Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Declan

Get out there and ride. A few hours after my appointment and assorted tests, my brain kept returning to that weighty thought. What would it mean if I never got the chance to try? Could I really walk away like Mark had? I didn't see myself as a commentator. What if I had no choice? The wait for the final determination on my future made every minute feel like a century.

I stood near the gates where we practiced starts over and over, resting a hand on the battle-scarred metal. Familiar sounds of dirt bikes and machinery filled the afternoon. I gazed off into the distance, where Cyrus and others were putting in laps on the latest model bikes.

"Want to give it a go?" Joey wheeled one of the new bikes toward me. Brian, our team manager, walked beside him, holding one of my helmets. Clearly, this was a planned effort.

"You want me to ride?" Despite the direction of my thoughts a few moments earlier, my pulse sped up. I'd inspected the new bikes last night after my arrival, let Joey show off all the new features and little tweaks. I'd half-listened to all his ideas for customizing the ride for me while the other half of me had fixated on my silent phone. Predictably, Jonas had been at work, but later, we'd texted more before I'd fallen asleep in a spare bed in one of the trailers. My sleep had been fitful, and the doctor visit had been long and tiring. I hardly felt ready to hop on a motorcycle. Excuses. "Before the doctor's report is in?

"Doctor Bareilles's report just landed with the tour higher-ups." Brian's tone was triumphant. "You're cleared to ride. She wants to see you again before the first race, but you're good to go for some practice."

"Oh." I nodded slowly, probably too slowly. The doctor had been young, probably early thirties, with bright eyes and sharp questions. She'd reviewed all my various tests from Oregon, ordered a few more, and given a lengthy warning about repeat concussion risks and cumulative damage. I'd left her office in a somber mood that was hard to shake, even with this surprising news.

"Oh? Dude. This is what we've all been waiting for." Joey pumped a fist in the air. "Time to celebrate, Number Eleven." He pointed at the number plate on the bike. My old number. This wasn't simply any bike. It was mine . My chest caught. Joey's tone and expression softened, undoubtedly knowing he had me. "You need that championship mindset back."

"Get the first ride out of the way. It might give you a boost of confidence." Brian gestured widely, like he was revealing a prize on a game show. And I supposed he was, in a way. My place on the team was a prize many riders would happily grab, and it had been waiting for me all along.

"Yeah, we need you here, Declan." Cyrus pulled up on his bike. Ha. He didn't need me here, competing with him. He likely had a contract now for his own spot on the manufacturer's premiere team, but racing was always a competition, even within a team.

"Thanks." For all I'd spent years with my fellow riders, I couldn't say as I counted any as close friends. We were all competitors first, even those of us who trained together. Like Cyrus, I'd arrived in Arizona young and hungry when I first got my shot. And sure, I'd learned a ton from the veteran riders, but I remained wary of Cyrus's sincerity.

"No one's suggesting you go out and tackle the jumps. Just put a few easy laps in," Joey coaxed. Brian nodded, expression shrewd. Ah. Realization hit me square in the chest. This was also a carefully calculated test, no different from the ones I'd been put through at the doctor's office.

The team wanted to judge my mental readiness, and right then, I was pulling up short, finding none of my old competitive fire. Why wasn't I drooling with anticipation to try this bike out? I should be like a dog on a leash, desperate to run, or a kid playing Little League, eager to get in the game.

I forced a smile, summoning a ghost of that energy. "Sure. Guess it would be nice to celebrate the good news."

"Exactly. You're back, baby." Joey slapped me on the back.

Baby. Man, that landed differently coming from Jonas. I missed him. Briefly, I closed my eyes, inhaling as if I could sniff him, exhaling like I was relaxing into his embrace. Opening my eyes, I was still in Arizona, Joey handing me goggles and gloves, Brian standing back as I geared up. No Jonas.

"I'll ride with you." Cyrus made the offer all casual, but I knew better. This was part of the test. He'd report back to the others, and I couldn't afford any more hesitation or a case of the yips. I need to simply do what I did best: get out there and ride.

