Supercross Me (Motocross Me #2) (3 page)

“Did you read it?” he calls back.

“No.”

I think he gnaws on his bottom lip but it’s a little hard to tell from up here. “Well, it’s for you.”

“Oh cool, thanks.” I step back into the frigid room and get all the way back to my chair before I read it. It’s a memo template, probably printed from the internet, like something you would see in an office on a movie. Only, Lincoln has typed in his own message in all of the blanks and then printed it for me.

MEMO

URGENT?
-yes

FOR
– Hana

FROM
–Lincoln

MESSAGE
– Would you like to have lunch with me and discuss all of those secret work topics you know but haven’t shared yet? (Pizza at Magic Mark’s, on me) I would have just asked you but something tells me you expect the utmost nerdiness out of me, so you get this memo. That’s what nerds do, right?

*

Molly’s brown curls bounce up and down as she reads the memo. “Aww!” she croons, her mouth forming a little puppy face of excitement for me. “That is so cute!”

“Is it cute?” I ask, voice hushed in case we’re overheard. Which is unlikely, since we’re standing at the front of the track, pounding signs that advertise the next motocross event into the hard-packed dirt. There’s really no one around to eavesdrop. “Or is it kind of . . . I don’t know,
forward
? I mean, he just met me.”

She makes this face like everything I’m saying is too much to believe. “Ya’ll are kids. He’s just being cute.”

“He’s twenty-one and I’m eighteen,” I say, leveling the rubber mallet over the wooden stake in this sign. I throw all of my weight into the swing and the sign bumps down into the dirt half an inch. “We’re not kids anymore. He could have just asked me in person.”

“Trust me, honey. When you’re in your forties, everyone younger than you is just a kid. And I think it was his way of trying to get to know you better, but not putting you on the spot. So you can easily say no if you want.”

“If that’s the case, then why do I feel obligated to go?” I raise the mallet and bring it down as hard as I can, only to see it have very little effect on the sign.

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to do,” she says while she struggles with her own sign. I try to hand the mallet to her but she shrugs me off, preferring to stomp the thing the old fashioned way with her foot. “How about this?” she says, standing and wiping sweat from her brow. “I need you to help me with something in the house and it’ll take a few hours during lunch time. If you want, you can use this as an excuse to turn him down without it being weird.”

The excuse to get out of this lunch with Lincoln is a welcome relief that calms all of the anxiety and guilt I’ve been feeling since he gave me that memo two hours ago. While she waits for an answer, I run through all of the reasons that I don’t want to go. They all return to Ash. If not for him, I’d probably be excited at the opportunity to spend time with a cute guy who likes me. And maybe Ash has moved on, I don’t know. But I haven’t. Maybe I won’t be able to move on at all until I know what he’s doing. Until I know that it’s officially over, forever, for good, for always.

“Thanks, Molly,” I say, hefting the mallet into the air again. “I’d really like to help you during lunch.

Eight months ago – October

Ash was only a couple weeks into his professional racing career with Team Yamaha and already the world had changed. Well, my world at least. The daily routine of motocross and finding my place in the motocross family was just starting to become normal and then Ash got shipped away. He was flown first class to California where he met and mingled with all of the gods of the professional supercross world and got his name out there for the world to see. They sent him home with more dirt bike brand T-shirts and gear than he could fit in his bedroom.

Some of it was being stored in our garage, and a few of the shirts were now mine. I figured that if I was a girlfriend now, I’d get the fringe benefits of stealing a shirt or two. Or ten. Ash didn’t mind, and the very act of wearing one of his shirts to bed made my heart warm in a way it’d never warmed before.

It was Monday, and Teig was home sick from school. Molly was on a girl’s-only casino trip that she and some of the other motocross wives do every year, the kind of trip that sounds like a blast if you go with friends you’re really close with. Of course, Molly played it off like some kind of silly obligation and that it wasn’t her first choice to go and leave us all home without her like the helpless heathens we were.

“I wish Molly were here,” I said, sitting on the edge of Teig’s bed while I placed a cold, folded washcloth on his forehead. “I’m doing everything she told me to and your fever still hasn’t broken.”

