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Chapter 2

"Urgh!" I groan. Who does that impoverished pauper think he is? This is my shot at this team, and I will not be pushed out by a penniless excuse for a competitor. This is my year! I have been promised that place; it's mine, and he will not be taking it away from me. I will take him out first. As if a heathen like him, on a pile of shit like he rides, is ever going to get holeshot in any race. He can keep dreaming. I have been grafting this for years. Mother and Father buy me the best of everything, new bikes and clothing every season, the best team, the best coaches, the best mechanics to fix my bike, and the staff to wash and prepare my bike.

All I must do is ride and deliver. I need this place. I need this team; without it, I would have nothing. Mother and Father have never seen me ride. They have never even attended a meeting. They haven't even watched the footage the videographer sends them. They forward it to my coach, who reviews it and tells me what I am doing wrong, where I can improve, and everyone else's strong and weak points.

The penniless peasant is a hot head. If I can get into his head, I can goad him, coax him into messing up and ruining his chances. I cannot afford to risk it all on an upstart who doesn't belong in the big leagues. He certainly can"t afford to be here.

During the second heat, we all pull up to the starting line. I can see him in my peripheral vision. He is in his tired, thread-bare set from three years ago. He has silver duct tape holding his seat together. He is a disgrace to the sport. The only way he's going to make it is over my dead body. I rev the throttle, breathe, and focus on the finish line.

We set off. Speeding to the first turn, I get there first, taking holeshot, but he's right behind me. He takes the turn tight, almost undercutting me, but I manage to block him. I hold him off as we head to the next corner. I anticipate him diving for the tight line and take the line for myself as we accelerate towards the first jump. He is pulling ahead, but I manage to throttle it harder to the next jump and make it there a fraction of a second before him. My bike is faster and newer, and I have the advantage.

Jumping into the air, I angle myself to cross-jump in front of him. I brace for impact as he clips my back wheel. We land together, and he skids off into the dirt. I manage to stop a ‘tank slapper' from taking hold and slide to the side. I jump up and look over at him. He's still down, and the bike is half on his leg. I grin, wrestling my bike up and setting off.

I look back and see him climbing out from under his bike and kicking it before I carry on. I manage to finish in fourth place, but it was one hundred per cent worth it. I pull into the pits and toss the bike under the awning. "Get me the replacement for the next heat, now! The fastest one we have," I bark.

One of the team nods and heads back towards the lorry to collect one of the spare bikes. There are four heats and two finals this weekend, so I have six bikes in total to go at, so it isn't a problem for me. Let's see you get out of this one, heathen.

Let us see how well he can tape back together his sorry excuse for a bike. Good luck, peasant. You are so going to need it.

As I head over to the track bunnies, they're waiting next to the scrutineering portacabin. I lean back against it as the girls flock around me, cooing at how great I am. I lean my helmet back against it and sigh, closing my eyes and revelling in their attention as they squawk about how fast I was, how brave and ruthless.

I don't see him coming till his deep voice roars at me. He grabs the front of my helmet, screaming. "You fucking wanker, you did that on purpose!"

He tugs me towards him, pulling me off balance before slamming my head back into the side of the portacabin wall. He pulls it back towards him, and my hands grab for his wrists as he slams me back against the wall again. He drags me down and throws me to the floor like I am some sort of a rag doll. I am not a small guy by any means, but compared to him, I am average.I am five-foot-ten, and he must be six foot, maybe six-foot-two. I am toned and athletic, slim, you might say. I have the best home gym and personal trainer, and I swim every day in the pool at home.

But he is built of solid muscle. He kicks dirt over me and spits down at me.

"Watch your fucking back, Archibald," he spits again. "I'm fucking coming for you. You may have the cash, but I've got nothing to lose. I will fucking destroy you! I will take holeshot from you, heathen or not."

He leaves me sitting in the dirt as he storms away. He glares back at me with his dark, menacing eyes that burn into me. I don't know what he sees, but I don't like the way he looks at me. The gold flecks of his eyes shine like stars in the night sky, making him look almost demonic. It's like little flecks of fire and brimstone in his gaze, his thick, jet-black, sweat-soaked, wavy hair adding to the darkness that shadows over his eyes. His tan skin glistens from the heat, and sweat trickles down his temples. If looks could kill, I'd be dead already. I'm under his skin, and it's only a matter of time before he fucks up his chances.

One of the girls—Tiffany, Mandy, Brittany, whatever her name is—reaches down to help me up, and I slap her hand away.

"I am fine," I snap as I push up and storm back to my motorhome.

He is going to wish he had never met me. I am going to make his life miserable, and I am taking that spot on the team, although Father is technically buying me a spot in the training camp. I will have to earn the actual spot on the team myself, and Mother and Father will have to notice me then.