime flavored Gatorade, the bottle still dripping with water from where he must have pulled it out of his ice chest. It looks ice cold. And it is very hot out here. “I brought you a drink.”
I stare at the bottle for a second. All I have is water, and Gatorade is so much better. But taking a gift from Liam Mosely seems like a trick.
I take the bottle. “Why are you being nice?”
He shrugs and then cracks open the other bottle and takes a long sip. “Because you’re not obsessed with me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Liam takes a seat on the tailgate next to me. I briefly wonder what this looks like to anyone who might be looking our way. What would my dad think? I glance toward the bleachers, but he’s got his back to us. If Liam leaves soon, then no one will ever need to know.
Liam clears his throat and stares off at the horizon. “If I’m going to be stuck here for the summer, I’d like to make a friend or two,” he says, glancing at me for a split second. Our eyes meet and something lights up in my chest. I’m not sure what that feeling is, but I know I’ve never felt it before.
He smiles just the slightest bit, and the looks down at the grass beneath us. “I came here to practice tonight but everyone here is treating me like a celebrity. It’s been impossible to ride. I can’t even tell you how many pictures I’ve had to smile for and how many helmets I had to sign.”
“Must be horrible to be so loved,” I say sarcastically.
He chuckles. “You’re the only person at this entire track who hasn’t bothered me today.”
“So you thought you’d come over here and bother me?” I say.
The smile he gives me in this very moment is something I’ve never seen in pictures online. It’s new. It’s…genuine. It makes my whole body feel warm and tingly.
Snap out of it, Bella!
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he says, standing up. The truck shifts a little with the absence of his weight and I find myself wishing he would sit back down. “I just wanted to bring you a peace offering and apologize again for the other day.”
“I forgive you,” I say. I don’t even mean to say it. The words just tumble out of my mouth. I open the Gatorade. “You’re lucky this is my favorite flavor, or my forgiveness wouldn’t have come so easily.”
“Lemon-lime is the only flavor worth drinking,” Liam says.
I grin.
Maybe he’s not so horrible after all.
Chapter Six
Her name is Bella. It’s not short for Isabella…her name is just Bella. I like that. I like the simplicity of it. She’s graduating from high school this year and plans on spending the summer at the track every single day. She bought one of those summer passes to the track, just like I did. She has an older brother, but he’s away at college. Purple is her favorite color, hence the new bike grips. The Yamaha was a birthday gift from her dad.
These are all the things I learned about her during our short talk at the track last night. I spent the rest of the night thinking over our conversation, replaying it in my mind and wishing I had said all the things I wanted to. But you can’t rush into something like this. It’s been a long time since I’ve dated anyone that was more than a weekend fling. I know I’ve got a massive crush on Bella, but I need to take it slow so I don’t scare her away.
That’s why I didn’t ask if she had a boyfriend. If I was her type of guy. If she wanted to go on a date. All those things I wanted to say, I held back because I’m not an idiot. I mean, sometimes I can be an idiot – I certainly was at the last professional race that got me kicked off the team. But when it comes to Bella, I refuse to be an idiot.
She’s even cuter when she laughs. I’d managed to make her laugh twice last night. We only talked for about fifteen minutes, and then she’d gotten this terrified look in her eyes and said her dad was walking off the bleachers and might come back to the truck. I’m pretty sure that was her polite way of telling me to get out of there, so I did.
Now it’s race day at the small-town Roca Springs Motocross Park, and I’m here two hours early to get some practice in before the races begin. It’s a cloudy gloomy day, with way too much humidity, and I realize that even though this small town is a drastic change from Houston, the humidity is exactly the same. It’s Texas, after all and it’s a pretty hot and humid state.
I grew up racing on small-town motocross tracks, but after getting a taste of the professional circuit, the small stuff is crazy boring. See, the thing with small-town races is that everyone gets to race. One single race lasts about ten to fifteen minutes, but the whole night lasts from three in the afternoon until usually midnight or later. The races are divided into different classes for all different age groups and bike sizes and abilities. There’s the 50cc race for tiny little kids who ride the smallest dirt bikes they make. Then the races for kids aged six to eight. There’s teenage races and beginner, intermediate, and advanced races. Then one for the over fifty age group, and even a separate race for women only. My race is always the last one of the day, the Pro Class.
“Pro” here means something different than real professional motocross. It’s just the small-town fancy way of saying “the fastest racers around”. You win three hundred dollars if you win this race. If you win the other races, you just get a trophy. The Pro class is open to anyone, on any bike, and any age. But only the fastest people are brave enough to sign up for this race.
On the real professional circuit, there’s just two different races with about 25 racers each. We travel around the country racing in a different city each week, and they’re held in massive football stadiums to crowds of tens of thousands of people. The professional racers are celebrities in the world of motocross. I was this close to securing my spot on Team FRZ Frame and becoming one of these professional racers, when I lost it all.
