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“I won’t win.”
“What? Yes you will.”
“I can’t win.” He tosses the shredded grass into the air. And he sighs – maybe. It’s so hard to tell with him, but I can’t understand why the same guy who told my dad nothing was his weakness on the track is now saying he couldn’t win.
“You’re Ash. THE Ash. You’re going to win this.” I grab his hand, not in the slightest romantic way, but like I would for a best friend. He’s slow to look at me, but when he does, his poker face evaporates and he becomes an open book.
“You don’t understand, Hana. I’m the Ash of Mixon…maybe even the Ash of Texas. But there will be a dozen more riders who are the Ash of their state and I’ll have to race against all of them. I haven’t practiced since Shawn got hurt. Motocross takes extreme dedication, and I’ve let it all fall by the wayside for weeks now.”
His hand is still on mine as I move in front of him and let our knees touch. We are both cross-legged in the grass, close enough to kiss, yet that is the last thing on my mind. Well, maybe the second to last thing.
Ash doubted himself, something I’d thought impossible for the guy who always had everything under control. I don’t know what to do; comforting a girl is easy and can usually be ratified with ice cream and a good cry. Something tells me Ash isn’t going to just cry and get over this.
“You don’t want to be a professional racer anymore?”
“Of course I want it. I’ve wanted it since I was six years old.” How could he want it and not be willing to work for it? It will take some tough love to bring Ash out of his depression and put him back on the track.
“Why do you want it Ash?” I speak forcefully. “Have you forgotten? Because you don’t seem like you want it.”
He wriggles his hands from my grasp but doesn’t back away from me. Instead he returns my glare with one of his own. I want to look away, or at least collapse and apologize for being rude but I hold on just long enough for him to speak.
“I want it for my dead friend. Is that a good enough answer?”
“What..?” I breathe, barely louder than a whisper. I am a jerk. My shoulders fall. I can no longer look him in the eyes. His fingertips touch the bottom of my chin and he leans closer to me. Warmth returns in his eyes. A gentle wind blows strands of my hair into his.
He untangles us, taking care to brush away the bits of hair that dance around my face. He runs his hands through my hair once more, stalling for time. When he finds the words, he stares past me, and tells me his story.
“My childhood best friend Connor died when I was five. His dream was to become a famous motocross racer like Bob Hannah.”
“Like who?” I interject. His eyes dart back to me. “A famous racer back in the day.”
I nod. “Sorry, go on.”
“Well a year after he died, his parents came over and gave me a little Yamaha dirt bike with a bow on it. They had bought it for Connor’s birthday, and he was killed in a car wreck the week before, so he never got to see it. They decided to give it to me so I could live the dream for their son.”
“Wow,” I whisper, wanting to say so much more but unable to find
the right words. He holds both of my hands in his. His finger grazes across the lines in my palm.
“And that’s why I’m 336. It was Connor’s favorite number. As long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a professional rider. Motocross is my life.” He glances at the track behind us and then adds, “I can’t do anything else.”
A thick silence ensues as I absorb the weight of his story.
“And your parents were cool with letting you ride?” I ask. He nods, “My parents and his parents were close friends.”
“That sounds like a very good reason to be on the track right now.” I hold out the clipboard hoping he will sign it. The sound of tires on gravel signal another rider entering the track. Ash glances back and then rushes to stand up, shaking the grass off his jeans with the same haste. He offers a hand to me and I let him pull me up though I’m not ready to end our conversation.
“Sorry.” He frowns. “I have to get back to work.” A quick hug is all I get for a goodbye and then he’s gone.
I search the ground for my fallen pen and when I find it, the new arrival reaches me. The truck stops and the driver jumps to the ground. I stand and fight the wind, struggling to push the hair out of my face.
“Carter? Seriously?”
I meet his sneer with a forced smile. “Hello to you too, Ryan.”
Chapter 15
“What did I tell you about him?” Ryan takes the clipboard out of my hands. He signs only his first name, but I’m not about to say anything. What I used to see in Ryan as confidence is now just arrogance.
