Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Declan

The dry Arizona heat greeted me on the short walk from the circle drive where our team manager, Brian, had dropped me off at the front doors of the medical complex. Neither Brian nor Joey were coming to my appointment. The concussion protocol was serious business, and while the team might have found this specialist, they couldn't afford any suspicion that they'd influenced her findings.

Thus, I was alone as I made my way through the newer facility, which was large and sunny, with an open waiting area serving multiple specialists. After all the winter months spent with my various mobility aids, I felt practically naked in only sneakers, shorts, and a T-shirt.

After checking in with the receptionist, I paused to put on a thin layer of ChapStick. The dry desert air always took my Northwest blood a few days to get used to. And this trip, there was a lot more to get used to—changes at the track property where my team trained, new personnel, veteran crew moved into new roles, new equipment, even a few new trailers and smaller structures. It had only been a few months since I'd been here between rounds in the fall, but it felt like decades. So much had changed for me and not simply the accident and recovery.

Give it time. I'd been back less than twenty-four hours. Surely, things would start feeling familiar again soon. I found a seat near a magazine rack, none of which interested me. A half-finished puzzle at a nearby table only made me miss Jonas that much more. I glanced away. I couldn't afford to let the deep ache in my chest distract me from the point of this visit.

"Declan!" Mark O'Shay, the network analyst for motocross, called my name. Crap. I'd forgotten he lived in Arizona during the off-season. He beamed as he helped himself to an empty chair near me. "Look at you, up and around and healthy. That's got to make a lot of people happy."

"Yeah." I briefly considered whipping out my phone in the universal signal for not wanting to talk. However, I was also trying not to check for messages every thirty seconds. I'd let Dad and Jonas know I'd arrived safely but had only received short messages back.

"You racing the season?" Mark asked as he settled his cane next to him.

"Uh…" Yep. Should have gone for the phone.

"Off the record, of course." Mark waved his hand with the wonky pinkie finger. "I'm not stalking you or anything. I'm here for a follow-up on some headache issues of my own."

"Headaches are the worst." Luckily, I had only a minor one after yesterday's flight, which was probably dehydration and stress. I hoped.

"Yep. But when you get your bell rung as often as we do, it's probably inevitable."

I didn't reply, nor did I nod. Inevitable. I didn't like that word. I liked to think I had more control than that, and I really hated people telling me my accident was no one's fault. Of course there was a fault. Mine.

"I'm sorry. I'm being nosy, and the team likely doesn't want you talking about whether you're out of concussion protocol yet." Mark offered a sympathetic look. "That was one of the worst crashes I've seen, and I was in a few doozies myself."

"I'm working hard to get back out there," I said carefully. I'd known him long enough to trust he wasn't pumping me for a story, but with this big of a riding community around Arizona, gossip would travel fast that I was back with the team. "The doctor is likely a formality. More boxes to tick off."

"Ah." Mark's slow nod said he saw through my bluster, but he wasn't going to call me on it. He knew how it was. Couldn't afford to show weakness or give my competitors an angle to exploit. "Best of luck. Everyone's pulling for you to make a full comeback."

"Here's hoping." My gaze drifted to his cane. Not everyone got their comeback, and inevitably, every rider hit the injury, age, or motivation level where the comeback wasn't happening. "Don't know what I'd do if I couldn't ride."

Fuck. Could I have said something more insensitive? Cringing, I didn't wait for him to reply. "Sorry. That was beyond thoughtless."

"No, you were honest." Mark shrugged, not seeming as insulted as I'd feared. "You think your life would be over without riding motocross. I get it. I used to feel exactly the same way. Concussions. Broken ribs. Thumb surgery. ACL. MCL. All I could think about was getting back out there."

"Yeah. It's been a long four months." I twisted my hands in my lap. "But I'm still sorry."

Eyes narrowing, Mark pulled out his phone, which was in a hard red plastic case, the kind that could survive a lot of drops.

"See this?" He pointed to a photo of a smiling golden retriever lounging near a pool. "This is the dog we got the summer after my last race. Wife said no pets, no kids until I retired."

"Cute dog." I wanted to tell him about Oz, but that would mean mentioning Jonas and… No. Couldn't risk it.

"Yep. Rickie is the best damn dog I've ever had. She sat right by the couch after all my surgeries." He flipped to a picture of a grinning blonde woman holding a small boy. "My wife was pretty smart. I'm glad she made me wait. And this little guy? He came along that next winter after all the operations were done."

"Looks like a smart kid." I had a half-second flash of a house on a piece of land somewhere, kids running around with a hose and a pack of dogs. I made myself laugh instead of getting lost in the image. "Kid must take after your wife."

Mark predictably took the ribbing in stride, laughing as he flipped to another pic, this one a tiny blonde girl.

"Little sister is the wife's real mini-me and keeps us all in line." He turned to a pic that had to be more recent, two slightly bigger kids on little bikes on a long driveway. "This is them on their bikes at Christmas time. Junior says he wants a dirt bike for his birthday."

"You gonna get him one?"

"Of course." Mark's expression turned fond and parental. "And the best helmet money can buy. And to think, a few years ago, I had no clue what I'd do without racing. I was as low as I'd ever been when they carted me off for the last time."

"I bet." My chest went tight and my jaw stiffened, teeth clenching.

"But my life didn't end." Mark held my gaze. "It was just getting started."

"Yeah." I nodded because that was the point of this little exercise. He wanted me to see that he wasn't lost without racing. But all I could see was his little family, the one he could show anyone, even a passing acquaintance like me. His pride and love shone through every word and picture.

No closets there. Jealousy, ugly and slimy, threatened to clog my throat. Mark was undoubtedly trying to help. He didn't know each picture hit me like a sharp rock in the roost spray from a dirt bike.

"Mr. Murphy?" A medical assistant in pink scrubs mercifully called my name.

"Thanks for chatting, Mark." I used the sort of professional tone he always ended interviews with. "Nice running into you."

I could hardly share the truth, that I could have done without this encounter adding to my jumble of thoughts and emotions.

"Same to you. And, Declan? For what it's worth, I hope you go out there and get the championship we all know you're capable of. I meant it about life after racing, but I hope you get to go out on your own terms. Truly."

"Thanks. Appreciate it," I said gruffly, motioning to the medical assistant to let her know I was coming. I could see it, holding the championship plate high, the crowd roaring, champagne flowing. I'd visualized that moment for years, and someone like Mark, an absolute legend in the sport, believing in me was huge. I had to blink repeatedly. Damn dry Arizona air.

"And down the road, when that day comes, you know you'll have my bosses on the phone within hours, judging your interest in broadcasting."

I made a sour face at his blatant flattery. "Oh, no one wants me in front of a camera sounding dumb."

"What do you mean? You'd have options up the wazoo for post-riding jobs, but you're one of the smartest riders I've ever met."

"Mr. Murphy?" The medical assistant stepped closer.

"Coming." I gave Mark one last nod. Smart. I'd been called many things over the years, but rarely that. Mark was the rider they'd called the mad scientist because he was smart and crafty. An analytical and natural rider who won championship after championship on the biggest stages.

Me? I was built of bone and muscle and determination. I might not be the smartest, but I was scrappy. I could out work anyone. And I'd worked too damn hard to get here, ready to give it one more shot. Like Mark said, I was capable of championships. Whatever my doubts and reservations, I owed it to myself, my team, and the whole sport to give it my best effort to get back out there and ride.