Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Like another doctor?” I groaned. The last thing I wanted was more appointments. And yeah, my doctor in Portland frustrated me, but for all I complained, I did trust the dude.
“Yep. They’ve got someone here in Arizona for you to see.” Joey sounded unusually matter-of-fact and businesslike. “The team wants you to come on down so everyone can get on the same page as far as the season and your future.”
Oh fuck. I should have anticipated being summoned sooner, but instead, I physically recoiled in my chair, my body moving back as if I’d taken a punch to the stomach.
“When?” My voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a mine shaft.
“Next week. Tanya’s gonna be in touch to book your flight.” He mentioned the long-suffering assistant to the team who handled all our travel details and administrative duties. “Here’s to hoping the next trip is a one-way. We need you back, brother.”
“Yeah.” My tone remained hollow as my brain spun. I should have been relieved that I was this much closer to getting back to racing and that a second opinion might be the solution, but I was filled with a cold, drippy dread.
“Between you and me, Cyrus isn’t half the rider you are.” Joey’s voice was hearty, the same one he used for every pre-race pep talk. “He’s not fearless enough. Needs to give ‘em a tug.”
“Oh, I know how to tug ‘em.” I gave the stock reply, born of years of bantering, but inside, the word fearless kept rattling around. I wasn’t sure if I could ever be truly fearless out there again. No one other than Jonas knew that I’d been having nightmares, and even he didn’t know that I kept replaying the little snippets of the accident I could remember. Merely remembering the jolt of hitting the rut was enough to turn my stomach. I must have been convincing enough because Joey chuckled.
“I know you do. You’ve got brass stones. No one attacks the start like you. You’ve got that fire, so we just gotta get you back on the bike.” He was my number one hype person, and God knew I needed it right then.
“Yep.” I had to work to keep my voice confident. Thankfully, I heard footsteps coming down from upstairs. “Listen, I gotta run. I’m going to this high school football fundraiser.”
“Look at you, living the small-town life.” Joey whistled. “Gotta be bored silly, unless the local girls are taking good care of you.” He laughed at his own joke. I didn’t, but he continued anyway, “Damn, you’re gonna be so happy to get back on tour for the season.”
“You know it.” I hoped Joey was right, but as I hung up the phone, my main emotion was relief. I pocketed the phone and shook my hands out, trying to let go of the tension of the call as John loped into the kitchen. “Hey, John. You ready?”
“Yep. Nice puzzle.” He nodded at my work-in-progress, another mystery puzzle, this one a treasure hunt. When Jonas was around, he helped me with the puzzles, but I’d found a certain satisfaction in doing them by myself as well.
“The others will meet us there, I guess.” He shrugged before grabbing car keys off a hook by the backdoor. “Seems like everyone pulled overtime the same night.”
“It happens.” My tone was pragmatic, but in reality, I was also a little frustrated by the unpredictability of Jonas’s hours in particular. He always apologized and tried hard to make it up to me when he had to cancel plans, but I still hated not knowing exactly when I’d see him. I’d been looking forward to going to this movie night fundraiser with him, both because I enjoyed his company and as a buffer for these teen fans John wanted to introduce me too.
Predictably, the guys into dirt bikes were full of questions as they crowded around John and me.
“Which tires do you like for sand?” One of the kids, a skinny guy with glasses who apparently was the kicker for the football team, had the Notes app open on his phone and was legit writing down my answers.
“Everyone says you’re a born mudder.” Another guy, a brash giant who had to be some sort of tackle or lineman, wasn’t taking notes as much as pumping me for stories. “What’s the worst track you’ve raced?”
“Who was your first sponsor?” The third wannabe rider was a cocky dude, short but sturdy. He had dark hair, not red, otherwise I would have bet he was a distant Murphy cousin. “Yeah, give us the hookup on how to get free shit.”
“Hard work.” I didn’t have to force my smile. These guys were earnest in the way most fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds were, bragging about different rides and tracks they’d attempted. The giant kid had brought a motocross shirt for me to sign, which was cool. I’d forgotten how good a little hero worship could feel, how validating it was to be pumped for information and recognized for my success.