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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Jacks
Today is the day, and I'm a mess of nerves. Ridley, Dyami, and Blakely are loitering under our tent. It's orange because we're sponsored by KTM. The atmosphere is charged with anticipation. We have spoken few words between any of us. I continue to shovel sunflower seeds into my mouth, chewing while I prep myself for the season's first enduro race. How my riders do will reflect my coaching and counselling mechanisms.
Ridley sits on a foldable chair. Her elbows rest on her thighs and her face is pressed into her palms. If her hair wasn't tied in two long braids, it would act like a curtain. With every deep breath she takes, her shoulders rise and fall at a steady pace. I can't imagine what's circulating through her mind. This is the first enduro race since the accident. We talked a little before the rest of the team arrived, but I feel as though some topics weren't covered well-enough. Especially when considering part of the circuit is close to the site of the accident.
There is also an urge to comfort her. To thread my fingers through hers and kiss her knuckles. The more time I spend with Ridley, the more I want to know about her. What I enjoy is the complexity of her character. After we decided to monitor the interactions between Martin and Blakely, we shifted to lighter topics. Ridley told me more about her mother and sister. From subtle body language and despite her light-hearted tone, I could conclude those relationships are fragile. And I'm sure Ridley make conclusions about me after I told her about my adoption, Nat, and my Indigenous heritage.
Somewhere, during our trading of topics, I was scolding myself. These out-of-work meetings don't classify as a professional relationship. Together, we're getting to know each other, conspiring behind the backs of our coworkers. There is nothing ethical about this situation. But every time I try to hush the little voice of rationalization, I hear Calla's comment. That woman is always right, and I fucking hate it. In the end, I have no control over this situation. Plus, I made these decisions. I'm the only person to blame.
I stuff another handful of sunflower seeds in my mouth, turning my gaze to the adjacent tents. Names ring through my head: Taylor Nelson, Jeremy Reed, Stefan McGrath. From different regions across British Columbia, these are three of the most volatile opponents.
Taylor Nelson is twenty-nine, born and raised in Castlegar, reckless driving and killer speed. She sits under the tent across from us, her red hair fastened in a single side-braid. Like Ridley, she has talent and cannot be underestimated. Not to mention she's as deadly off the trail as she is on it. She didn't gain her nickname "Black Widow" for no reason.
My gaze shifts a few tents down. Jeremy Reed is dressed in all black Aplinestars gear. The only colour comes from the lime-green streaks in his hair. He's twenty-five, born and raised in Coquitlam. One lesson I learned is you don't let his kindness fool you. He's a respectful man, an ally, and uses his platform to help the oppressed. On the track... it's him, his Kawasaki, and the gradients and terrain. Jeremy runs his tongue along the piercing in his bottom lip. He's leaning against the pole drilled into the ground, arms crossed and eyebrows V-shaped.