But I’m only eighteen years old, so it’s not too late. Many of the pros race into their late thirties. I just need to keep my reputation clean this summer, train hard, and come back next season and redeem myself.
Thinking of becoming a professional racer has been my sole pastime for years now. It’s only lately that another thought has invaded my mind. Bella.
I look for her at the track, hoping to see her before the races start and all the spectators and fans show up. I know I’ll be swarmed with all the locals who want to meet me, and I’d rather see Bella before then. But as the time goes by, I don’t see her beat-up Chevy truck pull up. I don’t see her dad’s red truck, either. I keep an eye out for her bike—that blue Yamaha with the purple graphics is hard to miss—but I never see it during the practice before the races begin.
Once the races begin, I find myself put in the obligation of being friendly to the fans. As much as I want to tell everyone to leave me alone, I don’t. You never know who is watching, who is uploading photos of me o
n social media, who is hanging out in the shadows, taking notes to write some article about me, Liam Mosely, the guy who was recently kicked out of a race not once but twice.
I can imagine the future news articles. Liam Mosely is making a comeback! Liam Mosely doesn’t seem to have an anger problem in Roca Springs, Texas! Will we see this rising new star on the professional circuit next year?
I need to stay nice. I need to be friendly and accommodating. If I’m not, the articles will have much different titles.
Finally, after nine races, the women’s race lines up at the gate. I make my way over to the bleachers to look for Bella’s bike on the starting line. It’s a shame that women are regulated to a “women’s class” as if they shouldn’t ride in whatever class they want. They can of course—there’s no rules against racing with the boys—but most of them don’t.
My hopes crash and burn when the women’s race begins and I don’t see her bike out there. I don’t get it. She lives here in town. She loves motocross. Why isn’t she racing? Maybe she got sick.
I sign a few more autographs and pose for about five hundred selfies, and then it’s getting time to prepare for my race, the final one of the first moto. All of the races go twice, and your final results are an average of how you place in both motos. So if you get first place both times, your overall result is first place. But if you get fifth place in the first moto and then first place in the second, your overall result is third place.
I’ve given up on the hope of running into Bella tonight, and if I’m being honest, I feel a little embarrassed about how I’ve been acting. I’m like a freaking love-sick loser over here. I shouldn’t be thinking of her. I shouldn’t be wanting to see her again. Girls can’t be on my radar, not now, when I’m so close to having the career of my dreams. What am I supposed to do? Date her for the summer and then break up so I can go back to Houston? That’s not a good game plan.
As I head out to the track to race, I give myself a stern lecture. I swear off girls. I swear off Bella. I remind myself that my career is important and girls can wait until another time. The sky cracks with a shudder of distant lightning, and the wind picks up speed. There’s a thunderstorm in the distance, but the announcer assures everyone over the track’s PA system that he doesn’t think it’ll rain tonight.
I line up with about a dozen other racers, and for a very short moment, I feel a little guilty. I know I’ll beat all of them without any trouble at all. Maybe I’ll ride a little slower just so it’s not a total blowout. The gate drops and the races begin. I enter the zone. My whole body focuses on only the race. I love this part of motocross, the part where I can disconnect from life, problems, and stress. All that matters is the bike, the track, and getting first place.
Six laps go by in a blink, and soon I am soaring over the finish line jump to the cheers of hundreds of people in the stands. My heart pounds with the familiar thrill of a win. I pull off the track, preparing to have a full-on hoard of fans envelope me when I get back to my truck. The night sky crackles again, and a burst of lightning shoots across the horizon, temporarily lighting everything up as if it were daylight.
That’s when I see her. Standing next to a large oak tree that’s near the edge of the track, far away from spectators and the main set of bleachers. She’s wearing jean shorts and a black T-shirt with flip-flops. It doesn’t look like she’s here to race.
Just like that, my little “no girls allowed” pep talk from a few minutes ago slips right out of my mind. I have to see her. I have to talk to her. I steer my bike off the path and ride up to her, pulling a front wheel wheelie as I jolt to a stop. Girls love that trick because it’s hard. Most guys can’t pull one off, but I can.
“Hi, Bella.”
She doesn’t seem impressed at all.
“Hello,” she says. “Nice race.”
I shut off my bike, drop my feet to the ground and pull off my helmet. “You’re not racing tonight?”
She shrugs. “Nah.”
“That’s a shame. I was going to cheer you on and yell your name from the stands.”
She rolls her eyes. A cold rush of stormy wind electrifies the air and the sound of thunder doesn’t seem so far away anymore. I’m starting to think that announcer might be wrong. It doesn’t look like the rain will miss us tonight.
