Page 90 of Revved up & Ready

Medics rush toward me, but the second I’m up, I’m running towardher.

They threw a red flag to halt the race—most likely because I leaked oil on the track—but it clears my way as I cut across it—covering grass, concrete, asphalt, and jumping over barriers. Even cutting across it sideways, the track feels a hell of a lot bigger when I’m running than it does at two hundred miles per hour.

She’s here, and I have to get to her.

My heart hammers as my pit finally comes into view.

I don’t see her.

Pulling off my helmet as I step over the low wall that separates the track from the pit, I call out, “Where is she?” My voice betrays my panic.

My team is simultaneously asking if I’m alright while prepping my second bike so I can finish the race.No one answers my question.

“Where is she?” I repeat, breathless from the race, adrenaline, and the run.

“Over here,” my best friend Luke’s voice calls from the other side of the pit—by the screens—where he’s sitting on the ground with his arms wrapped around Sadie’s quaking figure.

She’s here.

Her shoulders shake as she burrows her face in Luke’s chest.

And she’s not okay.

Luke is my lead mechanic, but he’s not prepping my bike. He’s taking care of what matters most—her.

The charred and warped leather of my suit protests as I fall to my knees in front of them, reaching for my girl.

“You good?” Luke asks, carefully shifting her out of his arms and into mine.

“I’m good,” I assure him, pulling her to my chest and kissing the top of her head over and over.

He nods solemnly before walking away.

“You hear that, sunshine?” I squeeze her shaking body close, stroking my hand up and down her back, but she doesn’t respond. “I’m good.” I kiss the top of her head again. “I’m okay.”

“No, you arenot,” she says, her voice weak and impassioned at the same time.

“Look at me. I’m here. I’m alright,” I urge, but she keeps her face buried in my chest, refusing to look up.

Tearing off my gloves, I shift us both so I can draw her into my lap. She leans into me but still won’t meet my eyes.

“I’m not hurt.” My fingers twine into her hand, which she has clutched at her chest. “Touch me.Feel me. You can tell for yourself that I’m alright.”

She doesn’t budge, but that same pained voice says, “You arenot.”

Trailing my fingers through her hair, I joke, “At least I didn’t crash.”

It has the desired effect—pissing her off enough that she looks up at me and glares. Her eyes are glassy, but her flushed cheeks are dry—like she’s too angry to let a tear fall.

“Are youfuckingkidding me?” Her voice cracks on the question. “You were onfire, Cam.”

“The suit did its job. It got really hot, but I’m not burnt.”

Her glare shifts from angry to skeptical. “Really?”

Of course, she doesn’t believe me. I was on fire. She saw me on fire.

“Here,” I say, carefully lifting her from my lap and into a nearby folding chair.

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