"Let's go." Helmet on, gear in place, I flexed my hands as I straddled the bike, the familiar feeling taking over. As always, Joey had the bike dialed in perfectly, clutch, throttle, suspension, everything working together to provide a first-rate ride.

Perhaps the guys had been right because my tension faded as soon as I took off on the bike. I blocked out Cyrus, all my worries and uncertainties, everything other than how good it felt to be back on the bike. The vibrations raced through me, every jolt and jostle linked to my decade-plus experience riding. I hadn't forgotten a damn thing other than how right this was.

Almost as right as being with Jonas.

Damn it, I didn't want to think about anything other than riding. But as I rode farther out on the property, Jonas was right there with me, on my mind and in my heart. I wanted to show him the rugged beauty of this vista, the red rocks, scrubby plants, and endless sky. In a perfect world, I'd get cleared to race, and someday, I'd bring Jonas right here and?—

My brain tripped up.

Most of my worries around coming out were about fan reactions, competitor comments, and slow distancing from sponsors. Tony had been right that things were changing everywhere, even in macho-dominated sports. I no longer expected outright hostility, but nevertheless, I had a hard time picturing Jonas as a key part of my racing life. I felt strangely protective of him and what I'd found with him. I couldn't stand the thought of any negativity reaching him.

But you'll hurt him if you don't come out. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

My bike was kicking up too much dust and roost for me to release the groan rising in my chest. I didn't want to eat dirt—in more ways than one.

Breathe. I tried to harness my churning emotions. However, as a side effect of fixating on the ride itself, I noticed every bump, every rut, every damn rock, and all the various tweaks Joey and the mechanical team had made to improve this bike over last year's model. The brakes were slightly more responsive but touchier than I preferred, not as linear. The chassis was more stable, which was a positive, but it wanted to stand up more in the corners, giving a more rigid feel.

Part of the bumpy ride might have been my long layoff or little differences in the suspension that we'd need to work on in the coming weeks. I started making more mental notes for Joey and the team. I liked how the bike was revving, but I wasn't crazy about how the power seemed to flatten out on top. Slowly, I dropped back into professional racer mode, getting nitpicky about tiny details that would make a difference come race day.

Yeah, I'd missed this. A lot. The whip of the wind, the speed, the power thrumming through me, the ability to block out the rest of the world. Even Jonas. The ever-present dilemma of what to do about him would wait until later. I wasn't going to settle anything out here other than?—

Thump.

Hell, I'd lost focus for a split second and hit a deeper rut than intended while coming out of a corner. That stiffer chassis wasn't doing me any favors, and I had to work to stay upright and in control.

What if I crash?

I wasn't even thirteen the first time I rode a dirt bike after going to some races with my family. I'd been hooked on the sport and fearless from the start. If I crashed, I crashed. Fall down. Get back up on the bike. Everyone said I was fearless, but really, I was simply determined. I fucking hated to lose, and if it took a hundred practice crashes for one race win, then bring it on. If I wasn't dirty, tired, and bloody, had I really practiced?

What if I crash?

I'd laughed after my first big wipeout. Spit the dirt out of my mouth, cleaned off my goggles, looked at the impressive scrape on my forearm between my glove and jacket, and laughed, high on adrenaline. I'd waved off help and gotten right back on the bike.

"Look at that kid. Brass stones. He's raw as hell, but he's got what it takes." I'd heard the pit dads talking later, and the more I crashed, the more people talked about my potential. I wore every crash after that as a badge of honor, one step closer to a championship, to proving I belonged.

And now, I didn't want to crash.

For the first time, the fear of crashing outweighed the fear of losing or being seen as weak.

I'm definitely not ready to watch you be hauled off the track with another injury, knowing I can't even go to you.

I wasn't afraid for myself as much as for Jonas. I was no longer riding only for myself. I carried my dad's worries, Jonas's fears, the team's needs all on my shoulders, pushing down like the gravity I was fighting so hard against.

Whoosh.

Muscle memory took over, and just like that, I was upright, through the corner, near fall behind me. But my head pounded, and the sun in my eyes felt like metal chisels chipping away at my sanity.

Fuck.

Now what?