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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
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."