Teig’s tanned cheeks were a shade paler than usual as he gazed up at me. He tried to talk but I shooshed him. “No talking while the thermometer is doing its magic.”

He rolled his eyes, and when the digital thermometer finally beeped and I took it, he spoke. “Mom doesn’t need to be here. You’re doing a good job.”

“Then explain to me why your fever is still one-oh-one,” I said, frowning. “You’ve taken the Tylenol and Motrin every four freaking hours, alternating each brand for whatever reason.” I sighed and handed him a bottle of water from his nightstand. “Drink more of this.”

He took the bottle by wrapping both of his warm hands over mine. “Hana, I’m fine, really. It’s just a fever and I haven’t puked in a while, so I’ll be fine soon. A ton of kids at school have been sick lately, so it’s just something going around.”

The doorbell rang and I stood, pointing my finger of authority at him. “Stay here. And get better.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, saluting me right before he rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his TV.

The sight of Ash at my front door made all of the worry over Teig temporarily melt away. I still got that stupid rush of anxious but beautifully perfect butterflies in my stomach whenever I saw him. His dreadlocks went to the middle of his back and today they were tied into a low ponytail where he took one dread and wrapped it around the others instead of using a hair-tie.

“Hey,” I said, a little breathless from the rushed jaunt down the stairs and across the house to get to him.

“Hey,” he said back, grinning while his blue eyes sparkled in a way that simultaneously melted me completely and innocently mirrored those of his twin sister, Shelby. “. . . Umm, can I come in?” Ash asked, breaking my reverie. Heat filled my cheeks and I jumped backward, swinging the door open wide for him.

“Sorry, I…” Knowing I couldn’t tell him the truth—that I’d been thinking about how perfect he is—I quickly thought up an excuse. “I’m just out of it today. Worried about Teig and all. Of course I want you to come in.”

“It’s just a bug, Hana. He’ll be fine.”

Ash stepped into the foyer and waited for me to close and lock the front door again. We were still so new in our relationship that he wasn’t yet comfortable letting himself inside and being at home. Later, he would be. He’d let himself in through the garage with the pin code I assigned for him (0336—his dirt bike number) and say hello to my parents and then surprise me by slipping into my bedroom while I was showering or otherwise not paying attention. For now, we were in that dawning phase of the relationship. Everything was new and unopened. Fresh and perfect. There were no fights or arguments on our relationship record, and we’d only made it to first base in the last few weeks . . . well, first on the way to second.

We were really good at that.

“So what’s up?” I asked, walking up to him and giving him my favorite kind of hug. The kind where I just stepped into him, wrapped my arms around his lower torso and let my head press against his chest. His arms always found their way around me, crossing on top of mine and holding me close, his muscles tightening in a way that made me never want to leave. “Don’t tell me you’re coming over to say goodbye.”

“Not yet. I don’t leave until Friday morning.”

I let out a little whoop and then backed up, taking him by the hand. “Netflix?” I asked, tilting my head toward the couch.

“Actually, I want to show you something on the computer. It won’t take long.” At the mention of whatever was online, his expression beamed more than when he’d seen me at the door just now. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts and gave me this wide-eyed little look of excitement. “I think you’ll like it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Show me.”

In my room, Ash sat at my desk and pulled up a website for some motocross company. There were too many of them to remember, but by the look of their website, all jam-packed with articles and photos, I figured it was a big company. I stood behind him, looking over his shoulder as he searched the homepage for the newest article. “Ready for this?”

I put my hands on my hips. “What could it possibly be? I already know you’re a professional now.”

“It’s something that comes with being a pro,” he said by way of explanation. He clicked the trackpad and then looked over his shoulder at me. “I made the calendar.”

“The
what
?” My eyes bulged. Chagrin and arousal hit me at the same time. Right there on the website, for the whole world to see, was an article about next year’s motocross calendar. More specifically:
Motocross Men – the only thing hotter than your exhaust pipe!

