Page 9 of Fighting For Light
The enginesbraaapto life, and Dad stands next to me. “Hey, honey. I was wondering if you’d make it down here in time.”
“I do have a job, ya know…takingpictures,“ I tell him, shifting the camera strap on my sweaty shoulder. He chuckles and runs his fingers through his sweaty hair before putting his hat back on his head. He started growing it out a long time ago. Now it’s about ear length, and I’m amazed he’s kept it this long. He liked having it buzzed because of helmets. “Are the boys ready?” I ask him.
“Yeah, I believe so. It will be a good race. We know our competition now. They just have to play it right. And be smart about making moves and reserving energy.”
I scoff and glance at him. “Dad, you do remember who you’re talking about, right?” He grunts and looks at the track. “You and I both know these guys are barely restrained adrenaline junkies that want to go as fast, high, and kick up as much dirt as possible.”
“The dirt part would defeat the purpose, Cordi, seeing as it would slow you down if you’re more worried aboutroostingthan ripping through the track,“ Dad chastises.
I roll my eyes and look in the same direction. “I guess we will see, won’t we?”
“You don’t have much confidence in the team this year, do you?” Dad asks.
I shrug and wish I grabbed a bottle of water. “In my opinion, they are a bit reckless now, especially with last year’s win. Kai is the only one with a good head on his shoulders,” I mutter.
Dad chuckles, and I plow forward with my reasoning. “He’s a smart rider. He knows when to cut in and when to wait for his moment. Jennings is a hothead who needs to be put in his place. Stewart gets nervous at the quads because he can’t handle the four jumps in a row. It’s like he loses brain cells or something. And last, but certainly not least, Rafe Taylor thinks he is way better than he actually is.” I glance at Dad.
His arms are crossed, and his lips are turned down in a frown. I can’t see his eyes because they are covered by sunglasses. He’s mad because he knows I’m right. The team is good. They are fast, but we only got here by the skin of our teeth. Kai carries the team half the time as it is.
“Yes, they are idiots. Yes, Kai carries the team. And, yes, they arealladrenaline junkies. But, with sectionals, we will leave everyone in the mud, and you know it,“ he grumbles.
Pinning my lips together, I keep other thoughts to myself and leave it. The potential is there. I’ve been around this sport all my life to know when someone is good, and having a dad who has won multiple Motocross World Championships teaches you every little nuance that exists about this sport.
The gates go up, and everyone goes quiet, signaling the start of the race. My cheeks puff out a deep breath, and my heart thuds in slow motion as the world slows down. I lift my camera, focusing on the team. Their bodies are taut and ready, as determination bleeds from every shift they make.
The gates drop, and engines roar past me. My camera is on burst mode, so I brace myself, moving with them as they fly past me, taking fifty photos with one click. It’s the best way to get action shots; it makes the photos seem more candid. They have a bit to go and will be circling the track for about thirty minutes.
Motocross is an intense endurance sport. People don’t realize until they see it with their own eyes or run all out for thirty minutes straight without stopping. That’s how tough this sport is. Kai flies past me, and I snap a few pictures of him slightly lifted from his seat, ready to hit the rollers, the larger hills that lay one after the other. Seconds later, the rest of the team follows with the mass of them trying to catch up.
6
Kai
I could feel herstare the entire time coach was talking. He was mainly telling Stewart to get it together and Jennings to stop being a dumbass. He is, though. He’s a good rider, but sometimes I wish I could drive him off the track. He almost caused wrecks from being impatient. This sport is a long haul combined with strategy on top of its exhausting nature. The trails are a mile or longer, with fifteen to twenty jumps and obstacles. If your head isn’t on straight, you lose, crash, or die. I’m only here to win.
While we were getting lined up at the gates, I straddled my bike and stared at her in her jean shorts, cowboy boots that reach mid-calf, and tank top tucked in around her curvy hips. She stands on the hill with the bill of her baseball hat shielding her face. Part of me wants to tell her I was torturing a man for information because he attacked my mother. I won’t, but sometimes the burden is too much to bear.
I shake my head at the thoughts and focus on the race at hand. We need to take all four top positions, which will set us up for the World Championship.
I’m nervous about the next freestyle competition. I don’t feel ready and need to keep practicing. Someone gestures for us to get ready, and I take a deep breath, focusing on the dirt in front of me, tracking my line, and then glancing to my left and right.I will be first.Everyone likes to win, but for me, it’s almost like a compulsion. I have to win. If not, it’ll feel like I’ve failed more than losing a race. So, I do everything in my power to never let that happen. It’s part of the reason I’ve been the only stationary rider. Other guys have come and gone after winning, but I’ve always been here with Reece.
Rafe holds out his fist, and I tap it. Jennings does the same. It’s part of our ritual. The beep sounds, and then the gates drop. I gun it and track my predetermined line in my head, shooting ahead of the others. Now it’s just me and the dirt.
***
The finish line is in sight and I lean in, rocketing for it, spotting the checkered flag. I can sense other riders behind me. I tracked the team for most of the ride, but towards the end, the finish line becomes the only focus.
It comes up on me, and I cross it, slowing down and skidding to a stop. I spin to face the scoreboard, knowing I was first. We scored in the top three places, but Deacon Jennings fell back and scored fifth. We can work with that, though.
Everyone high fives, and we ride our bikes off the course to our main meeting area, where all of our tools and stands are. I kick my stand and pull off my helmet, shaking my hair out like a wet dog as sweat pours down my body. Cordelia tosses everyone a sports drink and stops at Jennings.
She levels him with a stare before handing it to me instead. “Get your head out of your ass, Jennings. You tried to cut number fifty-two off too early on a curve. You could have caughthim on the dragon’s back,” she says, referring to the large hill that’s typically jumped on the track. Cordi has always been around the guys during race days to cut the shit, but also she knows what she’s talking about. She was raised around this. Her dad was one of the best in the world back in the day.
“She’s right, Jennings,” Reece grumbles.
He tosses his helmet and steps up to Cordelia. She holds her ground, looking up at him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this girl was our coach, Reece? I’m not here to be criticized by the coach’s daughter. Maybe she should know her place, and—“ I’m off my bike and standing between them before he can get another word out. My hand wraps around his windpipe, and I squeeze. His eyes widen, and I look him right in his muddy pools. He grasps at my hand, but I hardly register it.
