There's something exhilarating about being at the races.
The dust that drifts about, kicked up by the spinning wheels as the bikes race across the dirt; the deafening whoops and hollers of the fans in the stands; the smell of gasoline and metal, sharp and strong, filling your nose; the bright colors of the assorted riding gear of the opponents and their matching bikes flashing in and out of view behind jumps; the rough revving of the engines, and the silence of them as they're shoved into the air, gliding through the sky before falling with a cloud of dust.
Every time I came, every time I stood on the side and cheered my heart out, I never wanted to leave.
But that was before I ran into the big hothead himself.
On June twentieth, said boy raced right into my life. Well, "crashed" might be a better word.
— - —@— - —
"Hey, Lawson! You ready to rough up the newbies?"
My brother turned, a smile curving his lips. "You know it, Reid."
Reid had a smirk on his face, his pale blue eyes shimmering with excitement. All the racers had this air of anticipation right before a race. They were ready to get on the track, make some new ruts, cuss each other out as they passed, and pull some supposedly "accidental" wheelies as they rode right in front of the fringe of skimpily-clad girls on the sidelines.
I watched as Reid addressed me with a total change of attitude, a warm smile replacing the previous smirk. "Hey, Cory."
I smiled easily back at him. "Hey. How's the bike doing?"
Reid shrugged, looking over his shoulder at his truck and trailer parked just a few rows down from my brother's trailer. "Eh, bent handlebars are almost expected. But I don't need a perfect bike to win."
"Cocky, are you?" my brother countered. "Do you remember who won the race last weekend at Craybeck?"
Reid rolled his eyes. "You got lucky, Clay."
"By luck you mean skill?" Clay protested, crossing his arms. I let out a snort, stretching up to ruffle my brother's sandy blond hair.
"You keep telling yourself that, bro," I said smugly, laughing as he swat at my hand like it was a fly.
"Go away, Cory."
"I heard Ryvers was coming back this year."
Clay's gaze instantly hardened and snapped over as his best friend said those words.
"What? I thought he was racing the competition up in Omayle this summer."
Reid pursed his lips, running a hand over his military-cut brown hair. "I heard those got cancelled—too many people were transferring over here. So we'll have a lot more competitors now."
"We'll be crowded." Clay gritted his teeth.
"And Ryvers will be here. Looks like you yourself will have some competition."
A curse word was uttered under my brother's breath. Reid spread a hand out in a Sorry, I'm just the messenger gesture.
Meanwhile, I'd been standing on the side of the conversation, a confused observer.
"Um, who's Ryvers?" I questioned, rolling the name around in my mind, looking for any familiarity I had with it.
Clay was busy huffing and puffing, so I looked to Reid for the answer.
"Greyson Ryvers. He used to race here at Raven Heights, but he switched a long time ago. His family moved up north—too far away for him to come back down every so often, I guess."
"Well, what's so bad about him?"
"What's so bad about him?" Clay asked incredulously. "The self-righteous, stupid son of a—"
"Clay and Greyson always had a big rivalry," Reid cut in, shooting a look at my brother. "It started a long time ago."
"Like, worse than Clay's and Spencer's rivalry?" I asked doubtfully, naming the big bully on the track that often clashed heads with my brother.
"Ten times as worse."
I whistled under my breath, my hands finding their way to my the pockets of my dark jean shorts. "How come I've never heard of this guy?"
"Like I said, he stopped racing at Raven Heights quite a few years back—before you started taking a liking to coming to the races."
"Well, you'll have to point him out to me, Clay," I said, addressing my brother who was currently scowling as he kicked at the dust beneath his riding boot. A smile tugged its way onto my lips at his tantrum.
"Oh, he'll be easy to recognize," Clay said bitterly in return. "He's the ugliest guy, with a head as big as his tire. Which isn't saying much, his bike is pretty wimpy."
"I don't know, man," Reid replied dolefully. "I heard he got the newest KTM last year—"
"Whose side are you on, anyway?" my brother spat at him.
I let a laugh ring out. "Oh, Clay, you're pathetic."
"He's a jerk."
"Who, Reid or this Greyson guy?"
"Both."
I rolled my eyes, slapping my brother lightly. "Come on, big brother. Your practice is two after this one. Hurry up and get to the gate."
"I'm a'gettin," he reassured me, walking over to the trailer. The thirsty ground swirled dust around his feet with every step he took, and I knew I was going to be covered in a layer of soot by the time I got home. But I didn't care—that was part of racing. I'll be clean compared to Clay and Reid.
"Hey, Cory," my brother called back as he grabbed his racing shirt, slipping it over his Underarmour top in a flash of blue and black. "Can you get me a water?" he asked pleadingly. A sheepish smile overtook his face. "I forgot my bottle back at home."
I sighed, shaking my head. "I'm not buying it."
He chuckled. "My wallet's in the truck. Thanks!"
"You owe me."
"No, this will pay off the time when you broke the window and I got yelled at for it when mom came back."
"That was, like, seven years ago!" I protested as I yanked back the crimson passenger door, sending a glare back toward my brother. However, he had already disappeared into the back of the trailer, no doubt trying to find something else he forgot. I rolled my eyes as I grabbed his beat-up wallet.
I could faintly hear him grumbling as I smirked and waved to Reid, walking through the dusty path to the mess house. Clay and Reid—like always—had claimed the parking plot with the most room on the far back left of the field. They never complained about the distance. They had dirt bikes.
Meanwhile, I was stuck with legs.
Other trailers slouched on the edge of the gravel path that led towards the main area, and friendly faces waved and called greetings.
