Chapter 5
Cam
The cutest – caption from Cam’s social media post – a picture of Sadie sipping coffee in their backyard , March 1st
“How’d you do?” Luke’s voice comes through my phone.
Shutting the door to my hotel room, I answer, “Sixth.”
“ Sixth ? That’s—” He stops himself. “What happened?”
We both know that’s the worst qualifying placement I’ve had in twice as many races.
Qualifying is crucial. Each rider gets a set number of laps alone on the track the day before the race. Then, our best lap time is ranked against the other riders to determine our starting position for the actual race.
Sixth isn’t terrible, but it’ll make it tough to get podium—top three—and it’s not a great start for my first race on superbikes.
Rebuilding my reputation is important, but none of that matters if I don’t dominate this season.
I blow out a breath and explain to my best friend that I had a couple of decent laps but blew a tire on the last one.
“Shit,” he says.
“Yeah, shit,” I agree. Kicking off my shoes, I fall backward onto the bed.
“Ludlow?” he asks.
“First,” I answer. Ryan Ludlow grew up on the track with Luke and me, but when Luke stopped to start spinning wrenches, Ryan and I stuck with it. He moved up to superbikes a year before I had planned to, and he won the championship the last two years.
Luke doesn’t comment on Ludlow, just asks, “Hart?”
“She got tenth. Not bad,” I say. Shane Hart’s a wonder. She’s barely older than I was when I started racing 600s, and now she’s in her first year on superbikes. She’s the only woman on the circuit racing 1000ccs, and Luke and I both like to look out for her.
“Do me a favor and don’t mention my blowout to Sadie,” I tell Luke.
“Why would your roommate care about that?” he asks.
“She’s not just my roommate. We’re—” I stop myself mid-thought. She hasn’t been ready to tell our friends about us yet—doesn’t like the idea of lying to everyone. “It’s not that. I don’t care if she knows my qualifying position—honestly, I’m not sure she’d even know what it means—but she’s freaked the fuck out about my safety out there.”
There’s a pause before he says, “I get it. Is she coming tomorrow?”
“Not sure, but I want her there,” I sigh. Having her in my pit would mean more than she understands. It’s only my team—mechanics and coaches, and sometimes a close friend like Allie—who I have down by the track with me.
Luke’s quiet for a few seconds before asking, “What are you doing with her?”
“I like her,” I answer, no hesitation.
“She’s your roommate. You’re not supposed to—”
I interrupt him. “Can we not do this tonight?”
“Fine,” he sighs. But I know this won’t be the last time he brings it up. “If she comes, it’ll be her first race. Have you prepped her?”
“She’s watched them on TV before, but we haven’t talked about it much,” I say. “The last few days have been a whirlwind, so we didn’t get a chance.” The last few days have been a whirlwind, but that’s not the real reason we haven’t talked about it. Every time I bring up racing or even motorcycles, Sadie either changes the subject, shuts down, or leaves the room.
“Well, if she’s there, we’ll take good care of her,” Luke reassures me, likely sensing I’m not telling him the whole truth.
“Thanks, boss,” I say.
“See you in the morning,” he replies, ending the call. He used to be a race mechanic but gave it up to open his motorcycle shop and the bar he ended up sharing with Allie. He agreed to mechanic for me this season, saying he didn’t trust anyone else to manage the bikes. But I think he misses the track.
I throw my phone aside and strip down to shower off the grime and sweat from qualifiers. A lot of athletes have routines they can’t break— won’t break —before race day. I never got into a consistent routine like that, but I do make sure I have a quiet night alone before a race. Most guys stay in their trailers at the track, but if I do that, I get into trouble.
There were years when all I did was race and party. I’d race on a few hours’ sleep and somehow still pull out wins. Four years ago, one of the guys I partied with ended his career after a night like that. He made a stupid call and high-sided on a tight turn, scraping most of the skin off his clutch hand. His bike caused a pile-up, taking three other guys down with him. Fortunately, no one else was seriously hurt, but it was a heavy reminder that a tired racer is a dangerous one. It’s not only my life on the line out there.