“Oh my god,” I said as I took over the mouse and scrolled down the website. There, in all his gorgeous motocross-god glory, was my boyfriend. Shirtless, wearing racing pants and boots, making his shy grin while he held onto a pair of goggles. He was standing next to Dylan Bakers, a seasoned professional racer, and they were in front of their dirt bikes. It wasn’t a scandalous photo or anything. It was actually cleaner than some of the others, but now people everywhere would be able to drool over my boyfriend for the entire month of April.

After scrolling through the rest of the article, I went back to Ash’s picture and read the caption. It mentioned that Ash was the first rookie to make the yearly calendar—available online and at the races for thirty dollars each—with the proceeds going to charity.

“What do you think?” he asked. When I looked at him, he was chewing on his thumbnail, and it hit me then that he was actually nervous about it. “They contacted me the other day for a photoshoot, and I didn’t even realize it was for the calendar until they brought me the papers to sign. Kind of cool, right?”

I kind of nodded and looked back at the photo. Not really sure how I felt about all of this, but certain that he looked downright hot, I saved the image as my computer’s wallpaper with a few quick clicks of the mouse. Ash chuckled and wrapped an arm around me, tugging me into his lap. “So you’re not mad or anything, right?”

I turned to face him, letting my fingers tangle into his. “Why would I be mad? That’s awesome, Ash.”

His shoulders relaxed and he ran his free hand through my hair. “Well it’s for charity and all, but Dylan was telling me how his wife gets kind of pissed about him being made into a sex symbol.”

I scoffed. “She shouldn’t. She’s, like, the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. She has nothing to worry about.”

Ash’s hand squeezed mine. “Well, if beautiful girls don’t worry about their boyfriends, then I guess I’m in the clear.”

I playfully punched him in the chest. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke about you thinking
I’m
pretty?”

“The
prettiest
,” he said. “Why, was it lame?”

I leaned forward until my forehead was pressed against his. “Very lame.”

“Sorry,” he whispered. “My sneaky compliments will be suave and sexy next time.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, letting my fingers twist around one of his dreads. They smelled tropical. We sat like that for a while, me curled up in his lap on my pink desk chair, while the photo of him stared back at us on my laptop.

“So, you’re like, totally famous now,” I said, titling my chin up to look at him.

He placed a soft kiss on my lips and considered it. “No, not really. But maybe a little bit.”

“I wonder what celebrity-type thing you’ll do next,” I murmured, leaning my head to rest on his shoulder. My finger traced the logo on his shirt. “You’ll get all famous and forget about me, the nobody loser in Hicksville, Texas.”

He shook his head. “That will never happen, Hana. I will never forget you.”

Present day - May

Turns out Molly really does have something for me to do in the house with her, so I don’t feel as bad for ditching Lincoln’s lunch date request. From the clean, non-exhaust-smelling living room, I help her sort five stacks of flyers into envelopes for the track’s quarterly mailing to everyone signed up on their list. The great thing is that it still counts as work so I’m still on the clock.

Luckily, Molly keeps the television on her favorite show, some drama about women lawyers, and she doesn’t bring up Ash, or Lincoln, or anyone else for that matter while we work. Unfortunately for me, my brain only wants to think about Ash and Lincoln. I try so hard to make up games in my head as I grab the papers, fold them together and stuff them in envelopes. I try to focus on the show, but I get the feeling it’s the kind of show where if you haven’t watched it from the start, you’re totally lost.

The sad part is that I’ve been doing pretty well lately—at least I was before I came back home for the summer. Ash is a part of the motocross world. And when the motocross world is out of sight, it’s out of mind. Now I’ve willingly flung myself wholly back into the scene. I live and work on a freaking motocross track. Why did I ever think coming home would be easy?

After my hard day’s work of stuffing envelopes and boasting about not getting a single papercut, Dad has me join him in the score tower for some catching up about college. It’s nice, hanging out with him; I barely saw him at all this last semester except for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and back then, I spent most of that free time with Ash.

He takes a sip from his soda and makes a grimace. “Ugh, this shit is like poison.”

My eyebrow quirks. “The soda, or the fact that it’s diet?”

