Page 16 of Revved up & Ready

It finally came back to me.Sadie is the woman I met outside the restaurant after the first time I won thePortland Moto Invitational. I don’t remember our whole conversation, but I do remember wanting to cheer her up then, too.And that smile.She had the warmest smile I’d ever seen.Still does.

Sadie blinks at me for a moment before bursting out laughing. “You’re serious? Make my ex jealous?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask.

“You say it like it’s easy.” She tucks her socked feet under her body and hides her hands in her hoodie pocket. “Did you miss the part of the story where he didn’t want me?”

Anger on her behalf tightens my throat. “That is not what I heard.”

“Stop it. Yes, you did,” she says, shoulders slumping.

“You broke up with him,” I remind her.

“As a technicality,” she says, curling in on herself further. “He had a whole other girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but he never broke it off with you.” I nudge her toes with my knee. “He liked having you and took you for granted.”

She nods, straightening the smallest amount. “He really did.”

“He’s an arrogant fucker,” I decide, and she doesn’t disagree. “Probably doesn’t think you’ll ever move on.”

“That’s essentially what he said—how was I going to be okay without him? I need him. My life is nothing without him.” Sadie pulls her shoulders back as her words get stronger. “He never admitted he was cheating—told me I was making a huge mistake leaving him. I still don’t understand what he thought was going to happen.” She shakes her head, pulling her hands from her pocket and tying her hair into a ponytail. “And now he’s winning the breakup, and I’m day-drinking about it,” she finishes with a frustrated sigh, followed by the final sip of her margarita.

As I refill her glass, I come back to my point—which is also arrogant, but hopefully in a more appealing way. “You think he’d be jealous if we could make him think you’re dating me?”

“You?” Her mouth drops open. “That wouldn’t—we’re not—he would never—we would never—I don’t think—”

I brush it off with a joke. “Trying not to be offended over here, Sadie.”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry.” Her sincere eyes search mine as she reaches over and holds my hands. All my senses zero in on her touch. “It’s not that he wouldn’t be jealous of you. There’s nothing wrong withyou, but—no, that’s not what I mean—well, no. Thereisnothing wrong with you. But you’reyou. We can’t date.” She releases my hands with the last sentence.

“I’m not asking you toactuallydate me,” I say,even though I wishI could.“But we could pretend.”

My reputation is no one’s fault but my own. When that video of me went viral forever ago, I leaned into it, embracing theRace Nakedpersona. It’s all over my branding, on my trailer—I even have a merch line dedicated to it.

That evolved into me publicly doing other reckless things—racing motorcycles where I shouldn’t, getting naked in places I shouldn’t, doing stunts I had no business doing. When I act like an unserious asshole, my engagement goes up, and I make more money to fund my racing.

It also made it easy to find women who were happy to hook up with me—to be able to say they slept with theRace Nakedguy. Most of the time, I haven’t had to find them at all. They come to me.But I’ve never been successful at finding a woman who could see past all of itand commit.

In my early twenties, it was amusing when people called me slutty. But as I’ve gotten older and stopped acting the part, the reputation stayed on anyway.No wonder Sadie’s hesitant.

“You’d be helping me out if we could make itlooklike we’re dating,” I add.

Her brow furrows, and her plump lower lip drops into a little pout. “Helping you? How?”

In this idea’s two-minute lifetime, I haven’t considered how much I’ll have to tell her for this to work. Suddenly, sitting face-to-face on the couch feels too vulnerable. “Want to go for a walk?” I ask.

She looks at the half-drunk pitcher of margaritas on the table and then back at me. “Sure?”

“I can make fresh ones when we get back. Don’t worry,” I say, helping her off the couch.

We pause by the door so she can put her sneakers on and I can grab a sweater. It’s not cold here the way it is a couple of hours away by the ocean, but the February afternoon still carries a chill.

She leads the way, walking on the road instead of the sidewalk. “So, are you going to answer my question, or what?” she asks.

“Which one was that again?” I tease.

“How exactly is us not dating, butlookinglike we’re dating supposed to benefit you?”

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