Now, I barely drink during the season—never the night before a race—and I don’t have to sweat the random drug tests they throw my way. I make sure I have plenty of time the night before a race to wind down, watch a movie, and get a solid eight hours.
After my shower, I’m searching my phone for something to watch when it rings. A giant smile takes over my face. She’s never called me before.
“Hi, love. What’s good?” I ask, my voice warm.
“Do you have a jersey or something I should wear tomorrow?” she asks. “I mean, I know you don’t wear a jersey , but it should look like I’m with you, right?”
Too surprised to properly answer her question, I ask, “You’re coming?”
“Yes, silly,” she giggles.
“You made it sound like you’d rather do anything else,” I tease. She’s avoided it every time I brought it up since.
“I guess, but I need to be there,” she answers. “So, I’ll be there.”
Torn between excitement that she could actually show tomorrow and not wanting her to be uncomfortable, I remind her she doesn’t have to come.
“I’m coming,” she replies, determined. But why didn’t she want to come in the first place? “Cameron,” she says my full name to get my attention. “You got a jersey or what?”
“No jersey, but anything in black and yellow—those are my colors—would work. My number is 207 , and I’ve got boxes of Race Naked merch in the garage you’re welcome to.” The idea of Sadie wearing my colors, my number, anything with my name on it practically makes my dick hard. “Actually, if you go in my closet, all of that’s in there. Just wear anything that’s mine.”
“I can’t go in your room without you here,” she says, and I can picture the scandalized blush on her cheeks. “That’s so invasive.”
“I just told you to,” I say, digging through my bag for my headphones.
“Okay.” Her giggles echo off the hall around her.
“I’m sorry I can’t drive you tomorrow.”
“No worries,” she says, the sound of hangers sliding in the background. “Allie and I have it all worked out. Besides, you have to focus tomorrow. Can’t have you worried about driving me.”
“Driving you wouldn’t be a worry.”
“You get what I mean,” she says, and I can picture her waving her pink-nailed hand dismissively. “Has 207 always been your number?”
“Since day one,” I say, settling back onto the bed and putting on my headphones.
“Was sixty-nine taken?” she jokes.
“It was,” I answer, relieved it was. That number, with the Race Naked mantra, would’ve made it even harder to change my reputation. “February seventh was the date of my first race. When I had to pick a number at sign-in, it’s all I could think of. Not the most creative thing.”
“It’s a higher number than most of the racers I’ve seen on TV. Isn’t it?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, hopefully masking my surprise. I keep forgetting that even though she hates motorcycles for a mystery reason, she’s watched a lot of racing—mine included. “As you move up, they offer lower numbers—double digits, or if you’re really killing it—single digits. But 207 ’s been good to me. I don’t want to give it up.”
“Well, I like it,” Sadie says.
“Yeah?” I ask, running my hand along the tattoo on my neck of a checkered flag with my number over the top. “Why’s that?”
“It’s my birthday,” she says, shyly.
Now I’m definitely never changing it. “My first race was in 2007, so that would’ve been your—what—ninth birthday?”
“Eleventh, actually. Guess I’m older than you thought,” she says, closing my bedroom door.
Trying to guess what she picked from my closet, I answer, “Nah, I’m just bad at math. So, I was twelve, racing a barely-running dirt bike with Luke on February seventh, 2007. What did you do for your eleventh birthday? Do you remember?”
She hums quietly, bringing up the memory. “I think that was the year it snowed. It’s not rare to get snow in Boise in February, but that year it dumped on my birthday. School was canceled, so I spent the day baking with my mom. I forgot a whole sheet of cookies in the oven, and the house had that acrid, burnt smell all day,” she laughs.
“Is your mom the one who taught you to bake?” I ask.
“Yeah, she’s an amazing baker. I wanted to be just as good as her when I was a kid. Still do.”
“Do you still bake together when you see her?” I ask, realizing I know so little about her family.