Clay was well-known around here—he was considered the most promising racer of this area. Being his little sister, I got to claim his popularity rights.
Well, I only knew the racers Clay allowed me to know. Apparently some racers were "guys that need'ta be hit with a shovel, and maybe they'd start thinking darn straight"—as Clay so poetically put it.
"Hey, Lawson!" someone called from my right. I glanced over, seeing one of Clay's fellow racers—Glen—crouching by his bike. He stood up from inspecting his tire and wiped his dark forehead.
I waved a greeting, but he beckoned me over. "Hey, Becka," I said as I reached them, smiling at Glen's ebony-haired girlfriend who was sitting in his trailer. She grinned back as I said, "What's up?"
"I heard Ryvers is coming back this season—is it true?" he asked, frowning.
I shrugged. "Reid said so."
"Dude, Greyson's back?" another voice chipped in. The three of our heads turned to see another racer who had wandered over upon hearing the name. Another wasn't far behind, his head cocked as he listened.
"Yeah, man," Glen affirmed, cleaning his greasy hands off with a blue paper towel. "Back for the season."
A few racers had gathered around now, and one chuckled, saying, "Bet Clay isn't too happy about that."
I scoffed. "You can say that again."
He opened his mouth, and I cut him off quickly. "I didn't meant say it again literally, you goon."
He laughed as another said, "This is gonna be a nice competition—who do you think will win?"
"I haven't seen Ryvers race in a while."
"But he was always neck and neck with Clay."
"Clay's gotten really good, man."
"He just needs to keep his cool over the whoops."
"I bet Clay will win."
"I bet Ryvers will."
I rolled my eyes as a debate struck up, everybody chiming in their own thoughts. I raised my eyebrow at Becka, who mimicked my expression—we both smiled at each other once more and then I just slipped out of the debate, continuing on the path. A rider drove by, dust kicking from his wheels and spinning into my throat. I held back a cough and blinked quickly as I sped up my pace.
The Shop soon appeared—a solid, modern-looking barn lined with grey sheet-metal. An open garage door permitted sight into the building, and a line had already formed leading up to the concessions counter.
I looked left then right down the dirt path before crossing to get to the house. Getting rocketed away by a speeding dirt bike was not my opinion of fun.
Once clear, I started across. However, apparently bikes weren't the only thing I needed to be ready for. A yelp emitted from my throat as something rammed painfully into my legs, sending me crashing to the ground with a poof of dust. Coughing, I pushed myself up on my elbows, a glare ready to be shot at whoever had ran unceremoniously into me.
Then something wet and sloppy slid up my face.
That was not what I was expecting.
I scrambled to a sitting position, spitting out dirt.
A yellow Labrador sat before me, wagging its tail in enthusiasm. Its brown eyes shone with excitement as it let out a little bark, trotting forward to lick my cheek once more.
"Ew," I exclaimed dully as slobber made contact with my face. I pushed the dog away and wiped my cheek.
"Champ!"
The dog's tail wiggled faster and it switched its attention to a guy who appeared in my vision, crouching down to grab the dog's collar.
The person who I was assuming was the owner grunted as he got a cheek-full of dog drool. He shook his head, affection warming his pursed lips.
"What are you doing, bud?" he repeated to his dog. I noted he had motocross pants on—black and silver with neon green and blue stripes chasing each other around the fabric. A plain black t-shirt covered his top half. When he looked up, bright green eyes latched onto my dark ones. "Who are you?"
I scoffed. "That's what you say when your dog runs into me?"
He muttered a sarcastic sorry and stood up, walking over to me. A tanned, broad hand reached toward my fallen figure.
I ignored it, picking myself up and dusting off my shoulders, glaring at him the whole time.
He backed off, hands held up. "Okay, got it—the princess can take care of herself."
"I'm not a princess," I replied harshly, crossing my arms and widening my stance—the picture of obstinacy.
He raised his eyebrows briefly, exchanging a look with his dog.
I shook my head, the glare intensifying.
"Well," the stranger said dryly, looking back at me and gesturing toward his dog. "Meet Champ. He has a bad habit of running into people. He gets excited at races."
"It's fine," I replied shortly.
"Okay, good," he said. "I hate apologizing. I have to do it too much for him."
Now it was my turn to give him a look. As I was trying to detect any hint of sarcasm in his deep voice, someone pulled my attention away.
"Cory!" On the other side of the pathway, a little ways down, was one of the kids my brother hung around with every once in a while—Miles, I think was his name. "Your brother says he wants his water."
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming!" Miles flashed me a smile, then turned and jogged back towards the stadium.
"Cory?" the stranger asked.
I turned back to him, sighing, "Yeah. That's my name, last I checked." I studied him more. He had an unkempt mess of dark chocolate-covered hair on the top of his head, but the sides were neatly trimmed. He was tall—very tall—with broad shoulders, and his body seemed tense as he looked at me.
"Cory Lawson?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Yes," I replied slowly. "Are you new to the track? I haven't seen you before." Even as I said that, something nagged at me.
"Yeah," he said. His demeanor had changed. His narrowed green eyes watched me cautiously. "I switched from Omayle."
My eyes tapered even further. "You don't happen to be this Greyson Ryvers guy, do you? My brother kind of hates you."
He looked away quickly. "Why does it matter?"
I held up my hands defensively at his harsh tone, "Geez, sorry." But before I had even finished my words, he turned on his heel, practically storming away from me. Champ pranced happily beside his owner. People moved hurriedly out of the way—either because the tall racer was a tad menacing or because it was clear he wasn't moving for anyone else. He plowed his way across.
Scoffing, I frowned at his back, attempting to brush off his attitude as I turned and continued on my own way.