Page 33 of Green Flag
The stadium held it’s breath; every single person wanted the best for Luca Mendes.
The loyal, determined teammate. The unexpected fan favourite.
As the bikes rushed past the exit of the pit lane, he was waiting, and I breathed again, knowing that he would at least participate in the race. The last ten people to get past the finish line didn’t receive any points towards the year’s championship.
“Go, Luca, go!” I screamed as the last rider went past the pit lane and Luca’s bike roared into motion.
The whole crowd cheered far louder than the bikes did, and suddenly, I felt like crying.
Because, without really watching this man race, I knew there was no way he wasn’t going to pick up some points. He was going to overtake the ten racers he needed to.
It was a messy start. Frank Feldtt crashed out of first place.
Giorgio Martin wobbled and took out three other racers.
So Luca only had to overtake five.
Every time he raced past us, I was screaming, jumping on my toes for my rider.
Yes, I’d defended him and was likely to get in trouble. Yes, I would defend any injustice.
But he was mine to defend.
He was far too calm and collected to give people the hard time they deserved. Me? I enjoyed righting wrongs.
He overtook two easily. They were slow, hesitant. New riders to StormSprint, like himself.
But there was something in the Mendes DNA that made him effortlessly fast.
Maybe he was completely hairless. Nope, not thinking about that. Not about how I’d rocked into him last night, riding his knee.
My face flushed at the memory.
It didn’t hurt that Luca had raced on this track before, back when he was in Sprint3, but those bikes were far less powerful.
The StormSprint bikes were the fastest in the world.
And, holy hell, Luca was giving them a run for their money.
Within three laps, he had overtaken another. He knew more than I did that there were no points to be earned unless he overtook another two racers.
He followed the bends and curves with a group of three other bikes, always nudging to the side. He wasn’t a risk-taker like his teammate. He fought clean, simply. He took what he could. But the others were blocking him, until Buchre corner.
One of the tightest curves.
He was going too fast too far out, trying to run on the outside to overtake them. Abbé was normally in the pit box, but with the warm-up lap becoming a drama, he was beside me, shouting into his headset.
“Slow down,” he demanded. “Slow down, Luca.”
But he didn’t. The screens above showed him overtaking the whole group but going too quickly with the rest of the curve coming…
I couldn’t look away.
He might be clean, but he had been reckless. Just weeks ago, he’d gone the wrong way up the track, after the red flag had been flown.
The man’s confidence and self-assured demeanour would get him in trouble.
But he managed to straighten, wobble, then straighten again.
