Girl on Track

30| Ride it out

Our next few sessions are curt. Tyler seems fine on the surface, as though our kiss has been long since forgotten, but something feels off. Gone is the friendship we'd started to build, replaced by stilted talk about racing, and it's all his fault for kissing me.

Still, neither of us wants to acknowledge this shift, so we focus on riding. He has me riding the circuit on a never ending loop, perfecting every turn and jump, and even then, it's not good enough. But I refuse to give up: I refuse to let him see me quit.

I grit my teeth and go full throttle, desperate for this session to be over. It's the first time in forever that the thought has crossed my mind, but right now all I want is my bed.

Tyler stands on the sidelines, watching me intently. He's in a strange mood today – even stranger than normal – like something has got him riled up. If this were just a few days ago, I'd feel confident enough to ask him what's wrong, but everything feels different now.

"Push harder!" he shouts.

I clench my jaw. Somehow, despite my hatred for him at this moment, it's hard not to think about that night. It's like the memory of his kiss has been burned across my lips, and now I can't seem to forget it.

He pulls me to the side at some point to give me his feedback. I brace myself, knowing from the mood he's in that he's not going to sugarcoat, but maybe that's a good thing.

"You're losing momentum as you make your way around the track," he says, sounding frustrated. "That fire that you have when the whistle blows needs to last the whole circuit." He's wrong, I keep that fire going right until the end, but I grit my teeth anyway.

"Fine," I say. "I'll go again."

This time around, I push myself harder than I have all morning, desperate to get a good job out of him. It's my only motivation, the one thing stopping me from collapsing of exhaustion, because right now, I'm running on fumes.

The steepest hill on the track is coming up, and that's when I feel it. The involuntary release of the throttle, the weakness in my thighs as their grip lessens slightly. Tyler is right: I'm losing momentum.

Heart pounding, I try to pick up speed as I surge over the hill, but that few seconds break is the difference between first and second place in a race. Second and seventh.

Anger knots my stomach as I finish the last stretch of the track. As I get closer, I see Alex join Tyler on the sidelines of the track, and my body slumps a little with relief. I slow to a stop in front of them before peeling off my goggles.

Alex grins and gives me a hug before pulling back a little. "You looked good out there."

I glance at Tyler, waiting for him to confirm this assessment, but instead, he tilts his head. "Good doesn't win championships," he says, "or impress anyone. Come on, let's keep going."

But none of us move. Alex's eyes narrow, and she folds her arms before glaring at Tyler. "Who exactly is she trying to impress? You?"

"No, the thousands who will be watching her." He turns to me now, his eyes softer. It's hard to tell whether his attitude today is because of our kiss, or if he's channeling his Dad. "You are good," he says, his voice low, "but you're not ready, Roxy."

It feels like a slap to the face. Not just because I know he's right, but because he doesn't believe in me.

"Who are you to decide if she's ready or not?" Alex demands to know. "You're not a real instructor, Tyler, or have you forgotten that in the midst of this power trip you're on?"