Girl on Track

50| Riding solo

My attempts to find Tyler after his fight don't go well. Panic gets the best of me, so I message him asking him to tell me where he is, but either he doesn't see it or he's chosen to ignore it because I don't get a response.

"Can you believe that guy?"

Sam stands behind me, clutching some tissue to his now swollen nose. "You deserved it," I say. "I don't know why I agreed to let you train me in the first place. This was clearly a bad idea."

He smiles now, and I suppress the urge to punch him myself. "Oh, c'mon," he says. "You know why you accepted my offer. Deep down, a part of you wanted to see that tool suffer, the same way I do."

"What are you talking about?"

"You think I'm training you out of the goodness of my heart?" He takes a step closer, and I feel myself recoil. "That kid is getting too big for his boots. Someone needs to knock him down a peg."

My body stills. I'd known that Sam hadn't offered to train me to help me, but I'd assumed he'd done it because he didn't want to lose the bet, not because he wanted to somehow get back at Tyler. All this time, Sam was using me as a pawn, and I let him. Tyler does have a weakness, I realize, one Sam has conveniently exploited.

Me.

"Consider this the end of our agreement," I say, because if I stick around any longer, I am going to seriously hurt him.

He says something else as I turn my back that I don't quite catch, but I keep on walking anyway. I end up skipping the steam room session and head straight home, spending the night tossing and turning. I hate that things have gotten this bad, and now instead of feeling excited about the tournament, I feel nothing but dread. As helpful as my training with Sam has been, the fight tonight has made it clear that I have a decision to make: continue training with Sam or salvage what's left of my relationship with Tyler.

The thought plays itself on repeat all night. The tournament is weeks away, I'm at the stage where I should feel completely secure, and yet things feel more uncertain than ever. I'm training with a guy I can hardly even stand, at war with the guy I can't stop thinking about, and the one thing I've wanted since moving to Parkwood feels more out of reach than ever.

When I can't stand to lie here any longer, I get to my feet and tiptoe downstairs where I see the office light is on. Curiosity gets the better of me and I inch toward the half-open door, peering inside. Dad is in his wheelchair with his hands in his lap, staring at the trophies lining the bookcase.

This has always been his favorite room. The first thing Mom did when we moved into the house was to paint the walls a royal blue. The next thing was putting up the bookcases, just so Dad had somewhere to put his racing things. Pictures of him on his bike line the walls, and the desk is covered in memorabilia from way before his accident. If anyone else were to see this, they would think it was a shrine, not an office. I back away slowly, feeling as though I'm intruding on something I shouldn't. But then Dad looks over and smiles a little, the sad, wistful kind that breaks my heart.

"You can come in."

Hesitant, I walk in and take a seat in the old leather armchair. It's quiet in here, almost too quiet, like we're no longer at home but in another world entirely. I let my eyes roam a second, taking in the old tattered books. On the desk is a globe, and I give it a spin and then watch as it slows to a stop.

"I like to come in here sometimes when I can't sleep," Dad says. "I'm guessing you can't either."

I shake my head, studying the photo frame on the desk. It's of Mom and Dad before I was born, back in his true glory days. He'd just won a race and had his helmet in his hands, staring at Mom adoringly. She looked just as happy too, her eyes bright with affection as she smiled at the camera, unaware that Dad was watching her.

"If you had a choice," I say quietly, turning to Dad, "would you do it all again? Would you still race knowing how it ended?"

He's quiet for so long that I think he's not going to answer. Maybe he can't. The thought of erasing riding from existence feels impossible to me, and I'm guessing it does for him, too.

"I don't know," he says finally, but he doesn't look at me. He's staring at that picture of him standing with Mom, eyes dark like he's lost in a memory. "When I first had my accident, I prayed that I could go back in time and never get on a bike again. But the truth is, there's a reason why people like us take risks. Why we climb in small spaces or jump out of planes or abseil down buildings. To teeter on the edge of death – to achieve what very few people do – is what makes us feel alive."

I'm silent for a while as I contemplate his words. My mother would disagree and say that danger is senseless, but I understand completely. The moment I set foot on the track, it's like my whole world changes. I'm no longer just another face in the crowd, or someone afraid of the spotlight. I am brave and controlled, commanding the track in a way that makes me fearless. Not just fearless,  but what Dad said.

Alive.

"The tournament is in a few weeks," I admit, "and I feel like I'm not even ready. Tyler quit as my trainer, which means I'm training with someone I barely even know. Everyone keeps giving me advice and I don't know who to listen to."

Dad's eyes soften as he regards me with a familiar warmth. In some ways, we're two sides of a coin, chasing the same dream: I just pray that my dream won't end up in tatters like his.

"Hey, here's an idea," I say, "you could train me."

He smiles now, and I realize just how much I've missed it, so much so that I'm desperate to see it again. "You've ridden with me your whole life," he says, which is true. "There's nothing left for me to teach you."

My face falls a little. While I don't doubt that he's right, the thought of continuing to train with Sam just doesn't feel right, but training solo doesn't seem like a good idea, either. "Then I'm screwed."

"No," Dad says, leaning closer, "you're not. You're using having a trainer as a crutch. You don't need one at this stage, Roxy. You're either ready or not, and the only way you'll know if you are is to trust yourself."

I look up now, taking in his expression. It's not forlorn but almost nostalgic, as if our conversation has ignited a spark in him that he'd thought had long since died out.

"I guess I'm riding alone then," I say, and saying it out loud feels exhilarating. I get to my feet, suddenly feeling hopeful about my chances despite the odds. Things might still be terrible, but for the first time in weeks, everything feels clearer, like my head and my heart have aligned.

I just hope it lasts.

"I'm going to head to bed," I say before kissing his cheek, and then I tiptoe upstairs and settle under my duvet in a bid to get some sleep.

The sound of my phone buzzing jolts me into action. I pull it from my night stand, glancing at the message from Tyler that lights up the screen. Three simple words, but they course right through my heart like an electrical current.

I need you.

A/N

Happy Valentine's Day! ❤️