Leah Mitchell isn't the same shy, poor girl anymore. Now a college student, she is enjoying her life in the city and the freedom she longed for. She works hard and knows her worth. She has it all, but her heart aches for the only person from her pas...
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I adjust the cap on my head and focus my gaze on the huge screen. Nervous excitement is palpable in the air around me. Fans are holding up handmade signs and banners, chatting loudly. It's a mix of languages and cultures, and I, a small-town girl, am a part of it, in Mugello, Italy, of all places.
"Come on," Dad groans and leans forward in his seat. "So close."
The crowd grows quiet as a rider overtakes Asher Williams. Frustrated grumbles reach my ears, and I bite my lip, following the nerve-wracking head-to-head battle between two expert riders with my eyes.
The end of the race is near, and it's clear who the favorite is. Fans chant Asher's name and scream their throats off when the rider manages to get ahead of his rival.
Everyone jumps to their feet. We don't have to look at the screen now — the deafening rumble of the powerful engine announces Asher's arrival. Whistles and cheers accompany him as he rides to the finish line and raises his arms when the chequered flag is waved.
"Yes!" Dad smiles brightly and gives me a tight hug. I can barely hold in the emotions at the sight of the enthusiastic fans around me. Joy is radiating off everyone in my vicinity. It's not the last MotoGP race this summer, but Asher has already won many of them. He has what it takes to be the champion.
"Ready to meet the winner?" Dad asks me in a short while. I'm not, but I won't miss the opportunity many can only dream of.
I nod. Dad draws an arm around my shoulders and leads me to the paddock, where Asher is giving some interviews before heading to his motor home. We've already been here thanks to the paddock pass my dad has, but I still feel insecure, staying close to Dad and following the signs not to get lost.
We stand to the side, waiting for Asher to stop talking to one of the reporters.
When he's free, Dad grabs my hand, and we approach the racer.
"Asher, this is Leah, my daughter."
"Nice to meet you, Leah." Asher gives me a broad grin, revealing his pearly white teeth. His dark hair is a mess, and he smoothes a hand over it when Dad takes out his phone, ready to take a picture of the two of us.
Asher hugs my shoulders and leans his head against the top of mine. I blush and smile, partly because of how good-looking he is, but even more so because of getting a chance to meet one of the youngest and the most promising motorcycle racers, whose face appeared on the covers of sports magazines too many times to count.
"Thank you," I say to the guy who has been more than patient, letting Dad take several photos and then posing for another photograph with my dad and me someone from Asher's team took for us.
"You're welcome." Asher smiles and gives my shoulder a little squeeze, accompanied by a wink. "See you in Jerez in two weeks."
"Count on it." Dad beams. "Congratulations on your win once again."
