he first thing I do when I get home is message Tyler, letting him know we're back on. While I might not be able to race in the mornings anymore – our early morning sessions are a little too obvious – we've still got the weekends and my breaks during work, as well as the night.

My heart thumps wildly all the way through dinner. Now that I'm back to being the world's worst child, I'm trying my best to make everything seem fine, which seems to satisfy my parents. Things return to normal as Mom passes the potatoes and Dad excitedly tells us about an article he's writing. I gush about school, telling them all about Vanessa and Niko and how much I like them.

"That's great, honey," Dad says.

"You should invite them over for dinner," Mom says. "We'd love to meet them."

I force a smile through a mouthful of potato. "Will do."

It's nearing eleven when I make it to the track. My parents have already gone to bed, so I change into my gear and sneak onto the patio, sliding down one of the pillars. I tug on the garage door which is locked, my bike tragically stored inside, so I have to walk the twenty minutes.

Tyler is there before me, leaning against his bike as I cross the distance between us. He straightens up, and there's this second where he gives me this look that makes my heart jump.

"You sure this is a good idea?" he asks.

I fold my arms. For someone who's willing to go around making bets about people, he's sure hung up on a little lying.

"I'm not letting people think I dropped out because I'm scared to race," I say. There's a bite to my tone, which causes him to raise a brow, but I can't help it. Sam's words are still etched into my head, driving me crazy. Maybe Ty was right, maybe you can't beat him. Between that and the qualifying rounds fast approaching, it's enough of a wake-up call to realize that Tyler is not my friend, nor someone I can trust. I need to focus on the race, on becoming the best rider I can be, and that means keeping Tyler Wakeford at a distance. "Sam made it clear after our conversation today that if I drop out, it's because I'm in way over my head."

Tyler doesn't say anything, just stares stonily out at the track, which annoys me. Finally, his jaw contracts. "I heard about your conversation. You fell right into his trap, you know that?"

I pause, and then, "How?"

He rolls his eyes like I'm clueless. "You're a bet to him, Roxy. He saw you losing motivation, and he gave you the fire you needed to carry on. Manipulation 101."

I don't want to believe him, but he's making a lot of sense: Sam manipulated me point blank and like a moron, I fell for it. Still, I suppose it gave me the kick I needed to carry on racing, even with everything at stake. If I can just qualify next week, if I can make it to the championship, this won't all have been for nothing.

"Isn't that what I am to you, too?" I ask. "A bet?"

The words are out before I can think. I hold my breath in the silence that follows. His eyes flit to mine, black as night. It's foolish to ask questions you don't want answered, but now I wait with bated breath.

Instead of an answer, he says, "Your pride is going to get you in trouble one day, you know that?"

I think about telling him if it wasn't for his pride, there wouldn't be a bet. "It's not about pride," I say, "It's about racing. Sam can think whatever he wants. The only thing that matters is I qualify next week, which means we have a lot of work to do."

If he's surprised by my abruptness, he doesn't show it. He just straightens up, nods at the track, and says, "Ready when you are."

I take the KTM from the parking bay and meet Tyler by the starting line. It's strange to be riding at night like this. I'm used to the track being dusted by gold, brightened by the burnt horizon, but tonight it is dark, eery, save for the outdoor lamps around the track. It's an added challenge, but if I can manage this course in the dark, I can manage at the qualifying rounds.

Head tilted, I glance at the sky through my goggles. It's a liquid purple, the sky littered with bright little stars. I'd think this somewhat magical if I weren't here with Tyler.

Romantic.

When I'm ready, Tyler rides the track with me until I'm used to riding at night. We go slowly at first, then pick up the pace, zipping past corners and rolling up hills before crashing back down to reality. I feel weightless on a bike, like a bird whose wings are spread mid-flight, able to feel the wind through my feathers.

After a little while, Tyler takes his position on the railing and watches me ride alone. I try to block him out, to not get so hung up about what little things he's going to criticize next, I just focus on the gentle hum of the engine beneath, on the adrenaline propelling me forward.

I lean forward on the corners, finally used to the feel of this bike. It had felt foreign at first, the opposite to what riding on my own bike had felt like, but now I'm getting used to its temperament, to the feel of its edges beneath me. With a little more practice, my rides on this bike could be as seamless as Tyler's on his.

Tyler has me ride the track at least a dozen times. Each round, my confidence grows as I mentally picture each turn and jump before they've even come up. A part of me still can't believe that I'm here, that a track like this fell so easily into my lap. When I'd first moved to Parkwood, I was certain my dreams of riding were over, but right now those dreams feel more alive than ever.

It's not long before he's beckoning me over, and I brace myself for impact. I pull up in front of him, noting the almost clinical way he's assessing me.

Without a word, he slips behind me, placing a hand on my waist. "If you position yourself a little better, you'll have more control of the bike." Slowly, softly, he rests his hands either side of my hips and pulls me back into position. His hands feel solid, warm through my gear, and heat starts to stir in my chest.

I swallow hard, leaning into him a little. He tenses behind me, but his grip on my hips remains gentle. "Like this?" I ask.

I feel his head lower, his mouth positioned just above my ear. "Perfect."

Goosebumps bound across my skin. I'm suddenly all hot, my mind going to places it definitely shouldn't be. Clearing my throat, I say, "Anything else?"

"There are little things we can work on–" his hands fall away, and it's like I can finally breathe again, "–but I think you're ready for the qualifying round." Coming from him, this is practically a compliment. "We just need to keep working on your speed and that damn leg."

"Hey," I say, "don't curse at my leg."

He smirks a little. I have to look away. "You hungry?" he asks. "Mojacks is still open."

I hesitate. It's already late, and going to Mojacks with Tyler is the opposite of keeping things professional, but I find myself saying yes, anyway.

After parking the KTM in the bay, we take his bike to Mojack's. Talking is impossible against the hum of the wind, so I settle for leaning my head on his back, enjoying the turbulence of the uneven road. But even being at ease like this, I can't silence that voice in my head, the one that is saying this is wrong. I shouldn't be spending time with Tyler outside of our sessions – it can only lead to something bad.

❤️

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