Dad shakes his head and takes another sip even though it makes his face squish up in resentment. “This diet crap. Molly is making me eat and drink healthier now. Hey, I have an idea,” he says, his eyes going wide. “Help me refill all the two liter bottles with real Coke. She’ll never know the difference.”

I give him a warning glare. “She’ll know, Dad. She will
so
know.”

He makes a gagging sound. “That woman . . . always looking out for my best interests . . .”

“I know, what a bitch.” I roll my eyes and Dad bursts into laughter.

“She’s great, though, isn’t she?”

I nod and crack open a can of diet soda just to be supportive of him. I’d really rather have the kind without the weird acidy no calorie taste, too. “Molly is great.”

Dad runs a hand through his short hair, which is turning more gray than brown. He gazes out at the track. “So, you got any plans for tonight? Some Friday night shindig that I should be worried about?”

I lift my shoulders. There was a time when Friday nights meant date nights and late night movie watching while cuddling up with Ash. They’re the only off days on a weekend during racing season. Now, I hadn’t even realized it was Friday. “I’ll probably just hang out with Shelby,” I say. “No one has invited me to one of these shindigs you’re talking about.”

“Maybe we’ll throw our own party. You, your friends, and your dear old dad. We’ll have non-alcoholic drinks and play Scrabble . . . eat some kind of gross healthy food.” Dad winks at me and I shake my head in a violent but playful no.

“I am way too cool to be seen partying with my dad.” My phone beeps from inside of my pocket.

“I know, I know.” Dad waves a dismissive hand at me. “You’re off the clock now. Go have fun and enjoy being young.”

*

After a shower, I text Shelby before blow drying my hair. We’d talked earlier—an in-depth chat about how Jake had taken a family trip to Florida and brought her back a pink gold bracelet that was beautiful and romantic, she’d said, and its importance/purpose definitely had to be scrutinized with her best friend for an hour.

We’d gotten so swept up in analyzing the meaning of the bracelet—does he love her? Does it mean he wants to take things to another level? Is an engagement ring coming next? —that I totally forgot to ask what she’s doing tonight. Back before she and Jake got serious, I could count on Shelby being free anytime I was. Now, it’s a game of chance with weighted dice. I usually lose.

By the time she replies to my
what’s up
text, my hair is almost fully dry.

Cleaning out my closet. You?

I’m doing nothing…which is why I need my best friend! Wanna hang out?

My stomach twists as I send the text. If she declines, I’ll be left home alone with just my stupid thoughts to keep me company. The longer it takes her to reply, the more stressed out I get.

Finally, she replies.

Ugh, I already promised dinner at Jake’s. He’s cooking and everything. Wanna hang out later? It might be late.

Turns out trying not to get my hopes up doesn’t really help.
Sure
, I text back.
Just let me know when you’re free.

Will do! Love you
!

I tell her I love her too, and then I cringe as I realize what I’m about to do next. I haven’t talked to my friend, Alyson, in months, not since I ditched her party invite and subsequently politely declined every other invitation she sent my way. But these are hard times, and a girl could go crazy sitting in her room all night, so I find her name on my contacts list and send a message, an SOS of sorts, hoping that she’ll drag me to shore and save my night.

Her reply is instant, in true fashion to how she always has her phone in her hand.

OMG wish I could hang out! Forgot you’d be back in town but I’m in Mexico visiting my grandma for a few weeks. Hit you up when I get back!

I sigh, a long drawn out rush of annoyance and self-loathing, letting my shoulders sink until I’ve expelled all of my air and have to gasp for another breath. One thing that made college life great was that I was never really bored. I either had assignments to do, or I could walk around campus and look at art exhibits or peaceful protests, or even just bring my laptop to the coffee shop and hang out and people watch for a while. Now that I am home, there is nothing to do.

I hear the sound of my little brother rushing up the stairs, and without thinking about the lame factor of what I’m doing, I push open my door and meet him in the hallway. “Wanna hang out? We can rent a movie, even one of those dumb action movies you like.”

“Wow, you make it sound so fun,” Teig says, making a face as he sidesteps me and goes to his bedroom. “I’m staying at Lawrence’s house tonight. You can drive me if you want.”

