Page 11

Cam

Only twelve days until I get to race again, but who’s counting? – caption from Cam’s social media post – a video of him doing a wheelie on a street bike, March 18th

Sadie’s mouth drops open in surprise when I set her coffee on the desk during her meeting. Even though this has become our routine since we started pretending to date, she didn’t expect me to follow through today.

After she gave me a piece of her mind last night, I left for a ride and didn’t come back until late. We haven’t said a word to each other since. But I brought her coffee anyway. Didn’t want to raise suspicions with any of the coworkers she’s told me are deeply invested in our relationship .

I kiss the top of her head like I always do before heading to the garage to swap rain tires onto my race bike.

Last night was a reality check. I care for Sadie. I’m attracted to her. I always have been—even back when we first met in Portland all those years ago. But I needed to remember something important: She’s my friend , not my girlfriend.

She’s doing me a huge favor—pretending to be with me—even though she thinks racing motorcycles is reckless and unnecessary . I’m not convinced her desire to win her breakup was enough to start a fake relationship with me, especially since she’s still hung up on that guy. It’s because she’s so damn sweet.

I don’t know how to move forward with her. She tenses up when she sees my bikes or when the conversation turns to racing. But racing motorcycles is all I’ve ever had, and before I met Sadie, it was all I ever wanted. Without it, I don’t know who I’d be, and frankly, I don’t care to find out.

The door to the garage opens, and Sadie steps into the cold concrete room. She cups her coffee between her sweater-covered palms as she crosses to me. She stops a few feet from the bike. She never gets too close to them.

“What’s good, Winslow?” I ask, glancing down at the bolt I’m tightening on the front wheel.

“Um,” she says, dragging the toe of her white sneaker in an arc across the floor. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“Of course,” I say, suppressing the urge to flirt—just to see how quickly I can make her blush or giggle.

After a long pause, she says, “You make it better than Allie does.”

“Not true,” I say, giving the tire a spin with my palm before standing up.

Her eyes track my movements, her chin tipping up when I reach my full height. She’s biting into her bottom lip, hard enough it must hurt. The movement always makes me want to kiss the pain away.

“I have to load my trailer,” I say, pressing the button on the wall to raise the garage door.

The rain was more of a mist earlier this morning, but it’s picking up now—thick droplets. A rarity in the desert.

“Are you riding in the rain?” she asks, her voice high with concern.

“Some of my worst performances have been in the rain. I’m not as experienced with it as racers from other parts of the country,” I explain. “I need the practice.”

“That’s so dangerous. You can’t—” She cuts herself off, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“I get it,” I reply with a shrug, even though I don’t fully understand.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said last night.” She steps closer, tentative. “I’m not being fair to you. You love this.” She gestures at the bike between us, and I swear she doesn’t even realize the slight curl in her lip as she does.

“I do,” I nod.

“And just because I don’t understand— and I really, really don’t —doesn’t mean it’s reckless,” she adds.

“What don’t you understand?” I ask, surprised she’s even talking about this.

Her eyes scan the bike from handlebars to tailpipe. “How do you ignore the danger?”

“I don’t,” I answer.

“What do you mean you don’t ? You still race. You have to ignore the danger to do that,” she says, her concern sharpening.

“You put your life in danger every time you get in a car, don’t you?” I ask, slipping my hands into my front pockets.

“That is not the same,” she retorts.

“No, it’s not,” I agree. “But the point is, I don’t let the danger stop me from doing what I need to do. People die in car crashes every day. Do you think about that risk every time you start your engine?”

She looks like she wants to argue but instead shakes her head, admitting reluctantly, “No.”

“Then why is the risk the only thing you think of when I’m on a motorcycle?” I ask.

Her shoulders tense, fingers tightening around her coffee mug. She steps back, just slightly.

I round the bike to stand closer. “What happened to you?”

Her mouth opens, but no words come out.

“There was something that happened, right?” I step close enough that the scent of her coffee fills my nose.

She nods.

“Will you tell me?” I ask gently.

