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“I don’t see what the big deal is. You got all these famous guys’ autographs when they came to Dad’s track last month,” I say. Teig rolls his eyes to the sky and groans, which is his way of letting me know I just didn’t get it. I want to ruffle his hair to put him in his place, since he is my little brother and all, but it doesn’t feel right to be condescending to someone who is already my height. He must have had a growth spurt over the summer. Soon he will tower over me just like every other guy in my life.
A rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, threatening rain. “Looks like it’s gonna rain on you anyhow,” Teig says and I give him a playful shove into a parked car.
The stadium in front of us is still several rows of cars away, and we have already been walking for a while. I thought the turnout at Mixon’s Nationals was the biggest amount of people I had ever seen, but this trumps it.
Once our tickets are scanned and our purses searched for weapons or contraband or whatever they think I’d be hiding in there, we make our way into the stadium. I have never been in a stadium this size. The atmosphere is mesmerizing. There is a collective energy in the air. Everyone is high on anticipation (or exhaust fumes) as they meander through the large crowds.
We ride up three escalators to what appears to be the main floor out of a dozen other identical floors. From here you can walk in a circle around the perimeter of the stadium, which is what we do while Dad looks for their seating section. There are tons of concession stands and merchandise vendors that sell the same type of shirts we had at the Nationals.
“Section 141, here we are,” Dad pockets his tickets and glances at me, probably wondering if I will join them or leave since I don’t have a section 141 ticket.
That’s when I realize what I am about to do. “I’m just gonna… go, um …go meet Shelby,” I sputter and turn to leave.
“Will you be okay by yourself?” Molly calls after me. I nod and give her a thumbs-up before getting lost in the crowd around me. My original plan was to meet up with Shelby and then decide if I should actually see Ash face-to-face. But now that plan seems too lengthy – I want to see Ash now. I want an explanation for his note. It is obvious that I’m forgiven, but am I still girlfriend material?
I step onto the escalator and watch the floor below me sink as I ascend to the skybox level. He will probably tell me that we should take things slow. I hate slow.
A burly man who looks as though he failed Bouncer School holds out a hairy arm to stop me at the top of the escalator. “Ticket?”
I dig through mounds of lip gloss, spearmint gum and Starbursts that fill my purse to retrieve my ticket. I should play it safe and see Shelby first. She could tell me what Ash was thinking and if he was going to tell me to take things slow.
“You can’t get into the skyboxes without a ticket,” Mr. Beer Gut grumbles.
“I have a ticket, thank you,” I snap back. Finally, I find it and wave it in his face. While he checks it for authenticity, I decide I don’t want to wait any longer. I need to see Ash now.
Doing things by myself sucks. Although I am surrounded on every side by diehard motocross fans, I am consumed with loneliness as I step outside of the stadium and look for the entrance to the pits.
A cool breeze joins the dark clouds. It is a nice break from the scorching sun back at home. I notice a group of people holding pit passes and follow them. Soon, we are walking up a flight of concrete stairs that takes us across a four-lane highway adjacent to the stadium. And that’s when I see the pits.
On the other side of the stadium is an entire parking lot full of motocross rigs and tour busses. Monster trucks tall enough for me to walk under play music so loud it reverberates through the ground. Every company that has anything remotely to do with motocross has a canopy set up that advertises themselves and gives out free stuff. It is a lot like the pits at Mixon’s National race, only a dozen times more extreme.
I can’t help but put on a cheesy grin, knowing somewhere in the commotion is Ash – the newest member of Team Yamaha. I wonder if he is thinking about me, expecting me to show up, nervous that maybe I won’t. Ryan is also out there, the newest member of Team FRZ Frame. He probably isn’t thinking about me. I don’t know why that makes my self-esteem drop a notch.
A line of at least a hundred people wait to get into the pits. Thunder rolls again and I see a bolt of lightning flash from behind one of Houston’s skyscrapers. I look around me at all of the excited faces waiting to meet their favorite professional riders. A hurricane could blow through here and I bet these people would grab on to the fence and ride it out like a kid on a mechanical bull.
The preteen duo in front of me can attest to that. They wear matching Dylan Bakers shirts, the same kind we sold at Mixon. I cringe, remembering I no longer work at Dad’s track and correct myself: the girls wear the same shirts they sold at Mixon. Their ponytails are held back with a homemade ribbon with the number thirty painted on in blue glitter.
The name and number are familiar, even though I still don’t know any of the professional riders by heart like Shelby and virtually everyone else around here does.
I take a place in line behind them but stand far enough away so any passersby won’t think I am with them. They share a race program and gush over an interview on page twenty-four. I’m exactly eavesdropping, but I have to do something to take my mind off Ash, so I listen to their girlish giggles. Every second I stand in line makes me want to turn around and run for the safety of the stadium. Can I actually face Ash after what happened?
Thunder sounds again and one of the girls shrieks, but not because of the weather. “Oh my gosh, that’s him. It’s him!” The girl’s friend and I turn to see a man with short brown hair, dressed in riding gear. He walks with an uptight manager-type man with graying hair, khaki pants and a walkie-talkie. I recognize the rider instantly. He is the famous guy I had inadvertently yelled at during Nationals. Dylan Bakers.
“He’s so cute,” Girl One says. “His wife is really pretty too, have you seen her? She is so lucky.” Girl two shakes her head and her eyes glaze over as they watch him walking toward the entrance to the pits.
“Go ask him to take a picture with us.”
“No way, I’m too scared!” I can’t help but laugh as I overhear their annoying little-kid babble. I bet they would ask for my autograph if I told them their gorgeous Dylan Bakers had spent the night in a motor home just yards away from my bedroom and that I had even yelled at him for breaking and entering.
I bet he would remember me too; the girl my dad yelled at in front of everyone on amateur racing day. I swallow. Why do I have to keep remembering that day? I bury the painful memory and come back to reality. The girls still plead with each other to approach Dylan and ask for a photo. Teig will be their age soon. I hope he will never be that annoying.
“Just go ask him,” Girl One whispers through clenched teeth and pushes her friend toward Dylan who is now only a few feet away. She stumbles out of line and is about to face-plant on the concrete but out of some instinct I’m not aware I have, I reach out and catch her arm, softening her fall.
“Are you okay?” Dylan Bakers asks as he takes the girl’s other arm and pulls her up. She nods and mumbles something incoherent while Girl One turns as green as a Kawasaki with envy. I have a feeling the girl won’t wash that hand for weeks.
“Good save,” the famous racer says to me. The moment I look at him I can see the light bulb turn on behind his hazel eyes. Crap. He recognizes me.
“Damn girl, what are you doing standing in line like a normal person? You’d think Mixon’s finest rule enforcer would be given special privileges.” He turns to the man with him and tells him the story of how I was rude and thought he was an intruder at my dad’s track.
