he next few weeks end up blurring together. When I'm not at school with Vanessa, at home with my parents, or working with Alex, I'm training at the track with Tyler.

It's like I'm divided into four different people, and each person has a role to play: the student, the worker, the daughter, and the racer. It's manageable for now, but sooner or later, these people, these worlds, are going to collide–that's when things will get messy.

My sessions with Tyler are what I look forward to most. It's not just the riding, it's being able to learn from someone so experienced in racing. Some of the things Tyler shows me I've never even heard of, and I feel myself becoming a better rider for it.

In between riding, I manage to squeeze in some sessions at the gym. I find Saturday mornings are the quietest time to exercise, and I'm just finishing on the rowing machine when Tyler walks in. He stands in the doorway and briefly looks over. He's wearing a tight black tee that conforms to his arms and some black sweatpants. The more he trains with me, the more I can't help but notice just how good he looks in them.

"Hey," he says. He walks over and grins as he adjusts the weight machine next to me.

I smile. "Hey."

We train in silence for the next fifteen minutes, because Tyler quickly learned that any conversation during these sessions is too much of a distraction for both of us.

He stops to have a drink at one point, and he glances at my leg press machine before shaking his head in disapproval. "C'mon," he says. "You can push heavier than that." He puts down his water bottle and changes the weight without waiting for my response.

"That's too heavy," I say. "I'll pull a muscle."

"It's not." He moves in front of me and stands between my legs. I immediately tense, aware of how intimate this position feels. He rests his hands on both of my thighs, and I all but stop breathing. "Relax," he says. "If you lift and it's too heavy, I'll take the weight."

I hesitate, because what he's really asking is for me to trust him, so after a second, I do. I go to lift the leg bar, which is heavy, but Tyler is right–it's not impossible. I manage around two sets of six before the weight becomes too much, and Tyler immediately grips the bar and helps to lower it back down.

He looks up and grins. "See? Sometimes you just need to push yourself and trust that you can do it."

My heart is pounding. Even though his hands are no longer on my thighs, it still feels like they are. "I didn't know you were such a motivational speaker."

He smirks and helps to pull me to my feet. "One of my many qualities."

I try to straighten up and realize my legs feel wobbly. It's the same feeling I'd gotten when I first started training, a mix of fatigue and weakness that makes me feel shaky.

Tyler drops my hand and slips his around my waist instead, suddenly looking concerned. "Are you all right?"

My skin under his palm starts to prickle. This is the most physical contact we've had since I've known him, and it's making it hard to think straight. "I'm fine, I think I just pushed myself a little too hard. I need to go and shower–my shift starts in thirty minutes."

He nods, and I break apart from his embrace before grabbing my phone. There is a text from Vanessa inviting me to some party next weekend and a missed call from Mom. I text Vanessa back to tell her I'll come, and she sends me the address. Then I call Mom, who answers the phone within half a second like always.

"Hey, Mom. Everything okay?"

"Hey, honey. Sorry for calling, I know you're busy at work."

For about a second I'm confused, but then I remember I'd lied about what time my shift starts today. Mom's starting to get suspicious with all of the training and workouts, so I told her I've been picking up extra shifts at work, instead.

"It's fine, I'm on my lunch break now. What's up?"

"I just called because your dad and I are thinking about going out for a meal. What time does your shift finish? If it's soon, we'll wait for you."

"No, it's fine, you guys go. I'm doing some extra hours so I'll be here until tonight."

"Okay, see you tonight, then," she says. "Love you."

"Love you." I hang up the phone and turn around, straight into Tyler's chest.

He towers over me with his arms folded, a boyish grin on his face. "You're turning into quite the little liar."

I narrow my eyes at his judgy tone. "I just don't want her to keep worrying. It's not like I'm lying about taking drugs."

He lets out a laugh, and it's the deepest, sweetest sound. "Why are you jumping straight to drugs?"

"I'm just saying it's not like I'm sneaking around doing something crazy."

He raises an eyebrow like this logic is absurd. "You need to come clean. The qualifying rounds are soon."

"I know, you've told me." According to Tyler, to qualify for the tournament, you first have to enter the qualifying rounds next month. It's a simple race held at Parkwood's race track that ensures the riders entering have what it takes to race. I'm not exactly worried, but I've been training just as hard regardless.