She stares at me for a long moment, but I know she’s focused on whatever thoughts are racing in her mind. After a long sip of her coffee and a heavy exhale, she says, “When I was in high school, I was dating this guy. His name was Travis. He was so hot .” She giggles, a flash of her old self. “He had this shiny black motorcycle, and he used to take me for rides after school.”

I hide my surprise that she’s been on the back of a motorcycle as she takes another sip of coffee and gathers her thoughts.

“He used to race his friend on this side road behind the school, and I’d sit on the sidewalk with the other girlfriend, cheering him on.” She swallows hard. “One day, they suggested we should ride with them for a race.”

Racing two-up is fucking dangerous. My chest tightens.

“The other bike was ahead of us, but only by a little bit.” She grips her cup tighter, her breaths shallow. “I told him I wanted to win, and that he should pass them on the turn. We were so close, and—and I don’t know—I’ve thought about it a thousand times since, but I still don’t know what happened. One moment his front tire hit their back tire, and the next we were all sprawled out on the asphalt.”

This story is over a decade old, but the urge to check her body for injuries rushes through me. I pull her into my side, using my hand at her waist to draw her closer. She leans into me, still clutching her cup like it’s her lifeline.

“We all had helmets on—so no brain injuries. But everyone was mangled and bloody. The guy on the other bike broke his wrist and messed up his leg pretty bad. His girlfriend and I both got road rash all over our legs. She broke a few ribs, and I broke my arm.” She swallows again, eyes dropping to the floor. “And Travis— he lived ,” she adds quickly, “but he didn’t get up off the street until the EMTs came and picked him up. It took a year of physical therapy before he could walk again. He had a walker at graduation.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I whisper, gently taking the coffee from her hands and setting it aside so I can wrap my arms fully around her.

Of course she’s scared of motorcycles. Of course she’s scared of racing. Fuck, of course she’s scared of her boyfriend—even a pretend one—racing motorcycles .

I want to tell her that what happened to her is different from what I’m doing. I’m racing in protective gear. I’d never race two-up. I’m a professional. But none of that matters to her right now.

My hand rubs slow circles on her back as she stays pressed against me, and I feel a sense of relief that she trusted me enough to share this. When I no longer feel the thudding of her heart in her chest, I ask, “I take it that was the last time you were on a motorcycle?”

She pulls back, looking up at me. “That was the last time I touched one.”

No wonder she always looks at my bikes like they might explode and hurt her.

Hoping to lighten the mood, I suggest, “You want to try touching one now?”

“Promise it won’t bite me?” she asks, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“Promise.”

“Okay,” she giggles, reaching a finger toward the closest bike, tapping the seat. “I did it.” She whispers, her dimples appearing as she smiles wide.

“You sure did,” I say, a proud smile tugging at my lips.

“It’s interesting,” she muses, still relaxed. “But the crash didn’t bother me as much for the first couple of years. I went to therapy and that helped a lot. And then in college, I actually—” She glances away, a groan escaping her lips. “This is so embarrassing, but I thought your Race Naked video was hilarious.”

That’s the last thing I thought she’d say, but I love it . “You’ve seen that?”

“So many times. Not the Fuzz ,” she quotes, laughing and hiding her face against my chest. “I can’t believe I just told you that. So embarrassing.”

Grateful she’s laughing again, I tease, “You’re not the one who had their dick out in a viral video.”

“Are you embarrassed about that?” she asks.

“Not at all,” I admit with a chuckle.

“You shouldn’t be. It’s iconic.” She was watching my video ten years ago, and now she thinks it’s iconic. “I think I liked it because there were no corners—no turns like the one I crashed on— and no one crashed. So I could watch it and enjoy the racing, knowing the outcome. Other than that one exception, my throat tightens every time I see a motorcycle. And then you—” She cuts herself off. “Well, being around all this again has brought a lot of it back up.”

“It makes a lot of sense,” I say, still holding her close and thanking her again for sharing with me.

“It only seemed fair after everything I said last night.” Before I can tell her how little I care about that, she adds, “I crossed it off my list last night— block Jared . Thought you should know. I’m sorry about that too. I hate that he’s saying those things to you. You don’t deserve—”

“Do not ever apologize for him.” I rub my thumb across her palm, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

She swallows thickly. “Okay, but I’m sorry for what I said. You defended me, and I—I just want to say thank you. It meant a lot to me.”

