Shifting Gears

18. Crash and Clash

Greyson was supposed to be in this heat, but he wasn't here yet. I would be lying if I said I didn't glance around when I got here to try and find him. I don't know why I wanted to talk to him. Maybe to try and figure out what happened to make him shut off the night of the gala. But I knew it was unrealistic to expect an answer from him.

My attention was pulled back as a familiar racer pulled up and stopped at the opening in the fence line, waiting for me. I approached him, handing him the ibuprofen and the water bottle I had.

Clay took both and tossed the pills back.

"Is this for your shoulder?"

He shook his head, then winced. "I have a headache."

I frowned. "From crashing?"

"I just laid it down."

"I'm not Mom, you can cut that crap."

His black and blue clad shoulders fell as he sighed, blond bushy eyebrows furrowing over his brown eyes. His hair, like mine, was damp—which turned our hair a darker caramel color. Little droplets beaded his forehead. My frown deepened—it wasn't raining that hard yet. He was sweating. Why was he sweating so much already? My concern grew as he slowly pulled his helmet over his hair, and slung his goggles over the helmet.

"I cased a double, and went down off the side of the track," he reluctantly admitted. My eyebrows rose. As I'd mentioned before, that was Clay's specialty—he knew how to read a track and always perfectly lined his doubles and triples to glide through. It surprised me he messed one up—and messed up enough to get hurt.

"Did you hit your head?" I pressed, taking back the water bottle. "Do you need to skip this practice? It might be worth it—"

"No," Clay said shortly, cutting me off. "I'm not skipping."

"It'd be fine, it's not like you're going to lose your skill from not practicing for a few days."

I narrowed my eyes at him as he ignored me. He was scanning the racers at the gate, his eyes hidden behind his tinted goggles but I could tell who he was looking for.

"Is it because Greyson is in this practice?" I questioned.

Clay didn't answer, but pulled on his gloves and cinched them tighter around his wrist.

"Seriously, Clay, if you're hurt then it's dumb to go out to practice just because of a little feud you have with another racer when you could get hurt more. He won the last race, but so what, you'll race him again. You should stop letting Greyson get to you—"

"You know, I'm getting pretty tired of you talking about Greyson all the time."

"Um, excuse me?" I scoffed, an eyebrow shooting high at his tone. More racers passed by us. I knew he'd have to get out there soon.

"I'm tired of it," he snapped again. "I'm practicing today. And yes, because of Ryvers—because I want him covered in mud and I want to beat him and I'm tired of you getting in my face about him all the time."

"I'm not—I'm not getting in your face about him," I snapped back. "I'm trying to look out for you, Clay. Why are you acting like this?"

"How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from him?"

I huffed, leaning back and crossing my arms. "How many times do I have to tell you that you don't control me, Clay?"

I could see his jaw clenching as he dropped his head slightly. His shoulders were tense and the movements of his hand as he grabbed the bars and pulled back the clutch were short, rough with emotion.