Page 17 of Revved up & Ready

“Without boring you with my entire racing history—I need to improve my image, so I can get on a team and stop having to fund my racing myself.”

She nods along but says, “I’m still confused. I think I’ll be needing that boring race history. I’m sorry.”

“So much apologizing.” I shake my head.

She brings the back of her hands under her chin and bats her lashes innocently. “I can’t help it.”

Turning onto the next street, I explain, “I’ve been racing inUSMotoin the 600 class since I was twenty-one—nine years ago. I was supposed to move up to superbikes—which are 1000ccs instead of 600ccs—a few years ago, but I crashed out and broke my femur. It—” I cut my story off when she winces.

“I remember that,” she says, staring at the asphalt under her black and white sneakers.

Shocked, I ask, “You saw that crash?”

“Yeah,” she answers, jaw working. “Jared and his friends were watching the race, and I—” She pauses, releasing a tight breath, “I heard them from the other room, and I knew something happened. I came in—” She shudders. “And I saw it. Sawyou, laid out on the track. Your leg was—you didn’t move for a really long time.”

Sadie’s response is visceral, and as much as it’s tempting to be touched that she’s upset about seeingmelike that, it has to be connected to something deeper for her.

Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I pull her close, pausing our walk. “I’m sorry,” I say. It doesn’t seem like the right words, but they’re all I’ve got.

“Oh, my word. Do not apologize tomeabout that,” she says, leaning into the hug for a long time before letting go. “I doubt you did it on purpose to hurt me—a girl in Portland you don’t remember meeting that one time.”

“I remember,” I say. I may have just now placed the interaction, but Iknewwe’d met.

She eyes me skeptically. “No, you don’t.”

“You were standing in front of a steakhouse in Portland, wearing the tightest little blue dress.” Her eyes widen as I recount the details, leaving out everything I remember about her ex. “Your hair was longer then, without the pink. And you said you hated motorcycles, but you thought I was funny.”

Her cheeks flush as she draws her lip between her teeth. “Okay, you remember,” she says, turning away and starting down the street again. “I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with you racing superbikes and pretending to date me.”

Pretending to date her.The idea just grew legs, but I’m holding onto it like a lifeline. “The crash took me out for the rest of that season and the next,” I explain. “I lost my sponsorships, so when I came back to racing last year, I did 600s again and had to fund it myself. This is my first year in superbikes, and I’m paying for that too.”

“Never thought about how much it costs to race,” Sadie notes. “I guess I imagined they’d just pay you a salary or something.”

“A lot of racers get signed by the motorcycle companies themselves, which would be the closest to what you’re thinking. But I’m not a factory racer.”

“Ooh, I like the flowers on this cactus,” she points, whispering, like she doesn’t want me to miss the flowers, but also doesn’t want to interrupt.It’s adorable.

“I like them too,” I whisper back before returning to my story. “I pay for my bikes and gear using money I make doing dumb shit online, but I don’t want to do that forever. I actually just got a call with a conditional offer from a private team owned byIncite Energy Drinksfor next season. That’s why I was going to go for a ride—clear my head so I could think it over.”

“Oh, I should have—”

Cutting her off before she can apologize, I say, “I have a reputation problem, which is what I’m hoping you can help me with. The first condition fromIncite Energyis that I have to clean up my image. The online persona—that I know I’m responsible for—has been a double-edged sword. I am lucky as hell that I’ve found a way to fund my racing, but the stunt videos and other dumb shit make me look reckless—which isn’t appealing for a legitimate team.”

“Let’s go this way,” she says, pointing to the left.

Turning the corner reveals another row of white mid-century houses with perfectly tailored lawns. It’s a beautiful neighborhood, but I’m looking at her more than anything else.

“What’s the other condition?” she asks, light-brown eyes focusing on me.

“I have to finish top three for the season.”

Her head tilts with curiosity. “You’re good at racing, though, aren’t you?”

“I’m amazing.”No one’s ever accused me of humility.“But it will be my first year in superbikes. It won’t be easy.”

“The image stuff—rebuilding your—trying to be—trying not to be a—” She gives up on completing the thought. “That’s the hard part?”

“Harderpart anyway,” I answer. “It’s a bit like flipping a U-turn with a cruise ship. I’ve made myself into a punchline, and I can’t be that anymore. I need racing to be the loudest thing about me.”

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