Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Ridley
Smoke clings to the fabric of my clothes.
There's a pounding headache reverberating through my skull and a warm, wet substance soaking through my torn jersey. I can taste copper and smell the lingering scent of gasoline. Above, the clouds and fiery leaves and blue sky swirl together, making me dizzy. There's a persistent ringing in my ears despite the lack of a two-stroke engine splitting the peaceful sounds of nature.
Confusion muddles my brain. I don't know how I ended up on the ground. Why I ended up on the ground. Why there are branches and weeds instead of compacted dirt and obtrusive rocks.
When I tilt my head to the side, I see his face. His pale skin is a ghastly white with undertones of grey. Blood trickles from a deep gash above his eyebrow. His lashes rest against his strong cheekbones as the blood continues to slide and drip, staining the patchy grass beneath us.
I try to reach for him, but an agonizing pain shoots through my shoulder. It's a mind-bending pain. One that makes me want to put myself out of my misery. Tears well in my eyes. My breaths are shallow and rapid, making my heart feel like it's about to break through my ribcage.
"Teuvo," I croak.
Again, I try to reach for him. Try to push through the pain. But black dots spot my vision, threatening to pull me under again. My arm stills and all I can do is breathe.
In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and—
"Ridley?"
I blink several times, my gaze briefly meeting my mother's, before I look to my left. The doctor stands next to the hospital bed, wearing a white coat and a snazzy pair of red glasses. She's a younger doctor with dark-brown skin and glossy black hair. The first time I saw her was just after the surgery to repair my rotator cuff. Since the surgery and because of the anesthetics, I've been fading in and out. Each time, as far as I can recall, she's been kind and understanding. And as much as I want to frame her as the villain, I know she's trying to help me.
Next to me, a machine hisses. I breathe in tune with the noises it continues to expel. "Dr. Samsonov," I say. My voice shakes. "Hi."
"Ridley," she smiles. "It's good to see you up again. How are you feeling?"
"Numb," I reply.
"That's to be expected. You are on some heavy medication to soothe the pain." She steps aside, giving me a full view of the wall. There's a large white screen, and I can see copies of my earlier MRIs from the projector above.
Rutted.
That's the term that comes to mind while I stare at my X-ray results on the screen. The broken bone reminds me of track conditions after a season of robust motocross races. When the ground is soft and tires have been digging into the dirt, creating ruts. Whenever ruts appear, it's only a matter of time before the back tire sinks and you spin out. Or when you don't see it and a wipeout becomes inevitable. You then hit the ground hard and fast, wondering what the fuck happened.
