Page 88 of Revved up & Ready

Remembering how many times I’ve heard announcers talk about their friendship and felt weird that I’d never met the guy, I agree.

And, first thing the next morning, he follows through.

“Ludlow!” Cam yells to his friend from across the pits. “Come meet my girl.”

My girl.I don’t think that’ll ever get old.

The man jogs over with a welcoming smile, shaking my hand and introducing himself.

“So, you’re the reason our boy’s been distracted all season?” he asks.

Has he really been? That would be dangerous, wouldn’t it?I don’t let myself dwell on it. Instead, I ask, “Isn’t he still winning, though?”

“Yes, he is. Yes, he is,” Ludlow answers with a laugh.

“Season’s not over,” Cam adds, and I can tell he’s trying not to jinx himself. He never wants to say he’s winning, even when he is.

“Sadie!” someone calls from behind us.No one here knows me, but when I turn, I see her—Shane Hart.I only met her once, at the first race of the season, but she’s running across the pits to greet me.

When she wraps me up in a hug, I feel the strength in her. She’s tall like Devon, probably around six feet of lean muscle. “Thank fuck you’re here. Sometimes I need a break from all the boys.”

“We’re notsobad, are we?” Ludlow asks, exchanging a mock-offended look with Cam.

“You two are tolerable,” she says, but there’s a friendly affection in her tone.

“She’s having an amazing first season out,” Cam explains, pulling me closer. “Made more than a few podiums.”

“You’rehaving an amazing first season,” Shane laughs.

“That’s just because I’m old,” Cam says, rubbing his thumb at my hip. “Should’ve been my third. Don’t worry. You’ll be lapping me in no time.”

Most of the racers spend the morning like it’s just another day—eating foiled-wrapped breakfast burritos, scrolling on their phones, and messing with each other. It’s not until about an hour before the race that the energy shifts, and they stop buzzing around to other pits.

My anxiety is lower than it was at the first race I attended, and even a little less than yesterday’s. Each time he finishes a race without getting hurt, it’s easier to quiet the ever-present fear of losing him and focus on the joy of watching him do what he loves.

“Any race advice for me?” Cam asks when I meet him on the grid.

“From me?” I laugh. “I don’t know... go slower than you want to? Did you remember your sunscreen?”

His face softens, and he leans closer. He knows it’s my way of asking him to be careful—not to crash. “I can’t promise to go slow, but I will make the safest choices I can, and Ialwayswear my sunscreen.”

It has to be enough.

Once the race starts, I stand by Luke, his presence a comfort. He loves the shit out of Cam. I have to believe he wouldn’t support his racing if he thought it was too dangerous. It helps, too, that I’ve met so many more of the racers today—learned their names and faces, how friendly they are, and how much they all seem to care about Cam. It makes them look less intimidating as a unit—seeing them more as individuals who all want everyone to be safe.

Cam’s qualifying for today’s race had him starting in third, and by the fourth of twenty laps, he still hasn’t managed to pass either of the front bikes—Ludlow in second, and another racer I met this morning in first. Shane Hart follows him close behind.

My gut twists when he gains enough on Ludlow to try moving in on the turns—looking to pass. The image of my highschool friends laid out on the asphalt flashes in my mind again as his bike gets closer to Ludlow.I don’t know if that will ever go away, but thisisdifferent.Cam’s not an inexperienced teenager trying to impress a girl on the back of his bike. He’s wearing protective gear. He’s a professional. All of these racers are.

This is not the same.

On the next turn, his tire bounces with the chatter he doesn’t seem to be worried about.

This is not the same.

“Got a little contact there,” Luke comments as Cam makes it past Ludlow on the next lap.

This is not the same.

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