Chapter forty-three Round 3 Race #3
He flew over the final jump and decelerated after landing, feeling gritty and worn out.
That lovely drug his body produced faded as fast as it had pumped him up.
He steered his bike off the course and down the side road that took him to the press area.
He didn't want to talk to them, the media, but they were going to shove a mic in his face and ask about the wreck that slowed him down, robbing him of the holeshot, and then they'd ask how he fought through to still finish third.
Regal and some rookie he didn't even know finished ahead of him and Cole took fourth.
Tate and that bastard Shannon would be duking it out in the Semifinals.
He felt for Tate, but Shannon? Hell, Shannon shouldn't be on the track at all as far as Davey was concerned.
With that bitter thought in his head, the first reporter asked what happened.
"Shannon shouldn't be on this track. He's dangerous," he answered with a barely contained snarl, letting his words echo his thoughts.
"Do you think he wrecked you on purpose?"
"I don't know, but it wasn't the first time I've tangled with him, and he's never showed me any love."
The guy started in with other questions, but Davey saw Tyler making his way through the crowd and he pushed his bike forward, ready to hand it over. He wanted to get out of some of his gear, wash his face, and hang out some before he had to race again.
Ignoring the demanding press, Davey followed Tyler back to the pit area.
"I shouldn't have said that, but it's fucking obvious the hate-on that bastard has," he complained, dropping his helmet on the counter.
He admired the shine of the brand new helmet that matched his color scheme and had a huge Apex logo on the back that wrapped around to the front.
Davey thought it looked almost like a spider web, the red outlined with that neon-yellow and splashed across the dark blue.
He chuckled, accepting that the new logos were growing on him.
"Davey, there's others that can't be ruled out. We can't just pin it on the biggest asshole, as much as we'd like to." Tyler stepped between Davey's legs and wrapped his arms around him. "How'd the bike run? It seemed good, huh?"
"Good, yeah, I'd say better than good. I pushed her hard. You're gonna need to give her some TLC, baby," Davey said, leaning forward and asking for a kiss with his body and his hands on Tyler's face.
Tyler didn't disappoint him with lush lips and a questing tongue. Davey shifted, putting too much weight on his ankle. Without the adrenaline flow, it hurt like a bitch and the sound that came from his mouth gave it away.
"What the hell, Davey? Did you get hurt?" The concern in Tyler's green eyes sparkled, reproachfully.
"It's nothing, but I think I need ice."
Tyler kneeled on the ground and helped Davey get his boot off. The ankle had swelled up enough to make it hurt. "Fuck," Tyler breathed out. "I'm calling Angel. We need ice and a wrap and ibuprofen."
"Thanks, nurse Tyler," Davey said with a cheeky grin and a little chuckle.
"Not funny, asshole," Tyler answered with a laugh and a playful tap to Davey's stomach.
"Easy lover."
Tyler kissed him quickly on the lips and stood back, appraising Davey head to toe. "Let's get you back to the RV so you can get this foot up with some ice." Tyler pulled his phone out and texted with adept fingers.
Davey felt warm inside. Tyler would take care of him whether he liked it or not. He laughed at the thought and at listening to Tyler mumbling under his breath about the dickheads that wrecked his man.
Main Event
Davey straddled his bike while he fidgeted with his goggles, waiting to line up for the Main Event.
He didn't have the best spot on the gate, but he knew how to make the best of wherever he lined up.
He forced all other thoughts out of his head.
Nothing but dirt and jumps ahead of him.
To get a good performance on the track, Davey had to have the right head game going on. He focused.
Another minute, the bikes lined up at the gates.
The track girl held up her sign in front of the line of twenty two racers.
Davey felt the blood surging through his body in tune with his heart beat.
He took in this moment; this was what he lived for.
Supercross. The race and the excitement, it was a fucking show out there.
The lights, the fireworks, the fans in the stands, everything.
He had thought it just didn't get better than this.
