Page 6 of Burnout
“Are you sure I’m dressed okay?” I ask my friend as she finally finds a spot in the bleachers she likes and starts to ascend the stairs.
With a quick once-over, she nods. “You look hot. Nobody else I know could pull off that dress. And I don’t know how you still have your summer tan.”
It’s because I lived in the pool this summer while rehabbing my knee.
We sit in an empty row about halfway up. We have a nice view of the riders who are still taking warm-up jumps on the track. I spot Colter, as does Quinn, judging by her smile.
“I feel like I should have worn something…”
“Something what?” She arches one brow at me quizzically.
“Less pink and lacy.”
She laughs softly, only tearing her gaze from her boyfriend for a second. She takes off her leather jacket and holds it out to me. “Put this on.”
“Are you sure?”
“You look amazing as is, but if it makes you feel more comfortable.” Another shrug.
I slip my arms into the buttery soft sleeve and shrug into it. The leather is warm from her skin and at least on the top half now I look more like the rest of the crowd. “Wow. I automatically feel like a badass. You might not get this back.”
Quinn snorts. “I know where you live, bitch.”
Everyone gets to their feet when the announcer’s voice crackles over the speakers. He welcomes everyone to the event as the riders sit impatiently on their bikes. I can almost see the adrenaline coming off them. My own excitement builds. I haven’t seen Colter in action since last spring. He’s talented and fearless. Also a smidge crazy, but in a truly loveable way.
When he first switched from racing dirt bikes to freestyle, he worked out a bunch with me and Quinn. The control and strength required to pull off some of the tricks he does is insane.
The announcer calls out each rider, introduces them and provides a list of accomplishments as they take off around the track waving at the fans, then circle back to speed up the ramp.
It really is incredible, some of the things they’re able to do. When it’s Colter’s turn, he does a backflip, then brings his legs up behind him so he’s flying horizontally above the bike.
Quinn screams next to me, bringing both hands up around her mouth. When he lands it, he circles around, riding close to the fence, standing upright. He kisses his fingertips and then points at her before speeding off.
The event continues with the riders, seven of them in total, doing synchronized tricks while loud music pumps from the speakers. Their timing, technique, even the height they soar in the air is nearly identical. They do backflips, and a bunch of other tricks that look terrifying.
The only other time I’ve seen Colter in action was at a small track where he practices. I went with Quinn once and that was fun, but this…this is so much more than I imagined. My own heart races with excitement as their feats get more and more jaw-dropping.
After some time, they pull out of line and stop at one end of the track, then one-by-one they each take their turn on the track, alternating between all the ramps, performing stunts and getting the crowd into it.
It smells like fumes and burnt rubber, with a touch of gasoline, and the music is so loud I can feel it vibrating in my body. It’s electric.
The announcer calls out the tricks after they complete them. The names make me chuckle: Hart Attack, Kiss of Death, Rigamortis, Holy Grab, Oxecutioner, and a bunch more.
“Whoever named these has a sick sense of humor,” I yell over the noise.
But also, it’s a good reminder that one wrong move and these guys could get seriously hurt. These guys are bonkers.
“Most of them are named after riders,” she replies without removing her gaze from the track.
When it’s Colter’s turn, my eyes are glued to his every move. He’s good. The best of the group, maybe. And because of all the time we spent together while he was working on handstands and upper body control, I notice that he’s improved a ton in that area. His lines are straight and his movements smooth.
When he flips the bike and lets go with everything except one hand gripping the seat, I hold my breath with everyone else. And when he lands it cleanly, I feel a shot of pride that I had some small part in helping him make it look so effortless.
I stand with Quinn when he’s done, clapping and cheering loudly. Colter drives by us again, this time going up on one wheel and showing off for his girl. The guys in the front yell and heckle him as he goes by. My attention is drawn back to the guy from earlier. He still hasn’t moved from his bike, but he looks as comfortable on it as if it were his own personal throne. His gaze flicks to me and for several long seconds we’re locked in another stare-off.
I glance away first and take a seat back on the hard bleacher.
“Wasn’t he fantastic?” Quinn asks, her smile as wide as her face.
