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The ground vibrates under my feet, the noise of the crowd and the machines pulsing against my body, and I smile, shooting up on my tiptoes to look for Noah.
Bikes zoom past, my stomach dropping to my feet as I tip my head back, seeing Noah catch air, his body in his orange and black pants and shirt leaning stick-rod straight over his handlebars before he comes down again. I laugh, my hand shooting to my head as I watch him race past in his helmet.
I have a sudden urge to cup my hands around my mouth and cheer him on.
But I stop midway and clap instead. He looks so good.
He looks incredible. And he’s in first place.
The same green bike I saw at the Van der Berg house a couple days ago trails, and I guess that’s Terrance Holcomb.
Jerking my smile around, I see my uncle still engrossed in his work. How can he not watch this?
Envy paralyzes me. Noah looks like he’s having so much fun.
But I can’t stop myself anymore. Quickly, before Jake has a chance to stop me, I scurry over the dirt track after the bikes have passed and run up the green hill.
I look around, seeing if Kaleb is anywhere close, but I don’t spot him.
Joining the crowd at the top, I squeeze between two people in time to look down and see Noah speeding for the finish line head to head with Holcomb.
He revs his engine, popping up on the rear wheel, and races over the finish line, just moments ahead of everyone else as he lands on both wheels again.
The announcer’s voice booms, cheers go off, and I see Noah shoot his fist in the air.
I clap softly, my heart racing too hard to do more. Good for him.
I’m kind of jealous he’s so good at something like this. I’ve never been good at anything.
Spinning around, I head back to the tent, the spectators dispersing and the music starting up again.
Jake still busies himself working on something I’m sure is fine already, and I head over to the food stand next to our tent, grabbing some nachos and cheese.
Taking a small bite, I app
roach my uncle. “Would you like some?”
He meets my eyes but doesn’t look to see what I have. “No, thank you.”
I watch him as I dip another chip in and out of the cheese. “He’s really good,” I tell him.
He simply nods, going back to his work.
I narrow my eyes. Jake isn’t like my father.
But he is.
Hannes wouldn’t have watched me, because he wouldn’t have cared. Jake refuses to support Noah in this. Why?
Walking over, I’m about to set my food down and go back to handing out decals, but a crowd heads our way, people swarming Noah. I watch as he pulls off his shirt and throws it on our table, tossing me a cocky smile as he grabs my nachos away from me. He swipes up some cheese, dabs it on my nose, and then dives in, sucking it off as I growl.
“Noah,” I chide, squirming away, but he just laughs.
I was going to congratulate you. Never mind. I wipe the cheese and his spit off my nose.
Stealing my chips, he walks over to his father. “You know, I can be a lot more use to Van der Berg Extreme if I’m on TV.”
“Yeah, and then what?” Jake looks up at his son. “What do you think you’re going to do after your fifteen minutes are up or an injury sends you home in a wheelchair?”