This rocks! But, he'd been wrong. Doing it all with Tyler ramped up everything, his emotions, his pride and ego, the hype and excitement multiplied by a million.
His training was cutting edge and he was in perfect physical form.
Tyler had the bike growling like the fierce predator it was meant to be.
His team was committed to him and almost independent of anything else.
Davey had to force back his smile. As much as he wanted to live in that moment, he knew he had to focus on the race. The track girl scooted off the track.
The gates dropped.
Davey throttled hard, pushing himself and his machine, ignoring the fans and the fireworks and the other riders.
He dove down the hill, aiming for center.
The dirt felt a little sandier than he expected and he cut the first turn too slow.
Regal and Jordan pulled ahead of him. He didn't worry about it, he could pass them, the race had just started and he had twenty laps to do it in.
Supercross was a series of sprints conjugated into a marathon.
He concentrated on his performance through the rhythm section, knowing he rode best over the whoops and would gain on them there.
Davey kept his front tire on Jordan's tail, waiting for his chance.
He couldn't wait too long, though. A few more laps in and he cut a turn perfectly on the inside and pulled ahead.
Tate Jordan was a great racer, challenging him for longer than Davey liked, but another trip over the whoops with Davey's long legs pumping his bike and his strong shoulders keeping the machine exactly where he wanted it, and Jordan couldn't catch him.
Davey gained important seconds on the track.
Tyler signaled the half way point, but Davey knew that didn't mean he could relax.
He had to make each lap as perfect as possible.
He was having a good race, despite Regal riding ahead of him still.
He didn't think any other riders were close to him, but then he started lapping the racers in the very back of the pack.
He had to be careful and alert through the slower traffic.
He saw caution flags ahead, another guy had wrecked.
He slowed just enough to get around the obstacle safely.
He didn't know or care who had wrecked, but the guy was on his feet.
Sometimes that was all you could ask for.
Wrecking on the bikes could be a swollen ankle that you ignored like his own or it could be deadly.
He ignored his tightly wrapped ankle and the other bikes humming around him and focused on the dirt and the jumps, taking a triple effortlessly.
His ankle throbbed as if giving it that two seconds of attention had set it on fire. His shoulders pulsed, feeling a little tired, but he wouldn't give in to it. He needed to have a first or second finish. He would make it happen through his will alone.
He could sense another bike started gaining on him from behind.
He could hear how close the bike's engine roared.
Davey figured it was Tate again. He pushed a bit harder, getting on the throttle hard, hoping to pull farther ahead after the next turn.
The bike cut sharp in the ruts beside him.
It wasn't Tate Jordan; it was Cole Lindt.
Fucker! Davey would not let him pass. Not happening on his watch.
They crossed through the rhythm section, practically flying over it, barely touching their wheels down between jumps. Cole surprised him with how well he kept up. Davey shifted his focus back to the dirt. He wouldn't pull ahead by worrying about Cole, only by doing his best on the track.
Cole shoved Davey to the outside of the next turn, pulling ahead, driving more aggressively than normal for him.
Most riders would have earned Davey's respect with that move, but he would never give Cole respect.
The move only pissed Davey off. He pushed his bike hard to keep up and not let Cole get ahead.
The whoops were coming up and no one could beat him there. He'd use that to his advantage.
The green and black Rockstar Energy logo of Ryan Bush on his matching black and green Suzuki appeared ahead of him.
Davey steered closer to Cole to avoid the slower rider.
Passing through the field was always tricky.
Cole didn't give him room, pushing in closer.
Davey could see a tight fit with only seconds to adjust. Neither of the other racers adjusted, and Davey didn't want to slow down.
In the last moment, Bush steered inward, clipping his back tire against Davey's.
A second later, another bike clipped his rear tire, then smashed into his side.
Davey fell down in the center of the track.
He cursed and spit, looking up to see if that fucked up racer went down with him.
Why was he not surprised that it was Shannon?
"Fucker!" Davey yelled, not knowing or caring if he'd been heard.