Jacks
There is a headache blooming at the base of my neck, creeping up my spinal cord and spreading until it throbs in my temples. I never expected this job to be easy. Training athletes comes with a plethora of complications, such as hierarchy, high-horses, and lack of funding. It's like playing a corrupt game of chess. Someone is bound to cheat or pay another person off to move the pieces.
Which is what's happening right now. The entire franchise is nothing but a cheat. When I look around this round table, all I see are white old men (minus myself). I'm the only Indigenous representative, and I feel like they put here me as a showy piece to impress the franchise. There are no women, despite most of the riders being women. No representatives of the 2SLGBTQIA+ community. There is a sectional divide between the people running this place and the ones who are making the money for them.
And the more I listen to them speak, the more I want to smash my head against a wall. All I hear is capitalism. There's nothing about aiding these riders in toning their skills and sending them off to become full-time professional riders. Plus, they're focused on Ridley's age group. How are kids supposed to achieve the same level when they don't have access to the same resources? Their version of common sense is bending my mind.
We're sitting outside, beneath the hazy evening sky, for this meeting. Beads of sweat are forming at the nape of my neck, and the smell of campfire smoke lingers in the air. Every so often, I catch a hint of exhaust from the dirt bikes. Just as I presumed, my team is sticking around well into the evening, completing the track around and around. Someone outside of the motocross world would question their sanity—how do they not get bored? or what's the purpose? As a rider myself, I understand the attraction. While the track may look the same, every circle they complete is different, depending on the speed, the route, the angle of the turn. It's an infinite game.
Martin taps his pen against the tabletop, making the pieces of splintering wood more prominent. It's a weathered picnic bench, covered with different engravings done with pocketknives. I recognize many of the names, including Ridley's, Teuvo's, Blakely's, and Dyami's, but they're all muddled together, creating an intertwined theme of family. Something tells me this is a tradition that's been upheld throughout the years.
"Now we need to discuss Ridley," Martin says. The way he says her name, with such disrespect and distaste, makes me grind my teeth. "After her contract ends, she plans to leave."
The man sitting to my left snorts. His name is Lewis Murphy, and I think his only job is supporting every word out of Martin's mouth. "Where's she gonna go? There are no other organizations like this in the Okanagan. The girl's driving herself into the ground."
Someone to my right nudges me. I glare at him while he laughs and says, "Seems she already did, eh?"
A wave of laughter encompasses the picnic table—and it's not fake. They think this is hilarious. I look around the table, frowning. Everyone knows the world is corrupt, but when you see behaviour like this, it restricts the hope you cling to. The hope that there are still good people out there who actually want to make a difference. Nothing pisses me off more than people being insensitive. "She was in a fucking accident. Need I remind you someone died? You're all acting tone deaf. Read the fucking room. You don't joke about someone's trauma."
The laughter dies down and is followed by an uncomfortable silence. Although I shouldn't, I feel a shard of guilt lodge itself in my chest. At this table, I'm lowest on the hierarchical platform. My voice doesn't have much power here. If I don't tread carefully, I'll lose my job. But I also can't let them degrade Ridley. The cycle needs to stop somehow. Besides, she told me I need to develop a spine. This is me trying.
I continue: "Worry about Ridley's contract when the time comes. Focus on more important things. Like funding. Expanding the program." I pause for a breath. "What about the Indigenous branch?" Several blank stares meet my gaze, and their silence encourages me to continue on. My finger jabs the wooden table and I trace the grain. "Part of the reason I accepted this job was to ensure the Indigenous branch of this franchise received a good portion of the funding. There are many Indigenous kids, women, and men who cannot afford to partake in lessons or buy passes for the trail system. As part of the community, I want to ensure this actually happens."
Again, silence follows. Not the reaction I was expecting, but at least no one is bad-mouthing Ridley anymore.
Someone scoffs. "So they can protest the logging and make a scene? Yeah, no thanks."
"What's it to you?" Martin asks. "You're Métis. A half-breed. That means you're part European somewhere in your bloodline." His sardonic grin grates me. "Capitalism is your friend, Jacks. And I suggest you hold your tongue if you want to keep this job. We are discussing Ridley's contract. Funding is not an issue; we know what we are allocating it to. Your position gives you no right to question us."
I grit my teeth and slam my fist against the table. "Subject my heritage to more stereotypes and racism, and you'll meet a side of me you don't want to meet." His eyes widen with fear, and I feel a spark of courage within me. It prompts me to continue: "I recognize my position. I'm not the owner or president of this franchise. I'm the coach and counsellor. Those are two positions that require I put the team first before anything else. Their well-being is what makes you money. If you want them to perform, I suggest you edit your attitudes and start working with them instead of against them."
Pushing up from my seat, I shrug, both hands still on the table. "You guys also promote yourself as inclusive. Yet no funding goes to the groups that need it most. I'm not a whistleblower, but if you keep burning bridges, someone's tongue may slip." I meet Martin's heated gaze with a deadly glare. "And I would place all my bets on Ridley."
A murmur radiates through the crowd, but I ignore it. Instead of choosing to continue with this conversation, I step over the bench and head down the pathway. The picnic table is in an enclosed area that's next to the outhouses, just above the trailer and parking area. It's a worn path with a brief presence of protruding rocks and slippery gravel; it's compact and shaded from the sunset.
