15. 15
Take Your Time – Sam Hunt
T he dull thud of boots hitting metal rattles through the quiet inside my helmet, snapping the edge off the focus I’ve been clinging to.
Tension pulls tight, low in my chest. I sit hunched forward on the edge of the pit wall, elbows on my knees, fingers loose but twitching slightly.
Around me, there’s movement in every direction: engines rumbling beneath half-closed hoods, riders stretching out shoulders, fiddling with gloves, slapping visors down.
There’s a hum in the air—not just from the machines but from the crowd somewhere beyond the barriers.
That kind of electricity that builds just before something explodes.
I suck in a slow breath and let it roll out again, steady and long.
Always the same rhythm.
Left glove first, snug at the wrist. Then the right. Chin strap clicks once, then again. A tilt of my neck, side to side. Palms flat against my thighs. A slow count backward from ten—not that it ever fully works. But it calms the chaos just enough.
I shift slightly, adjusting my grip on my helmet, gaze fixed on the shimmer of heat lifting off the asphalt ahead.
From behind the grandstands, the sound starts to rise—a rolling wave of chatter, shouting, the unmistakable screech of a burnout in the distance.
It’s familiar and comforting in its own wild way.
“Oi, Mikey!”
I know that voice. I don’t even need to look to know.
I turn in the direction of where it came from, and of course, Harrison’s already halfway over the railing, landing with a solid thump beside me just as some poor staff member jogs over behind him, flailing a clipboard like it’s going to stop him.
“You can’t be back here!” the guy yells.
Harrison just tosses him a lazy thumbs-up without even turning. “Relax, mate. I’m his emotional support sibling.”
He strolls up with his arms folded across his chest, chin tilted like he owns the place. His grin is the same as always. Wolfish and boyish all at once.
“You good?” he asks, dropping the bravado just long enough to sound like my brother.
I wipe the back of my glove across my brow. “Bike’s ready. Just gotta make sure I don’t fuck up turn four again .”
“You won’t. You’re more patient now. Smarter.” His tone shifts with weight behind it. “You’ve got this.” He leans in a little closer, voice dropping. “Oh, and uh… just so you know, she’s here.”
I glance up, pulse ticking in my ears. “Who?”
He shrugs, already stepping back. “You know who. Don’t act dumb.”
And just like that, he turns, whistling low as he hops the fence again, completely unfazed by the official still chasing him down.
The tension at the start line wraps tight around my shoulders, but I keep my grip steady. The Ducati hums beneath me, engine purring low and confident as I guide it into place. My eyes lock onto the track ahead, sunlight bouncing hard off the asphalt, heat rising in slow, uneven waves.
I flick my visor down, and the world dulls. It’s just me now.
Me, the bike, and the road ahead.
The marshal steps forward, raising the flag without fanfare. There is no dramatic pause. No cinematic buildup. Just a quick lift, a flash of green—and we’re off.
The pack launches forward as one. Engines scream to life, tyres squeal against the hot concrete, bodies lean hard into the first bend. My focus sharpens, cutting through the noise. I don’t look to either side. No point.
I already know who’s pushing ahead and who won’t last more than a lap.
The Ducati handles exactly how it should—smooth through the curves, steady on the throttle. I lean into the turn, shifting my weight low and tight. The edge of my boot kisses the track, but I hold it. One corner down. Dozens to go.
The first lap flies. I quickly find my pace, breathing steady, body falling into that familiar rhythm. Once I’m in it, there’s no room for second-guessing—just clean lines, smooth shifts, and sharp focus. Every lean. Every flick of the wrist. It’s all got to be tight.
The second and third laps blur together.
Heat builds under my gear, sweat sticking at the back of my neck and between my shoulders, but I don’t ease up.
This is the part where most riders start to fade.
You push too early, you burn out, but I don’t make that mistake.
I know how to hold pressure, how to wait for the right moment to strike.
By the fourth lap, I’m closing the gap. First place is still a few lengths out, but I’ve got eyes on him now.
He’s close enough for me to study how he rides—where he eases, where he gets sloppy.
He’s fast, yeah, but jumpy in the corners.
He doesn’t hold his line well. I stick to mine. Keep the throttle where it needs to be.
Final lap.
I push the throttle hard out of the first turn, letting the engine open up fully.
