Shifting Gears

18. Crash and Clash

"Just forget it."

He popped the clutch and took off, and I had to step back quickly to avoid mud his tire kicked up. I glared at my brother's back. He woke up with an extra dose of annoyingness today.

I was too busy glowering at my brother to see another racer fly past me. My eye caught the neon blue and green racing gear, and I looked quickly to the side, watching as Greyson drove by me without a glance in my direction. His tires picked up the mud as well, and his gear was already dirty. He gave absolutely no sign that he even saw me. I grit my teeth, then retreated back to my spot at the fence.

There was hardly anybody in the stands. The few that braved the rain were all hidden under their umbrellas or rainjackets. I squinted up at the lumpy dull clouds above us. No lightning so far, and the rain had picked up a little but it wasn't pouring—they'd still probably cancel the rest of the day. After seeing Clay's attitude, I almost regretted coming—should've just stayed home, out of the rain, with a book and some coffee.

My eyebrows knitted suddenly as I saw Greyson drive up to his usual spot at the gate—but I was frowning because I saw that Clay was just two spaces down from him. That wasn't where Clay usually lined up. As Greyson pushed his tired up to the bar, Clay's head turned to look at his opponent. It stayed there, and eventually Greyson looked back.

They were talking.

My breath caught in my throat. Greyson and Clay didn't talk. They argued and insulted and riled each other up. They never just talked.

The fact they were doing it just before a practice was not a good sign. I saw Clay roughly shake his head, and then he turned as if looking at me. After a moment, he switched back toward Greyson and seemed to resume spitting something at him.

Judging by the way the poor racer in between them was leaning back and almost visibly shrinking into his seat, the words spoken between Greyson and my brother were not a friendly banter.

"Oh, boys," I muttered, feeling my heart sink. I felt frustration rise in me toward Clay—he never started at that slot at the gate. He did so clearly just to be able to pick a fight with Greyson right before the race.

Greyson then looked toward me. Stupid tinted goggles. I wanted to see his green eyes. I wanted to know what he was thinking.

Revving started cutting through the air, and I watched as Clay snapped one more thing at Greyson, then leaned down over his handlebars. Exhaust hit the raindrops from behind their bikes, and the deep guttural thrums of the 450s growled in the air. Greyson was still looking toward me, distracted. But at the last second, he turned and leaned over his bars, right before the gate dropped.

Clay and Greyson took the holeshot like pros, both of them clearing the mess of bikes and taking the first corner at the lead of the pack struggling behind them. I winced as I saw tires sliding out, mud flying in the air, and more than a few racers topple into each other as the slippery ground defied their brakes when they hit the corner.

I inhaled sharply as Clay took the first double, almost landing on top of Greyson. Greyson, in turn, checked him on the corner. Clay responded by cutting across him on the whoops.

I felt like I didn't breathe the entire time, my eyes frozen on the pair as they raced, neck and neck. I chanted, "Don't do anything stupid, don't do anything stupid," as my eyes tracked them. The announcer in the background made a few comments, something about how the rain made Lawson's and Ryver's racing a little slippery, as they kept sliding into each other. I shook my head, knowing full well that each of their movements were controlled. They knew what they were doing.

Almost halfway through, the rain had picked up and the track had become a swamp. More than a few racers just called it quits, their gear coated in mud and their bike whining as they drove off the track. There were maybe ten left, but they were driving cautiously. Well, except the first two.