“No way!” she says. “Are you her?”
“That’s me…” It feels so awkward being asked this question by a grown woman. Usually, on the very rare times that I’ve been recognized, it’s been a teenage girl asking me.
She squeezes my arm and beams at me. “That is so amazing! My son is going to be so mad that I got to meet you and he didn’t.”
I feel my cheeks go warm. “Why would he care to meet me?”
She laughs, and glances out at the track to keep an eye on her son. He’s back in the middle of the racers, probably tenth place or so. “Well, honey, he’d say it’s because he’s a big fan of Jett, but I think he has a crush on you.” She winks at me and then gazes back out at the track. “We saw you and Jace’s wife once at that track out in Lawson, Texas and he went all googly eyed and wanted to go say hi to you. Never got the guts though.” She looks over at me, grinning through her long fake eyelashes. “Of course, I told him he ain’t got a chance in hell when you’re dating Jett.” She winks at me. “Girl, I had the biggest crush on his daddy when I was young. That’s about the only reason I went with my dad and brother to all their motocross races. I was hoping to see Jace.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard stories like that.”
Jett’s dad is definitely cute in an older guy way, and I know Bayleigh had to put up with girls throwing themselves at him all the time. Now I’m in the same position with Jett, but I never thought a guy would likeme. It’s kind of flattering.
We finish watching the race, and Marisol’s son takes ninth place which is just good enough to guarantee him a spot in the real races tomorrow. She tells me about how he’s a private racer and has been hoping to get some sponsorships but they haven’t happened yet. They live in Dallas, right in the heart of the city, so he didn’t get to grow up riding every day like some of the other guys did.
After two more heat races, it’s finally time for Jett to qualify. I watch him ride out to the starting line. Marcus and Clay walk up behind him, and talk with him before the races. Now I kind of wished I would have used my VIP pass to go down there and tell him good luck before the race. But there’s not enough time to go down to the pits and then come back up here to get a good view, and I love watching him ride.
“You can tell your boy knows what he’s doing,” Marisol says as Jett lines up at the starting gate and pulls his goggles over his helmet. “He’s got that confident posture. He’s a pro already. My boy needs to learn more of that.”
“Jett had a good teacher,” I say with a smile. It may seem silly, but it’s a total turn on when I see Jett on the track, especially compared to other guys. He’s a pro. He’s good at what he does, and it shows. He never bumbles along the track or looks foolish. He is sleek and skilled and fast as hell. My chest fills with pride as I watch him.
The racers rev their engines and wait for the gate to drop. As it falls, Jett takes off, pulling the lead just like I knew he would.
Marisol squees in delight as we watch him go, pulling a bigger lead every second. Today’s race will be easy because he’s riding with people who are trying to qualify. Tomorrow, when he’s riding with all of the best racers, it’ll be more of a challenge. Today though, he almost seems bored. Before long, Jett’s got such a huge lead that he’s coming up on the racers who are in last place. He passes a few of them, meaning he’s over a whole lap ahead of those guys, and I lose sight of the guy in second place as he gets caught up racing around the guys in last place.
Jett is easy to spot though, not because he has a crazy colored helmet or anything, but because of his style on the track. The way he carries himself, the way he throws his whole body along with the bike over the jumps and then ducks down low to sweep through a sharp turn. I’d recognize his racing style anywhere.
He comes up on a section of whoops, which are tiny jumps that are so close together you can’t exactly jump them. It’s like gliding your bike over a bunch of speed bumps in a parking lot, only they’re about three feet tall.
Everything seems to go in slow motion as I watch one of the straggling racers in front of Jett wobble on the whoops. His handlebars yank sideways and then his whole bike flops and he’s thrown to the ground. Normally I wouldn’t think twice, only he does this right in front of my boyfriend.
Jett’s bike is going too fast to slow down or get out of the way. His front tire crashes into the side of the guy’s bike and Jett flies forward, tumbling over the wreckage. I jump straight out of my seat as his body seems to float in the air for a second and then he crashes face first into the next jump, his leg bent around behind him.
“Shit!” I stand here, fists clenched at my side, waiting for him to jump up and run back to his bike. He’s got a big enough lead that he still has plenty of time to get back on the track and keep his first place lead. But he doesn’t get up right away.
One of the guys on the track rushes over and waves a yellow flag, which signals to the other racers that they need to slow down because they’re approaching a crash scene.
The first guy who fell in front of Jett gets up and dusts himself off, then goes to pull his bike away from Jett’s.
I stare at Jett’s helmeted head, watching as he wobbles and tries to climb to his feet, but he’s not moving very fast. He must have been dazed. Marcus runs across the track, rushing to his aid, and another track guy picks up Jett’s bike and rolls it over to him. Now all Jett has to do is get up and get back on it and start racing again. He’s taking so long, and each second that passes is going to be harder for him to secure first place.
But first place doesn’t matter right now, I tell myself. He needs to place in the top ten to move on to tomorrow’s race. This will be fine.
The track guy tries to give Jett his bike back, but Marcus shakes his head. What? What the hell does that mean?
He’s kneeling down beside Jett, who is moving, but barely. I see the paramedics on a golf cart speed down the side of the arena, heading toward Jett.
“Oh shit,” Marisol says beside me. “He might be hurt.”
I turn to her, eyes wide, because she just said exactly what I’ve been afraid to admit to myself.
I run down the stadium aisle and toward the VIP area, barely missing crashing into popcorn venders in my haste. I get to the blue doors that say EMPLOYEE’S ONLY and there’s two big muscled guys wearing polo shirts with the stadium’s logo on it. They block my way. “You need a VIP pass to get in here,” one of them says.
“I’ve got one!” I say, shoving my hand in my back pocket. But all I feel is my cell phone. Panic courses through me as I check my other pocket, and then all of them again. Where the hell is it?
Of course. The shorts I left in the bathroom of the hotel. They had the pass in it. I curse under my breath and look up at the guys, trying to seem innocent. “Is there any way you can let me in? Please? My boyfriend is racing and he just got hurt.”
They both shake their head.
