Shifting Gears

2. Sharing the Lead

At that moment, Greyson turned over to us, his shaggy brown hair glinting like gold in the sun. When his and my brother's gazes latched, I could practically feel the negative energy radiating off of them both. Greyson nodded, short and stiff. Clay just deepened his scowl.

Then Greyson's eyes found me glaring at him. He didn't do anything—he just looked at me, his fingers tugging down the gloves on his hand smoothly. Then he averted his gaze, focusing on the track. I huffed in confusion and my brother huffed in disgust.

"Well, this will be a great season," Reid said, letting out a long breath. "We just need to keep Clay and Ryvers away from each other. If they get into a fight they could get disqualified."

"You hear that, Clay?" I said sternly to my brother, eyebrows raised and hands on my hips. "No fighting. Not a single punch."

Clay inhaled deeply. "I'll try to restrain myself. He just better keep to himself."

"Yeah, well, I don't know how well he'll do that. So you're just going to have to practice your self-control."

My brother mumbled something under his breath, right as the commentator announced the practice would be starting in just a minute.

"Good luck, boys," I said to Clay and Reid as they slipped their helmets on over their contrasting hair. "And, Clay, brother dearest—I was serious. No fighting."

Clay handed me the half-empty water bottle and flashed me a smile from inside the walls of his black and blue helmet. "At least you'll be there to help me out, sis. If he goes for me, give him a good, roundhouse kick. Like I taught you."

A laugh emitted from my throat. "You didn't teach me. You showed me. And I was your dummy."

"It's an effective way to learn."

My eyes once again went to the sky. "Have fun, guys," I said, retreating from the gate. The bleachers ascended from the ground to an impressive height, but I rarely sat up there. Most of the time I stood at the fence line. I felt better, more comfortable, at the fence line—closer to my brother.

The engines started revving. I could pick out Clay's and Reid's matching helmets that Reid's parents had gotten this past Christmas. His parents were somewhere in the bleachers at the moment. I knew they cheered both Reid and Clay on equally—I was so appreciative for that. My parents didn't come to the races often, if at all. I knew Clay relied on the support of me and his friends a lot more than he let on.

Multicolored helmets leaned down to the handlebars, the adrenaline growing with the sounds of the revving. I could feel the pulse among the riders—the pure excitement and thrill of being back at the track again for the start of what would hopefully be a successful and well-ridden season, with no injuries or set-backs.

Right before the gate dropped, I saw Clay glance to the right, and my eyes found Greyson glancing to the left—just for a moment. Then they looked straight again, each giving their bike a round of energy.

The gate dropped, and the riders were off.

The holeshot was always the thing that scared me most. It was a mess of riders zipping as fast as they could out into the track. Tires bumped tires, bikes veered across other's paths, dirt kicked up and clouded around. It was the easiest time to start a pile-up. But this time, they all got out okay, making the first turn like a school of fish, and then thinning out in the straight after to show who had led the holeshot.

A loud cheer was let out of my throat as I recognized the person sharing the lead. The number "781" was plastered in black on the number-plate. Clay gave his bike a burst of speed as he approached the jump, taking it as a double before landing smoothly and heading to the next turn.