“I’ll always defend you,” I promise, releasing her hand.

Her lashes flutter, and she looks down, voice soft. “Well, have fun today. Rubber side down and wear your SPF.” She giggles at herself. “You don’t really need sunscreen, do you?”

“I’m covered head to toe no matter what,” I smile.

“Okay, then,” she says, starting to turn away.

“I won’t be out there alone today,” I tell her, hoping to reassure her. “Shane, Ludlow, and I are practicing together. If the conditions get too dangerous, we’ll call it. I promise.”

Her mouth curves into a soft smile. “That’s good.”

“We have to go slower in the rain,” I add, leaving out the part where I’m still riding well over one hundred miles an hour.

“I like that,” she says.

“Practice makes me a better racer—a safer racer.”

“Dammit, I guess I like that too,” she says, pointing toward the house. “But are you sure you don’t want to stay home and hang out with me all day instead?”

“I wish,” I sigh. It’s doubtful she realizes that’s the most tempting offer I could have gotten. If it weren’t for the rainstorm, I’d have said yes in a heartbeat. Leaving her is hard, but I can’t let this chance slip away.

Just as I’d hoped, the rain has turned into a heavy downpour by the time I make it to the track. A rare and needed opportunity.

“What’s up, dickhead?” Ludlow greets, coming over to help unload my trailer.

“Just looking forward to racing circles around you, asshole,” I laugh, pulling him into a loose hug and patting him on the back.

“You two are so weird,” Hart mutters from under the canopy.

“You know you’re going to get wet, right?” Ludlow smirks.

She runs a hand over her still-dry hair. “Not yet, I don’t.”

Under the canopy, I check my phone before slipping into my leathers. There’s a message from my Incite Energy rep.

Ian: Can’t make it today after all. But keep it up! You’re right on track.

I don’t dwell on his absence because I get a text from Sadie that shifts my focus.

Sadie: Rubber side down, Hacker! Stay on your bike.

“Your pretty pink-haired girlfriend got you smiling like that?” Hart asks.

“You know it.” I’m grinning hard at my phone.

Me: I’ll come home in one piece. And a better racer. Promise.

Luke always says working on motors is his meditation, and racing has always been mine. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in my life—the second my tires hit the track, my mind settles. I’ve never felt more at peace or more alive than I do on a bike.

This year, I’m racing the BMW 1000RR—an absolute beast of a machine. It’s our first time in the rain together, and I start off even easier than I usually would on a wet day. This may be my only chance to find my edge on this bike in these conditions, so I’m dialing in.

I find my groove, leaning into each turn, pushing my speed a little more with every lap.

Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.

I’ve hit the bike’s limit for these conditions on about half of the turns, but I want to see—

Ludlow low-sides off the track , but he’s fine—already standing by the time I’ve pulled over to help.

I didn’t tell Sadie it’s more common than usual to crash in the rain. She was already so fragile, and I didn’t want to scare her further. It didn’t seem like she could’ve handled the explanation that a low-side—when the bike slides out from under you—is usually a very recoverable crash. She’s imagining a rarer high-side—when you get flung over the handlebars, like the time I broke my femur—or, worse, an even rarer collision, like what she experienced.

Ludlow’s back on the track in no time, and I follow him out to finish my laps. Once my trailer’s loaded and I’m changed into dry clothes, I text Sadie.

Me: Safe! See you soon, sunshine.

Sadie: Yay!

A picture comes through next — Sadie’s purple-tipped fingers petting Boo between his jade-colored eyes.

Sadie: He let me pet him!

Me: He loves you.

Sadie: He might.

Sadie: Drive safely!

The whole way home, I’m working out ways to help her understand the reality of the situation. Yes, racing is dangerous, but not in the way she thinks. Ludlow crashed today, but he recovered immediately. He’s not hurt. The kind of tragedies she fears are extremely rare. The slight risk is worth getting to feel alive on the track.