"Okay," Tyler says slowly. "Did you know that to race you need parental permission if you're under 18?"

My heart drops. "Shit." I'd known parental permission was needed for the championships, but by the time they come around, I'll be eighteen anyway–I just hadn't accounted for the qualifying rounds. "What am I going to do?"

Tyler steps closer, and I suck in a breath. "Here's a thought," he says. "Tell the truth?"

I fold my arms and crane my neck to look at him. "You're not getting it. Telling the truth would mean not being able to race at all. My dad nearly died, Tyler. There is no way my mom is going to agree to let me race, and there's no way my dad is going to go behind my mom's back. I'm officially screwed."

Tyler rubs his temples, but I know he's not concerned for my benefit. If I can't enter the qualifying rounds then I can't enter the tournament, and he can't prove to everyone that he can beat me if I don't compete.

"Look, we've still got a month," he says, "we can figure it out. Are you close to getting a new bike? You'll need to get used to a new one before you race in the qualifying round."

I bite my lip, because I've researched the kind of Motocross bikes I'd want, and they're way out of my pay scale. "I'm working on it." I swing my backpack over my shoulder and add, "I really need to go, I'll see you later."

He looks like he wants to say something more, but instead, he says goodbye. I head into the locker rooms to shower and change for my shift. I think about the qualifying rounds as I lather up my hair, trying to think of a solution. My mind turns and turns, but nothing useful comes to mind. I either ask my dad for permission and pray he doesn't tell my mom, or I don't compete.

My shift at the bar is relatively uneventful. I spend most of the day cleaning tables and talking to Alex, who shows me how to dry the glasses without leaving watermarks and how to use the new vacuum.

I'm busy clearing away plates on the patio when the next race starts. An earlier rainfall means the track looks misty and damp, but I like the earthy smell it gives off. It's better than the car fumes I'd smell back home.

It's strange how much has changed over such a short time. Seven months ago, I'd been living in a different state, dealing with the aftermath of Dad's accident and obsessing over the fact I'd never ride again. Now Dad is becoming himself again, and I'm not only riding, I'm hoping to compete. I guess it's true what they say: there can't be any good without a little bit of bad.

Alex and I take our break at the same time and lean over the balcony to watch the race. It's quiet for a moment as we study the track, and I briefly imagine her as a little girl, showing Tyler her secret hiding place. It brings a smile to my face.

"So," she says, glancing over, "you missing home yet?"

"No, not really." I think about Kianna and what she's doing right now. Probably at the mall, or the movies, or the gym. She was as much of a fitness buff as I was. "I mean, I miss my friend, but no. Back home just reminds me too much of my dad's accident. I kind of like that we're starting again."

"I get that," she says. "Sometimes I wish I could get out of this town, start again somewhere."

"What's stopping you?" I ask.

She shrugs and looks at the track. "I go to college just outside of town, which will tie me here for another three years." She stops, but I don't say anything yet–I know she's not finished. "I don't know if Ty told you, but our dad owns this bar. He bought it when he retired from racing, and it's kind of like his baby."

"No, he didn't," I say. "So, this is your dad's place?"

She nods and looks into the distance. "He relies on me to help look after it. All that racing and training really took a toll on his body." She shakes her head and laughs, but it's not out of humor. It's the desperate kind of laugh that you do when you're trying not to cry. "It's the part they don't tell you about, the warning on the side of the label. Riding is great in your glory days, but the long hours, injuries, and training can leave you with problems. Some days, he can't even get out of bed. I can't imagine not being here to take care of him."

My chest tightens. I reach over and squeeze her arm. "I get it. If my dad didn't have my mom to help, I don't know how we would have coped."

Alex nods, still looking at the track. "My parents are divorced, so it's up to me to take care of him."

"What about Tyler?" I ask.

She frowns and says, "Tyler only thinks about himself. Come on." She glances at her watch and pushes herself off the railing. "Break's over."

I watch as she heads to the next nearest table and forces a smile at the customers. I don't know what happened between her and Tyler, or to their family, but I do know they're hurting, and deep down they must miss each other, even if they won't admit it.

❤️