“I don’t see her that much anymore,” she says, rushing to change the subject. “Did you remember to pack sunscreen?”
“Sure did,” I say, confused by the shift in conversation. “I’m the whitest person you know, and I’m covered in tattoos. I don’t leave home without it.”
“Good,” she breathes, sounding genuinely relieved. “I’ve just been thinking about your safety tomorrow—from the sun .”
“From the sun?” I ask, sitting upright.
“Yes,” she drags the word into two slow syllables. “It’s very dangerous—the sun is.”
“Okay?” I answer, unsure where she’s going with this.
“People go out in the sun , not thinking about the risks,” she says in a rush. “Just because they haven’t personally been hurt doing it—”
“Going outside?” I ask, trying to follow.
“Yeah, yeah, that,” she agrees, though it doesn’t feel like she should be. “Like maybe someone’s spent their whole life—” She takes a deep breath. “ Going out in the sun , and they’ve never—” There’s a long pause I don’t know how to fill. “ Personally gotten—” another pause. “Skin cancer. Yes, that’s it . Just because you’ve never gotten skin cancer doesn’t mean you won’t. Or maybe you got it once and survived. It doesn’t mean you’ll survive next time.”
“I guess that’s true,” I answer, wishing I could see her expression. “Maybe a little depressing and unnecessary to bring up right now, though. Don’t you think?”
“No, not unnecessary,” she practically scolds me. “Cameron.” She says my full name again. “You have to be very careful to protect yourself tomorrow—from the sun . You could get very, very hurt if you’re not careful.”
It finally clicks. She’s doing what I asked—avoiding the C word—but in her own way, she’s giving me a safety talk. It’s kind of adorable. “You’re right,” I say. “I could. The sun is dangerous. But I’m really, really good at being safe,” I stick with her metaphor, “in the sun . Some might even say I’m professional.”
“You can never be too safe.” She goes quiet again, and I feel lost without her body language. I wonder how she’d respond if I tried to video call her.
“The safest thing would be to just stay inside,” she says.
“That would make it awfully hard for me to race tomorrow.” I’m half touched, half hurt by how concerned she is. If she’d ever had a real conversation with me about this, maybe she’d understand why I need to race—how it feeds my soul—and I could explain the level of risk.
“I guess,” she sighs.
Maybe sticking with her analogy is the way to get through to her. “But I have extra layers of sun protection.”
“Yeah?” she asks, hopeful.
“Yeah. The helmet I wear is thick and padded. The sun doesn’t stand a chance against it.” Making sure she knows I know what we’re talking about, I add, “You know, if the sun ever did manage to get through my helmet, I’d throw it away.”
“ What ?” she gasps.
“I have backups for that exact reason. Every racer does.” Searching for a way to keep her calm, I say, “If a helmet’s compromised in any way—” I trail off, but she finishes the thought for me.
“If it was cracked somehow , and sunlight could get through?” she asks, being bolder than I expected.
“Straight in the trash. New helmet time. Same pretty much goes for my leathers and boots. Those are repairable, but I only wear them when they’re in good shape.” Would telling her my suit has an airbag freak her out more ? I skip it. “When I’m out there— in the sun —I’ve got layers of thick, sturdy fabric and foam that protect every inch of my skin. From a sun flare.”
I don’t even know what a sun flare is, but she doesn’t question me.
“Isn’t that expensive?” she asks, some of the severity dropping from her voice.
“It is,” I laugh. “That’s one of the reasons you’re helping me.”
“So, by pretending to be your girlfriend, I’m helping you stay safe?” she asks. I hear a muffled sound in the background.
“Exactly,” I say. “You feel a little better?”
“Actually, yes,” she says, surprised. “ Oh shit ,” she mutters under her breath. “ That still doesn’t look right—ugh .”
Before I can ask, she quickly ends the call.
It’s the first time in years I wish I wasn’t alone the night before a race.
When I wake up the next day, I find a text from her sent a little after three in the morning.
Sadie: Don’t forget your SPF!