15. Huckslee

Huckslee

T he rumble of my bike against the dirt shakes me so hard it rattles my teeth.

Twenty-five other racers envelop me, each fighting for first place on the track. Even though it's an exceptionally mild late spring day, I'm sweating in my gear from the adrenaline as I lean into a bend. We're in the second moto now, and the competitive spirit is palpable.

In officially sanctioned races, two thirty-minute motos around the track plus two additional laps determine the winner. Points are earned by winning, obviously. In the first moto, I placed third and was awarded twenty points. Taylor placed second, with twenty-two points. First place had twenty-five.

The terrain shifts, propelling me into a jump, and I search for Taylor's ugly yellow bike when I'm in the air. I've fallen back to seventh place, but I see him up ahead, battling for first with the girl who won the last race. They're currently neck and neck, and we have one lap left. Even though she won last time, he'll win if he places first this round. It doesn't matter if they have the same number of points. And I want him to win. I really fucking do.

Someone loses control of their bike in front of me, the front wheel shaking before they tip sideways and go flying. Jerking to the side, I narrowly avoid being clipped by their rolling body, but the movement throws me off balance, and I come around a bend too close to the edge of the track. It slows me down, allowing two more riders to pull ahead.

Fuck.

Ninth place is not where I want to be.

So I lean forward, shut out all the noise inside my head, and focus. Forget about everyone else rushing by or all the spectators on the sidelines; it's just me, my bike, and the dirt. Eventually, I make my way up the line to the front, two places behind Taylor. I recognize Christian from his helmet in third. From what I've seen, Taylor hasn't attempted any fancy tricks on the jumps, which tells me how badly he wants to win.

Three more bends until the finish line.

It's fucking nerve-wracking, trying to split my attention between not crashing and watching Taylor race. He's one of the best riders I've seen. His skills with his bike are phenomenal despite the crash back in August. When it comes down to it, Taylor is a fucking beast on the track. His wheel pulls ahead, followed by his opponent, and they dance until I can see the finish line in the distance.

So fucking close…

Twenty meters to go, and Christian seems to lose control. He hits a divot in the track wrong, spiraling out and hitting the ground hard. My heart jumps into my throat. I can't breathe beneath my helmet. His bike slams into the girl, causing her to veer sideways and into Taylor. All three of them go flying.

" No! "

The sound of motorbikes revving up drowns out my scream. The rest of us part to avoid hitting them, and when I fly by, I see Taylor curled on his side, not moving. Christian is crawling over to him.

Fuck!

Please be okay, please be okay.

It's between me and one other rider as the finish line draws closer, and a fire ignites in my blood.

If Taylor can't win that scholarship, I'll do it for him.

It's a gift I can offer him if nothing else.

Leaning forward, I grit my teeth and throw everything I have into crossing that line. Praying to whatever shred of relationship is left between me and the big man upstairs that I'm good enough to pull this off. Out of my peripheral, I see the rider beside me surge ahead, his wheel gaining an inch.

I gun it, heart pounding, pushing my bike as far as possible.

Three meters.

Two meters.

One.

My wheel passes over the finish line just inches before his, solidifying my first-place victory.

I won the fucking race.

And Taylor's scholarship.