SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance)(102)

The fates must have had other ideas, though, because the back wheel lost traction and slid out sideways. I slid with it, waiting for it to pull back into line, but the rear tire glided back over the tarmac and quickly picked up grip. I didn’t have time to scream before, with a force found in few other sports on this planet, my bike jolted upright, hurling me violently over the handlebars, and flipped. The last thing I saw was the ground heading towards me, far too quickly.





Summer



I knew it. We watched the monitors showing the bikes lining up on the grid when there was a sudden cut to a black bike with red wheels ploughing through the grass at incredible speed. It threw up mud and turf as it slid, hit the gravel, and bounced before flying into the tire wall, sending debris in every direction before it split apart and burst into flames.

My heart was in my mouth. Was this really happening? Keith put a hand on my shoulder as we searched the screen for a sign of the rider. We knew it was James, even though we hadn’t seen him or the number on his bike, and when the camera finally did focus on his prone, unmoving body, tears welled up in my eyes. I felt a huge, silent scream building inside me and knew if I let it out I’d never be able to stop. I buried my face in Keith’s chest.

I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t believe this was happening again. I kept my eyes shut tight; all I could see was the look on my mother’s face when she took that call about my dad. I heard the announcer confirming it was James, saying they had no idea what had gone wrong or how such a big crash could happen on the formation lap. The marshals were tending to him and the ambulance had been dispatched, the announcer continued, and obviously, the start of the race would have to be delayed.

Fuck them! James was lying hurt or dead and all they cared about was a late start? I knew there was a reason I hated this so-called sport. I didn’t realize it, but I sobbed into Keith’s shirt. He had an arm around me and stroked my back, telling me James was going to be okay.

“Come on,” he said finally and almost carried me over to one of the pit officials who agreed to take us in his golf buggy to the medical center over by the control tower.

The ambulance was twenty minutes away. We waited by the door and heard the race start as the paramedics pulled up. They opened the van door and pulled out the stretcher with James on it. He still had his helmet on, so I couldn’t see if he was awake or even alive, but they’d also put a neck brace on him, which I didn’t think they would bother with if he were dead.

We followed him and his attendants in, just like they did on TV, and they told us to wait outside so they could do their jobs. An agonizing ten minutes followed. I banged on the doors and Keith tried to calm me before the circuit doctor appeared and approached us. My mind was close to shattering. What if he was paralyzed? Brain damaged? Comatose? I pictured us older, me having to spoon-feed his bed-bound body. Was I invested enough to spend the rest of my life taking care of him? I was a total mess, and I just wanted to run back to Austin and cry for a month.

The doctor had a pained look on his face, and I steeled myself for the worst.

“James has been very lucky,” he said. Both Keith and I let out a breath we didn’t know we were holding. The doctor continued, “He was knocked unconscious. He’s awake now, but he has a concussion. It looks like he may have fractured his left wrist and shoulder, but we’ll need some x-rays to confirm. It looks like nothing that won’t mend. Like I said, he was lucky.”

“Thank god.” I felt such relief that all I could manage was a rough croak. “Can we see him?”

“Not just now. Let us treat him first and make sure there is no more serious damage. Right now, he needs to rest from the bang on his head. We’ll call you in a little while so you can visit.” The doctor’s Spanish accent was strong, but his English impeccable. His manner was a little too professional, though. He delivered his news and immediately turned on his heel and vanished back into the triage room. I turned to Keith.

“It was Suzi,” I hissed at him. “Suzi and Blake. She told him to cause James’s crash, I know it.”

“Even if you’re right”—Keith seemed to be thinking aloud—“there’s nothing we can do about it. There’s no proof, and if anything was caught on film, it would just look like a racing incident.”

“That may be true,” I said. “But it’s not going to stop me from confronting her.”

The medical staff told us James needed to rest, so I made Keith take me back to the pits. I left him in the garage and stalked off to find that bitch, Suzi.

I spied Blake as I neared his garage. I was angry, but I needed to keep control. This didn’t need to turn into an episode of Jerry Springer. He still had his leathers on, the race only just over, and he looked gross, sweaty, and even uglier than the last time I saw him. He was heading for his trailer and didn’t notice me until I spoke.

“Did she make good on her deal yet?” I asked him. He jolted around in surprise.

“What do you mean?” he responded, clearly flustered. His lack of confidence showed that talking to women was definitely not one of his most practiced pastimes.

“Suzi? Did you get your reward, or do you think she’s waiting in your trailer for you?”

“Listen,” he protested. “I don’t know what you think you’re talking about…”