Page 6 of Revved up & Ready

Baking—my oldest friend—keeps me distracted while they watch the race.I can almost guarantee the dough will end up overworked with the amount of anxiety I’m channeling through the kneading.

I’ve almost forgotten what they’re watching when the living room erupts in gasps and shouts.

“He crashed, and it was bad,” one of Jared’s friends explains when I rush in to see what happened, his voice sounding more delighted than concerned.

A pit forms in my stomach, and the images of my own friends, sprawled on the asphalt between the motorcycles we’d just collided with, flash in my mind—images I can’t seem to shake,no matter how many years have passed.

When I look up at the screen, a racer—number207—is laid out flat on the asphalt, his black-and-yellow leather jumpsuit scraped, one leg folded at an unnatural angle. My stomach churns.I knew I shouldn’t have looked.

“Good thing he wasn’t naked this time,” Jared jokes.

How are they making jokes right now?My heart races when his words sink in. “Wait, that’s—”

I only met the guy once, but his posts pop up on my feed every now and then. I’ve beenawareof him for so long. The realization that he’s the one who crashed makes my stomach flip.

“He’s reckless,” one of the guys says. “Surprised this never happened before.”

“Aren’t you worried about him?” I don’t dare peek back at the television. “He hasn’t moved yet, has he?” I ask. “Is he okay?”

“Doesn’t matter, he’ll get even more pussy than usual after this,” another of Jared’s friends says.

How are they still joking about this?

I stand there, nervously wringing my hands, until they finally take Cam away on a stretcher. At least I know he’s still alive.

Cam

Three years ago, a hospital room– Austin, Texas

“Well, shit,” Luke says as he steps into my hospital room.

“Yeah, shit,” I agree, my voice flat.

“What’s the damage?” he asks, pulling a chair up beside my bed.

“Broken femur,” I answer, the same wave of defeat hitting me as when I first realized what happened.

“Fuck,” Luke sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my own hair. “Ihadhim, too.”

“Pretty sure if you’d had him, you wouldn’t have crashed,” Luke ribs me, lightening the mood in that way he knows I need.

“You couldtrya little sympathy,” I say, tapping my fingers on the IV line attached to my other arm.

He knocks my hand away. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to mess with that.”

I’ve been racing 600s inUSMotofor years now, and up until this morning, I had the best sponsorship lineup of my career for this season. If I’d won the championship—hell, if I’d just been able tofinishthe season—I would’ve been able to sign on with a team and move up to the superbike class next year. I’m not aWorldMotoguy, so racing superbikes inUSMotowas my pinnacle.And it was within my reach.

“Definitely out for the rest of the season, and most likely next year too,” I tell Luke with a sigh.

“It’ll be fine. When you come back, you do one more year in 600s. You’re still racing motorcycles,” he says, but it’s not enough to reassure me.

This was supposed to be the year I finally earned more money racing than I do making dumb videos online. Now, without racing, I’ll have to double down on the influencer thing to make ends meet.

Sadie

One year ago, Sadie & Jared’s house –Portland, Oregon

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