“What are you doing way out here?” I ask, just to keep the conversation going. This isn’t working out at all how I’d like. Usually girls can’t stop talking around me. This one acts like I’m nothing more entertaining than the tree she’s standing under.
“The bleachers are too crowded. It seems we have a celebrity in our midst and everyone in town had to show up to watch him race.” She gives me a pointed look. Another roll of thunder crackles.
“Is that why you’re here?” I say, giving her my best cocky smile.
“You wish,” she says, looking back at the track. The second moto has just begun so the first round of races are starting over.
“It’s hot when you’re mean to me,” I say, letting my inner flirt rise to the surface.
Maybe it’s the glow of the stadium lights overhead, but I could swear she blushes. “I’m not being mean to you.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing… it’s hot.”
She turns to me, leveling me with that intense stare of hers. “Is this how you win over all the other girls?”
She thinks I’m toying with her. That I’m the player the news articles make me out to be, when really, I couldn’t be further from a player. Besides a few kissing episodes, I don’t hook up with girls at the races, and my last relationship was over a year ago. She ended up only using me to further her motocross influencer status on social media, but it had been a real relationship. I don’t do random hookups. But something tells me if I try to explain that to Bella right now, she wouldn’t care to hear any of it. She’s made her own opinion on me, and I’ll need to work hard to change it.
The little voice inside my head gets louder. It tells me to stop thinking like this. Stop wanting to win her over. I should leave. I should quit thinking about her. Quit picturing her lips on mine.
Before I can think of an answer to her question, lightning flashes and thunder cracks loudly across the sky. The dark clouds open up and rain blankets the track.
Bella jumps, tucking closer to the tree, which shields us from some of the downpour.
“Get on,” I say, handing her my helmet. “I’ll take you back to your truck.”
“That’s okay,” she says. “I’m fine.”
As if Mother Nature is on my side, the rain gets harder.
“It’s half a mile back to the pits,” I say over the roaring of wind and rain. “Your flip-flops won’t make it through all that mud.”
I push my helmet toward her again, knowing that my heart is going to hurt like hell if she doesn’t take it.
Luckily, she does. She puts it on her head, and then walks toward me. I slide up a little on the seat so she has room, and then she is on my bike, her hands wrapped around my waist. Even through the smell of rain and exhaust, I catch the scent of her shampoo, which smells like coconuts and summer, and it sends a jolt of excitement through my veins.
Oh man, I’ve got it bad for this girl.
Chapter Seven
Graduation in a small town is so not a big deal. On Instagram, you’d think it’s some glorious affair, but in real life, the one hundred and twelve Roca Springs High seniors just gathered up in the gym and it was over in an hour.
Kylie’s mom threw a graduation party at her house afterward, and it was just us and a few friends, eating pizza and cake and soda and swimming in her backyard pool.
I kind of love this small-town life of mine. It’s simple, but it’s home.
Oh, and Trey had to fly out to Oklahoma to visit his grandparents so Kylie has been alllll mine. It’s good to have a best friend again.
I have not told her a word about Liam Mosely.
That’s because, as I remind myself on Monday morning,
there is nothing to say about Liam Mosely. So what if he gave me a ride on the back of his bike during the pouring rain. So what if pouring rain is literally the most romantic situation on the planet.
So what if I can still feel his impressively hard abs underneath my fingers while I held on tightly as we rode through the pits?
None. Of. That. Matters.
The only thing that does matter is that the track finally dried up from that two-day thunderstorm we had, and I can finally ride again. The track is still open when it’s muddy, but I’m not a fan. They’re called dirt bikes, after all. Not mud bikes.
Mom gets so angry when my bike is muddy and I hose it off in the driveway because all that mud turns to dirt that never seems to wash off the concrete.
Kylie got stuck helping her mom do some cleaning around their house, so I head to the track alone. It’s Monday in the middle of the day and most adults have to work, so I have the track all to myself.
I spend a few laps riding for fun, and then I try to ride for speed. It doesn’t really matter, because I’m way too scared to race, but I like trying to go faster than I ever have. This new bike has a lot of power. But even I have my limits, and I’m terrified of the finish line jump. It’s this huge tabletop, ninety feet long according to the track announcer, and I can’t even come close to jumping a third of the way across it. It’s just too scary.
With a tabletop jump, the whole base of the jump is flat, like a table, with a ramp at the beginning that launches you into the air, and a soft slope at the end that brings you back to ground level and the rest of the track.
If you try jumping this monstrosity and you aren’t going fast enough to clear the whole thing, your bike will land with a massive thunk on the flat part of the jump. In motocross lingo, they call it “casing” a jump, and I’ve done it enough times to know I don’t want to do it again. Your ankles crash against the foot pegs and your wrists crash against the handlebars—that’s if you’re lucky enough to keep holding onto them—and your whole body is wracked with a shuddering pain.