Shifting Gears

2. Sharing the Lead

Yes, I said sharing the lead. Another rider was side by side with Clay, their movements practically identical. Big symbols cut across his plate—"37". I listened as the commentator confirmed my guess—yes, it was Greyson. And yes, I knew Clay was not happy about that.

They both careened into the next turn—Clay taking the outside and Greyson the inside, creating the start of a rut for the racers following. They came out onto the straight sidelong, both standing on their foot-pegs as the whoops neared. I held my breath as they rode over the series of bumps swiftly and—I was glad to note for Clay—stably, the revving of their engines bouncing along with the bike.

Reid wasn't that far behind them. He flew through the whoops just a second after them, a spray of dirt rushing into the air as he swung around the corner.

There was something that every rider was best at—their signature part on a track. My brother was flawless at knowing whether to take them as a single or double. Every time he would soar into the air with an amazing amount of force, then he would land as smoothly as a ballerina onto the dirt again. I couldn't even remember the last time I saw him case a landing.

Reid was king of the whoops.

Glen could take a corner at seemingly a hundred miles per hour.

Miles hit every triple he could get.

You learn these things after watching your brother race for just over four years.

But Greyson I wasn't familiar with. I watched him carefully, trying to glean what the newcomer could do best.

However, so far, he seemed to be riding smoothly, every turn perfect, every jump steady. He was good, I'll give him that, and it looked like an effortless good. My brother had that—but he'd been racing for over ten years now. I guessed Ryvers had as well.

The seven laps went by in a flash, and throughout it Clay and Greyson stayed right by each other. There were a few times when one would pull ahead, but the other would be quick to catch up. I know that didn't make my brother happy. But I believed my brother could win. He had to. He'd been practicing basically his whole life for the competition this summer.

He had to win.

The two boys in lead pulled into the last corner, each giving their bike a roar of gas as they hit the last jump. My throat was as rough as sandpaper from yelling and shouting. Now I stood up on the small ledge by the fence, leaning above it as I waited for my brother.

He was the first one out. He tugged his helmet off and shook his sandy blond hair. A smile was wide on my face as he rode nonchalantly along the fence, nearing me.

As always, I stuck my arm far out, and watched as he clapped my hand as he rode by. I couldn't see his face too well, but he didn't look extremely pleased.

I jumped off the ledge and started jogging back to the field as my brother made his way down and around the fence.

He got there before me, and turned as I rushed up to give him a quick, congratulatory hug.

I pulled back, making a face at him. "Ew. You're sweaty and gross."

He was frowning, lips pursed. "This is going to be a tough year." I knew how hard it was for him to say that.

"You did great, Clay," I reassured him. "And you weren't even trying your hardest."

"He wasn't either. I know he wasn't."

I chewed my inner cheek, glancing to the side as more riders came streaming through the exit, heading back to their trailers or stopping to talk to family and friends. I didn't see Greyson come out yet. Turning back to Clay, I told him, "You'll be fine. You're the best rider I know."

"Yeah, well, I'll have to be better than best if I want to win this year."

"You will."

Clay looked over at me appreciatively. "Thanks, Cory. For always cheering me on."

"I wouldn't miss it." I shooed him away with a hand. "Now go get changed and get all pretty again—you smell and look nasty."

"Thank you, dear sister," Clay said dryly, slinging his helmet around his arm and his clutch popping as he drove down the gravel to the field.

I waited as the rest of the racers exited the track. They overall looked pretty happy with the practice. Everyone knew who was going to pull into lead, so there was so surprise.

Speaking of which, I saw a neon-clad racer exit, and I pulled my gaze over.

Greyson was already looking at me when I saw him. At my sudden scowl, his eyes darkened. He didn't pull his gloomy gaze away until the last second, when his bike passed within inches of me. I didn't flinch. Loose strands of my ponytail were tugged along by the wind, twirling like golden sun rays.

I was left to watch him ride away, the back of his shirt spelling out "RYVERS" with the numbers three and seven underneath.

A scoff was torn from my mouth at the sight of him. But he was soon taken away, the curtain of dust from his tires closing around him, masking him from my eyes.