I adjust my sweater, feeling like a broody teenager. Quitting would be the best option, but there's too much potential with this team. With the franchise. And I feel confident enough that I can make a difference. Ignorant people are louder than education people because they're entitled and think they know everything. Truthfully, they know shit. Consistency is where education people fall short; we give up too easily on trying to change the minds of other people. Somewhere, amongst this disaster, I know I can plant seeds that'll help this franchise.
Ahead, there's a stump buried deep into the trail. I step around it with seconds to spare, but I end up bumping into someone. Instinctively, I grab their shoulders and balance us out. They do the same. When I look up, I'm met with a pair of wide brown eyes. Today, Ridley's lined her eyes with glittery black eyeliner. It does something to her gaze, and I bet it instills fear in every man that crosses her path.
"Ridley," I say, releasing her shoulders. "Sorry. I didn't see you there."
She lifts one shoulder. "No worries. I was actually looking for you. Can we talk?"
I can't say I know Ridley. But based on the exchanges we've had, her wanting to talk is as common as a blood moon. It's not that she's secretive. She's been through a lot and unless someone is willing to find the root of their trauma and deal with it, nothing changes.
"Uh, sure." I jerk my head behind me. "But let's get away from prying ears."
She glances over my shoulder, and her face morphs from innocent to loathing. Words are muttered under her breath. I don't hear them, but something tells me I don't want to. "Sure. Lead the way."
Ridley follows me down to the trailer, and we pause next to the campfire. It's nothing but smouldering ashes and smoke at this point. I take a deep breath, breathing in the musky pine scent interlaced with the smoke. While sight plays the lead role in motocross, smell is a sense that is underrated. During enduro races on the trails, I subject certain areas to smells. Blue Grouse, for instance, smells of dry pine needles and dust. The gulley between the campsites Maddox and Calla run smells musky from the creek and lush vegetation.
I lean against the less weathered picnic table and cross my arms. "What's up?"
She bites her bottom lip and looks out across the valley, staring at Hayman Mountain. Several shades of green are mixed together with golden sunlight creeping away. "Jacks?" Ridley asks.
"Yes?"
Her next breath is shaky. Then she looks at me. "The trail up to Blue Grouse? That's where Teuvo and I got into the accident."
My face blanches and a wave of shame washes over me. Thanks to my ignorance, I forced her into an uncomfortable situation. "Shit. Ridley. I'm sorry. I-I didn't know."
Her full bottom lip pinches between her teeth. She seems to do this a lot when she's having a tough conversation. "I figured that, but don't beat yourself up too much. I did agree to go with you. I... I think I needed to see the area again. It helped a little."
Thinking back to yesterday, I realize I let her return alone. Trauma can inflict reactions that inhibit good choices. She could've wiped out and injured herself. Had a mental breakdown. She didn't, but that's not the point I'm trying to make. Under normal circumstances, I would've reviewed the profiles of my team prior to making decisions like this. But I didn't. Instead, I let her stubbornness influence my decision.
I rub the heel of my hand against my cheek and blow a raspberry. "I promise I'm a licensed psychologist."
Her lips form a small smile. "There isn't a doubt in my mind about that, Jacks. But like I said before, don't expect more from me. I only did this because my therapist suggested it would be a good idea. That way, it doesn't happen again." She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her dirt bike pants. The fabric rustles against her Apple Watch. "And don't call me a hypocrite. Yes, I attend counselling sessions. But I want to keep work and my personal life separate."
I raise my hands in a surrender motion. "Fair enough. You do what you want to do. I won't push you again."
Ridley flashes me a sardonic smile and shakes her head. "That's part of being a coach."
"Have you ever thought about coaching?" I counter.
She throws her head back and laughs. "Fuck no. I'm unhinged. Me as a coach would be the equivalent of an apocalypse."
I believe her.
We lapse into a comfortable silence, listening to the remaining embers crackle. The breeze whispers through the trees, speaking in a tongue I don't understand. What puzzles me more is why Ridley's still standing here. If she's determined to separate her personal life from work, then I don't fulfil a role in her life aside from being her coach.
Thinking about coaching reminds me of the favour Maddox and Calla asked for.
I draw a line in the gravel with the toe of my boot. "Ridley?"
"Yes?"
"You're familiar with the area, right?"
She looks at me like I'm stupid.
I release a soft laugh. "Okay, dumb question, sorry. Maddox and Calla are having their annual BBQ. They're looking for volunteers to help. Anyone who volunteers gets money shaved off of their riding passes next year. I was thinking, as a team building event, we could all volunteer. Does that sound too far-fetched?"
She cocks her head and rubs her chin. There's a mischievous glint in her eyes. "For Martin? Too far-fetched. Which is why I'm already on board. But I do think it's a good idea, Jacks. Especially with the younger crowd Maddox and Calla draw in with their riding lessons and group rides. They've got an excellent system going." With sad eyes, she looks at the view again. "I always thought they'd take over and merge the track and trails together. But it's too much for them alone."
I nod. They'd been looking in to buying the track, but came up short with money and staffing. Plus, neither of them is familiar with running such a large franchise. Although they draw in hundreds of people with their trail system and campgrounds, it's still a local crowd. Motocross racing is regional, provincial, and sometimes national. That's a big step up.
"I'll be there," Ridley concludes. "But they don't have to take money off of next year's pass. I'll pay the full amount."
My lips quirk to one side. "So will I."
She nods. "Okay, well, I'll see you tomorrow."
As per usual, she leaves before I can say anything else. Much like her biting her bottom lip, this is another quirk I've noticed. She has to speak last, and I can only assume it's because of unsaid words between her and Teuvo.