he morning of the tournament arrives in a blur. In less than six hours, I'll be competing against the best of the best to take home the medal. Not just the best, but Tyler. While a part of me is thrilled that the tournament is here, a bigger part is terrified.

My stomach ends up hurting all morning. Even Mom's hearty breakfast of eggs and toast doesn't help untwist the knots. I sit at the table, pushing the eggs around with my fork, completely lost in my nerves. Dad watches me from across the table, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth twisted with concern. Nobody is speaking. I don't know if the silence is helping or making it worse.

Finally, Mom says, "Could you stop playing with your food? You're making me nervous."

"Sorry." I put down my fork just as my phone buzzes. Tyler's name appears on the screen with a preview of his message.

Warmth settles over me, briefly replacing the nerves. Tyler must be feeling it, too – especially with his Dad piling on the pressure as of late – but I know he won't show it. He'll act as if everything is fine when I see him, but deep down, he'll be as terrified as I am. I message him back and then put away my phone before picking up my fork again.

A part of me still wonders whether our relationship will stand it. Whether these few moments before the tournament are the best we'll ever have. But then I look at my parents, at how Mom brushes his cheek as she passes on her way to the fridge, and I know that's not true. Last year, it seemed as though everything we'd ever known was over, but now I see it was just the beginning. I have to believe it's the same for Tyler and me too.

Most of the morning is spent getting ready. I shower and pat myself dry with the towel before slipping on my riding gear. Each piece of gear helps to settle my nerves. I'm used to this routine, used to the feel of my gear as it slides across my skin: it's comforting.

By the time I am ready, it's almost time to leave for the track. I head downstairs with my helmet in my hand and then obsessively watch the clock. As I'm pacing the house, counting down the minutes until we leave, Dad calls me into the study. I cross the hallway and open the door, hovering in the doorway.

The lights are off except for the overhanging lamp by the armchair, casting a dim glow around the room. Dad is in his chair by the window, staring down at the photograph in his hands. At first, he's so quiet and still that I don't think he knows that I'm here. I step forward into the room and say, "Dad?" but it takes another second before he looks up and turns the photograph around.

It's an old one of Grandpa holding me in his arms a day or two after my birth. He's sitting in an armchair, staring at me with eyes so warm that I feel his love through the picture. He died of a heart attack a few days later.

"You know, this picture has been with me everywhere," Dad says. "I used to take it with me to all of my races, and just before I slipped on my helmet, I'd get it out and stare at it." He looks up now, searching my face with a wistfulness that hurts my chest. "He never really got the whole racing thing, but in the seconds before a race, he would tell me: whether you win or lose, you'll always be a champion."

A far-off look slowly settles on his features, not sadness exactly, but gratitude. "I didn't get it back then, didn't see how losing could make you a champion, but I get it now." He puts the picture down on the table and finally meets my gaze. When he does, his eyes are filled with the same kind of warmth I'd seen in that picture of Grandpa. "I'm proud of you, Roxy, far prouder than I ever was of myself. Whether you win or lose, you'll always be a champion to me."

My throat grows thick with emotion. I stumble forward, throwing my arms around his neck and resting my head on his shoulder. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he whispers. "Go get 'em, kid."

I wipe away the first sign of tears and step into the hallway. A glance at the clock reveals what I already knew: showtime. I turn to Dad, who reaches out and squeezes my palm with his, letting me know it's okay. Together, we head down the hallway and into the kitchen to meet Mom, who has spent all morning making me sandwiches and drinks to take to the tournament. I don't bother to tell her I have no appetite to speak of, I just say thank you and follow the pair to the van.

The car ride is mostly in silence. I prefer it this way, really, because at least it gives me time to think. My thoughts are racing as I imagine my competitors, committing their strengths and their weaknesses to memory.

When I'm finished studying the riders, I focus on the points system. The way the tournament works is like this: there's what they call two 'motos'. Each Moto runs for thirty minutes, plus two laps at the end of each 30-minute Moto. Riders are awarded points based on the position in which they finish the race, and whoever finishes after 20th place will have a score of 0.

In the first Moto, first place earns you 25 points, second, 22, and third 20. But there's a catch: if you happen to come 1st in your first race and 2nd in your second race, but one of your opponents was 2nd in the first race and 1st in the second, they'd win even though you both had the same total of points.

Supposedly, the reason they score like this is so that any possible ties are 'broken' by the better rider of the second moto race, leaving a clear winner. That means that even if someone else wins first, I still have a chance in the second. Of course, the best way to ensure a win is to come first in both, earning a total of 50 points, which I'm going to do.

I hope.

The car slowly rolls to a stop. I glance out of the window, so lost in my thoughts that I'd forgotten where I was, but now that I stare at the vastness of the track, the anxiety hits me like a tidal wave. I have never seen so many people in one place. The place is packed, even more so than the qualifying rounds had been, and suddenly, I am suffocating.

People are everywhere, gathered in herds around their cars or the entrance. Some of them have banners with the names of my competitors, while others hold cameras or bouquets like we're celebrities or something. In the distance, I spot what must be journalists with those professional cameras perched on their shoulders.

My hands start to shake as I clasp them in front of me. I thought the familiarity of this place might make this less daunting, but it doesn't. If anything, the place that once made me feel comfortable now feels foreign and vast, filled with thousands of faces I've never seen before.

I turn to my parents, watching as Mom helps to lower Dad's wheelchair. He's looking around, drinking in every inch of the track like a kid in the candy store. Grief fills his eyes, just for a moment, a second, before he turns back to face me with a pride in his eyes that couldn't be contained if he tried.

My mother stops to take it in too. It's clear she's uneasy – I can tell by the way her hands clench Dad's chair like she's using it to keep her steady. She's looking around, taking in the flashing cameras and the track's graceful curves, and she'll be thinking of Dad's accident. Even though I'm trying not to, I'm thinking the same thing too.

"There's a while before it starts," I say, turning to them. "I'm going to go and find my friends. You guys go and set up by the track, okay? I'll try and find you before it starts."

Dad nods. I'm about to leave, but Mom surges forward and captures me in her arms, hugging me tightly. "I love you," she breathes.

Chest tight, I squeeze her back. "I love you too."

My heart pounds faster when I'm forced to let her go. I hug Dad too. Even though I'm trying not to dwell on this fact, the outcome of a race is never certain. One wrong jump, wrong turn, and everything changes just like that: my father is living proof.

When I've said what feels a lot like goodbye, I push through the crowd, searching for my friends. Not just for my friends, but for him, the one person I am desperate to see more than anyone – the one person I'm certain can ease all my fears.

Tyler.

❤️