Chapter 18 #3
“Exactly. It’s stupid, but… Before I knew it, I was in too deep.
People were trying to rile me, to get a reaction, to get a clip or a story to sell.
The last two years, I’ve barely gone out.
I rarely celebrate wins because it’s not even fun anymore, knowing the press will be on my ass.
It got out of control. It became who I am, this playboy asshole.
Now I don’t really know who I am,” I confess.
“Oh, you’re still an asshole,” she says, and I laugh, relieved that the pressure is melting, turning into something more familiar. “But it’s more of a lovable, sweet asshole.”
“You think I’m sweet?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
“I think you’re sweet when you want to be,” she says, sitting back and looking at me through seemingly new eyes. “You know, it’s kind of nice, knowing you feel like as much of an outcast as I do.”
“You feel like an outcast?” I ask, and she shrugs, grabbing another packet, opening it, and taking out the little animal as if to change the subject.
“Is it because Jordan and the other guys are still giving you shit?” She lifts another shoulder, and I think that’s all I’m going to get before she speaks.
“There are a lot of people who think that I don’t deserve this spot,” she says, and even though she opens her mouth to expand, I shake my head vehemently and cut her off.
“Fuck that. You might be new, but you’ve got raw talent. It’s unrefined, and you haven’t been doing it for years, so you’ve gotta work at it, but it’s there.”
“You think?” she asks, looking adorably hopeful.
“I know it,” I say, reaching out and grabbing her hand. “You can make it into the world championship if you keep going.” She chuckles, shaking her head.
“Now I know you’re just kissing my ass.” I grin wide, waggling my eyebrows at her.
“Is that an offer?” I ask, and she lets out a little giggle that fills my chest with the sunshine that always seems to hang around her.
“But I’m serious. You just need to land some of the bigger tricks, and you’d have it.
” She rolls her eyes, and I’m annoyed by the fact that she doesn’t believe me. “You should try a backflip.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” she says, shaking her head. “A little much for me.”
“I could teach you. It’s not as hard as it looks. You’ve done a cross-tread. Backflips are way less scary than that, and it gets more points. Now, if you can land a front flip, you’ll win the whole thing. But we can start with a backflip.”
“I haven’t seen you do a front flip yet,” she says, and when her eyes widen right after, I know she said it without thinking.
Panic is written across her face. “Rome, I’m so sorry, I—” I shake my head, cutting her off and squeezing her hand because I don’t actually care, and I don’t want her to feel bad about it.
“It’s not that I can’t. It’s just…” I take in a deep breath, sharing with her what I haven’t revealed to anyone else.
“It was the trick I performed when I crashed, and every time I try now, I freeze up. I can’t make myself do it again,” I say.
“It’s why I practice alone. I don’t want everyone to realize I can’t do it, that I’m too fucking scared. ”
“I think being scared is completely valid,” she says, her voice soft.
“You have to know that being scared is the worst thing you can be here, Lana.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she says, lifting a shoulder.
“But it’ll come back to you. I believe in you.
” And then I see it there, plain as day in her face: she’s telling the truth.
She’s not saying it to stroke my ego to make me feel better.
She genuinely believes I’m going to figure it out, that I’m going to nail the trick again and fight my fear.
And for some reason, that alone gives me more confidence than anything has since that terrible day. When she speaks, I wonder if she sees it written across my face.
“Come on. Let’s go try,” she says.
“What?”
“Fuck the movies. Let’s go to the arena. You can try to flip or teach me to.”
“I don’t—” I say, but stop when she stands, walking around the table and putting a hand to my cheek.
“Come on. Show me how it’s done, pretty boy.” In the past, a challenge like that coming would have made me want to do the exact opposite.
But the way Lana says it, it’s not taunting. It’s encouraging, like she knows just as much as I do that the longer it takes for me to go back, the worse off I’ll be. And the less likely I am to ever do it again.
And I won’t admit it to anyone but myself, but I’m starting to wonder if that fear will trickle out into other things, like Indy.
If I’m too scared to do something I’ve done for years, something that, in theory, has more safety regulations than any other sport I partake in, what chance do I have of being willing to outpace someone on a risky turn, going hundreds of miles an hour to slide into first?
So instead of arguing, I sigh then stand, gathering up the trash and putting the rest back into the bag. Lana watches me hopefully, waiting for my next words.
“Okay. Let’s go,” I say, and when she gives me the most stunning smile, I know I made the right choice.