The Ducati responds with everything it’s got, the vibration running up through my arms like it’s part of me.
We hit the straight and I’m right there on his tail, eating up the distance one corner at a time.
Coming into the last bend, I see my chance.
He leans wide. I cut in sharper, tighter, holding nothing back.
For a second, we’re side by side—tyres spinning, engines screaming, the crowd a blur in my peripheral vision.
But he edges it out.
He crosses just before me. A fraction of a second.
I hit the finish line on his tail, the sound of the engine still roaring in my ears as we slow down, the rush giving way to the burn in my chest and the weight in my limbs.
Second place.
Not bad. Not great either. I pull off to the side, lifting my visor. The crowd’s on their feet, cheers echoing across the track. I take a breath, let it out slowly, and run a hand over my jaw as I make my way over to the group.
The Esky lid thuds shut behind me. I grab a beer, crack it open with more force than necessary, and take a long pull. The rim of the bottle has barely grazed my lips when Xavier’s arm hooks around my neck, locking me in a sudden chokehold. “Second place, mate! Fucking weapon.”
Harrison’s slap to my back is next, though it feels more like a shove. “That corner on lap four? Christ. You practically kissed the ground.”
I shrug. “Meh. Still came second.”
“Don’t start,” Harrison mutters. “You rode hard. Top shelf shit.”
I nod, but my eyes are already scanning the crowd. Caps. Sunglasses. Dust kicked up from boots, and kids tearing past, chips in hand.
But not her.
And I don’t know why I’m even looking. It doesn’t make sense.
She’s not easy. Not warm. Half the time, she looks like she’d rather throttle me than talk.
She keeps her walls so high, I’m not sure if there even is a door.
I’ve met women like that before—beautiful, brittle, with something behind their eyes they don’t let anyone see.
And I never stuck around long enough to try. But Zoe? She’s different.
Or maybe I’m the one who is different around her.
Of course, Harrison picks up on it and tips his chin toward the food stalls. “C’mon. Girls are over by the trucks. I could use a feed.”
He’s already walking before I can blink, and Xavier falls into stride beside him, talking about something I don’t catch.
I follow them because I’m in no mood to just stand around.
The sun is setting low now, coating everything in that late arvo glow.
Kids race between legs with melted snow cones, someone’s old ute plays country tunes, and the smell of onions, hot chips, and burnt oil hangs heavy in the air.
Everyone’s laughing. Easy. Relaxed. But I can’t shake the restlessness sitting under my skin.
I’m only halfway to the food stalls when I get sidetracked. A group of women veers into my path—heels clacking, laughter loud, eyes already locked on me. One of the women steps forward, and my eyes scan her face before recognition sets in.
Dark curls, tanned skin, mouth painted in something glossy and red. She’s shorter than I remember, but it clicks—The Loose Lasso, about a month back. Her name escapes me. I’m usually decent at remembering that sort of thing, but apparently not anymore.
She must catch the flicker of recognition—or lack of it—because she lets out a light laugh and holds out her hand, confidently. “Sophia. We’ve met before.”
“We have, indeed,” I reply with a quick nod, trying to smooth over the lag in memory. One of her friends slides up beside her and taps my arm.
“You were insane out there,” she says, all lashes and perfume. “Looked real good on that bike.”
“Thank you,” I offer, polite but flat, pairing it with a smile that probably doesn’t hit my eyes.
The others echo her. More compliments. Flirting.
Questions I don’t really have answers for.
Because I’m already drifting—my mind elsewhere.
Eyes scanning for someone who’s not here for the show. That’s when I spot her.
Zoe.
She’s standing beneath a string of fairy lights, arms folded, chin lifted just enough to make a point.
That red hair of hers catches the glow, and for a split second, it stops me cold.
But it’s her eyes that land the real blow.
Sharp. Piercing. Focused on me with just enough bite to let me know she’s not impressed in the slightest.
She’s surrounded by the others—Imogen, Isla, my brother—people who know each other inside out. She should look out of place. But she doesn’t. Not even a little. There’s something about the way she stands there, watching it all like she’s already decided how long she’ll let herself stay.
And I get the feeling she won’t be here long. Maybe she’s already planning her exit. Someone beside me says something. Another comment, but I don’t hear it. Because Zoe rolls her eyes. A slow, deliberate roll that slices through the noise around me and lands like a punch straight to the chest.