ONE Casey
I’m in the lead as we start the last lap under a hot May sun. Revving my engine as I crest the hill before the final turn, I blow a kiss to Neil Barton over my shoulder. We’ve been leap-frogging each other all season.
He and I are it as far as the competition goes, and I respect the fucker as much as I hate his guts.
My bike whines as I push it faster into the last turn, because a victory is sweeter if there’s more than two seconds separating you from the next guy.
Except instead of being behind me like he was a second ago, Barton takes the inside of the lane, dropping low into the turn.
He’s about to fucking pass me.
Where the fuck did he come from?
His visor is down so I can’t see his face, but I swear I hear his laugh on the wind.
Doubling my efforts, I push my bike beyond its limits.
Fuck, I want this race.
I get too close to him in an effort to scare him off my path, but he, like me, wants to win at all cost.
We’re only inches apart, and this dickwad turns the front wheel of his bike just enough to clip me. The next thing I know, I’m airborne. My bike lands before I do, but I follow its flight path, and I already know I’m going to land directly on it.
I hear my body break as it thuds against the machine in the dirt before rolling to the side like a ragdoll.
By now, I should be used to lying face down in the dirt with the medical staff rushing toward me, but every time it happens, it’s just as annoying as the first time.
“Mr. McIntyre, my name is Jesse. I’m the on-site EMT. Please stay still. You most likely have a couple broken ribs, and I need you stay calm.”
Rubbing my eyes to clear the dust from the track, I look at the man, poking me in the side and ask, “Do I look like I’m freaking out to you?”
Jesse pauses his movements and I watch as it hits him: I’m lying perfectly still. No signs of distress mar my features. I’m not cussing his name or crying out in pain even as the purple telltale signs of internal bleeding bloom across my side.
Shit, that’s faster than the last time.
“Sir, I think you’re going into shock, but please don’t worry. We’ll get you the help you need,” he says, delivering the well-rehearsed lines despite his shaking hands.
Poor Jesse is freaking out worse than I am.
I’ve been through this song and dance before, but even I have to admit, things don’t look great for me this time.
As a professional motocross racer, it comes with the territory. Luckily for me, I was born with a congenital condition that makes it so I can’t feel physical pain or temperature.
Unfortunately, that also means I tend to take more risks than the average person, and I’ve been told numerous times it’ll kill me one day. The other unfortunate side effect is that until my body forces me to blackout from blood loss, I’m usually awake for everything that happens next.
My two main sponsors rush to where I’m still lying in the fourth turn of the dirt track as I try to survey the damage done to my bike. That was a low blow even for Barfton, and I have no doubt that he did it as payback for my taking the championship title last year.
At least I didn’t fuck his girlfriend when she showed up at my tent.
This is what I get for being the nice guy.
My breathing is shallow which tells me the problem is pretty significant despite my inability to feel it, and I finally become concerned when my vision grows blurry.
“Casey,” one of my sponsors calls before the voice of my best friend, Penny takes over.
“Goddammit, Case. Keep your fucking eyes open. Do not make me straddle your gurney and pry them open myself, you little bitch.”
I think I smile, but I can’t be sure.
Penny is redneck royalty. The mobile home monarch.
She’s cutoff jean shorts, terrible bleached blonde hair, and thick eyeliner in a color way too dark for her pale skin.
And she’s my ride or die. Been there since the beginning, before the motocross circuit made me somebody and my privacy was reduced to nothing as my face graced billboards, commercials, and internet ads.
It’s amazing what a team of professionals can do for someone’s image and thanks to their expertise, I quickly went from scrawny, poor dirt-bike rider to an American bad-boy wetdream.
The improved appearance, along with my general no fucks to give attitude, turned me into someone everyone wanted to fuck and my attention became my most valuable asset.
But I’ve worked hard to remain true to myself and I’m proud to say that other than my acne riddled skin, the only thing the money changed was my address.
Otherwise, at twenty-four, I’m still the same rough around the edges kid I was when Penny and I would ride bikes to the convenience store so she wouldn’t be home when her old man woke up sober and madder than an alley cat until he downed another twelve-pack.
My body lifts and then settles again. I feel pressure, and something feels like it’s sitting on my chest making it hard to breathe, but it doesn’t hurt.
“Let’s step on it, man. He’ll be lucky if he only punctured one lung and not both.”
Wait. Penny.
I try to move my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Damn, they must be flushing the good shit already. I didn’t even see the IV go in.