I lean against his doorframe and cross my arms. “You’re too cool to hang out with your big sister? Fine, I guess I’ll have fun without you.”

“You could go on a date with Lincoln,” he says, shoving clothes from his dresser into a backpack. “Or call Ash and spend all night on the phone like you used to.”

“No more talking about Ash,” I say, my voice firm enough to make him look up at me. “I know you’re joking most of the time but just—don’t do it anymore. His name is no longer allowed around here.”

“My lips are sealed.” He grabs his phone and then unplugs the charger and shoves both of them in the backpack before zipping it shut. “But just so you know, I don’t think he’s over you.”

I ruffle his hair as he walks back to the stairs, although the gesture is vastly underwhelming when the
little
brother is as tall as I am. “What makes you think that?” I ask, following him down to the kitchen.

He shakes his head. “I’m not allowed to say the A-word,” he says, giving me this evil little look that makes me love him and also kind of want to punch him. “Maybe if you change your mind later, I’ll tell you.”

“Excuse you,” Molly says, peering over the back of the couch at us. “Teig is not allowed to say the A-word or any bad word for that matter.”

“We weren’t talking about curse words,” I say after we bid him farewell, telling him to have fun at his friend’s house. Dad’s driving him to Lawrence’s and as I sit next to Molly on the couch for the second time today, I kind of wish I would have driven him if only for something to do.

When Dad returns, we all sit around the table and have dinner together. Molly pours me a glass of wine and we hang out for a while. The irony of how pathetic I’ve become is not lost on me. It’s when the following Friday rolls around and I find myself in the exact same place, same chair at the same table, eating another one of Molly’s half-way healthy but still delicious dinners, I know I have a problem. I should be out doing something, not just sitting here. I could crash Shelby’s date. It’s not like I’d walk in on them doing anything dirty since Shelby’s all about waiting until marriage. I could hop in the truck and drive four hours to see my old friend Felicia, who still lives next to my mom’s house.

But neither of these sound like any fun. After dinner, I end up in my bedroom, endlessly surfing through the show options on Netflix, only to end up staring at the screen for half an hour, lost in thought.

Teig and I hadn’t mentioned the A-word since last week. No one’s mentioned it. Not even Shelby, when she met me for frozen yogurt after work last Tuesday. I can almost pretend he never existed at all.

Against my better judgement, I walk over to my desk and power up my laptop. Maybe I’ll send him an email—something friendly and maybe talking about the track’s summer events or something stupid. It’s less personal than a text and it’d let me hear from him. We’re supposed to be friends, after all.

Only, I bypass my inbox and go straight to social media. A feeling of hesitation claws at my insides, as if my brain knows I probably shouldn’t be doing this. But if anything, that only makes me more curious. I haven’t seen Ash’s Facebook page in a while. Normally, those parts of my brain that know better do their job and make me stay away. Tonight, they’re on vacation.

The first thing on his page is a post from a men’s fitness magazine that tagged him in it. The link on the article doesn’t have a picture, but the title is all I need to see to make my stomach clench up.

Supercross superstar Ash Carter’s washboard abs—and how you can get them!

When Ash was my boyfriend he never had “washboard” abs. They were good abs, no doubt, but you couldn’t exactly wash an article of clothing on them. Skeptical, I click the link, even though deep in my core I know I probably shouldn’t. 

And there he is, in all of his laundry-cleansing glory. My boyfriend, well ex-boyfriend, sitting on a weight bench wearing black shorts and Nikes, his glistening rock-hard abs the focal point of the entire shot. His dreads are short in the picture, a change I’m not used to seeing yet, even though I was the one who cut them a while back. They’re pulled back so that the angular features of his jaw make his causal smile look even more enticing. His blue eyes are looking off into the distance, at another girl for all I know, because the look on his face is pure serenity. Innocence and Bad Boy somehow all wrapped up into one. His skin is darker and his forearms are veiny from a recent workout.

He is drop dead gorgeous. He’s modeling for magazines now. He’s the recipient of three hundred and ninety-three comments at the bottom of a website article that I know better than to read. And he’s no longer mine.

We’d said the breakup was mutual. But it wasn’t.