Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Losing
NRG Stadium | Houston, Texas
Rico rode the stationary bike on the side of the pit area for Apex Racing, getting ready to head out to his heat race, but he could only think about Dillon.
They had spent entirely too much time together over the past week, and he’d caught a little hell from Tim, but not too much.
He had still put in his time working out and riding.
He thought maybe he was in a pretty good place, but he had Dillon on the brain when he needed to be thinking about racing.
Tim called him off the bike and gave him a bottle of water. “Rehydrate.”
“Yes, boss.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “You did all right in qualifying but not the best you could. Let’s look at the replay and times.” They went into the trailer to pull up the information on Tim’s laptop.
Rico was thankful it was air-conditioned. It was only about sixty outside, but that felt hot compared to the low temps they’d been having in New Mexico.
“Here.” Tim pulled up the diagram of the track. It showed his speed as he rode his line compared to the line and speed from Tate Jordan. Tim pointed out the spots where Tate was seconds faster. Including a quad jump in the rhythm section.
“I get it. I can do it.”
“I know you’ve been nailing it at The Ranch all week. You need to focus. And here.” He pointed to another section of the track. “The inside line. Tate’s three seconds faster. That’s worth the entire race.”
On the Supercross track, only a half a second could make all the difference. “Three?”
“Look.” He slid the laptop closer, and Rico ran through the loop again. Tim was right.
“But the track might change by the time I get there. That inside is heavily rutted already.”
“I know but look at it when you do the sight-lap. You might have a line closer to the inside than you’ve been running without getting locked into the rut.”
Rico nodded. He was right. He had to pick the smartest lines.
He had to make his way around the track in the fastest time possible.
Cutting even the smallest amount of time could make all the difference.
If he’d been able to see these comparisons earlier in his career, he might be in a different place.
He didn’t want to second guess that. He wanted to be where he was supposed to be both on and off the track.
“I got it.”
“Get ready. Your heat’s coming up.”
Rico didn’t need to be told. He glanced one more time at the screen then got up to grab his gear.
Tyler and Mickey would have the bike ready for him.
That’s where all the sensors were that would tell them how well he was running.
The amount of information they could glean from one race was staggering.
He couldn’t get his head wrapped up in that, though.
He’d let them crunch numbers. What mattered to Rico was getting his best time, and grabbing a transfer spot.
The top nine riders would go straight to the Main Event.
The others would battle it out in the LCQ, Last Chance Qualifier.
The heat race would be six minutes long, plus one final lap.
It wasn’t a lot of time to get up front and stay there.
He needed a good start out of the gate and needed to watch those time sinks he’d discussed with Tim. That was all. No problem. Sarcasm much?
Mickey rode on the back of his bike as they made their way to the starting gate.
The officials called for the racers to ride their sight-lap.
It was once around slowly, without jumping or racing, to check the track.
Rico made his way around, unconcerned about the other riders.
He searched for that line Tim told him he needed to take.
He thought he’d found it, but he wouldn’t know how it would work until he actually tried it during the race.
Back at the gate, they fiddled with the bike, positioning it right. Rico pulled off his gloves and tugged them back on. He repositioned his goggles over his helmet. He had plenty of tear-offs to use. He was ready to knock this one out.
The track girl walked out on the track with the thirty-second board. He was ready.
The gate dropped.
Rico shifted gears and got hard on the throttle.
He didn’t have the best gate position, but he wanted the holeshot.
He leaped ahead and crossed the field to the first turn.
There were two racers in front of him. He missed the holeshot, but he wouldn’t let that stop him.
He’d catch up. He pressed forward, challenging the rider in front of him.
It was Cole Lindt. He was good, but Rico was hungrier.
He scrubbed the first jump, taking it low, and moved to take the inside line. Cole was right there, slowing him down. They moved side by side into the rhythm section, and Rico pulled the quad he’d been practicing so hard. Cole didn’t. Rico pulled ahead and left him behind in a roost of dirt.
Rico flew over the whoops, turned the ninety-degree corner than flew through the next section.
He had this track. He found the inside line Tim advised and gained another few seconds.
When he came around to the mechanic’s section, Mickey held out a board with his time.
He was less than a second behind the first-place rider.
He already knew that. He could see it was Chris Bowie.
He’d won a 250 Championship then moved up to 450s and was tearing up the track in front of Rico. He had to catch the guy.
The next lap around, Rico took the quad jump again, but so did Bowie. He wasn’t going to catch the guy and time was running out.
Final lap.
Rico had to concentrate. Dillon would want him to win.
Second was fine, he’d get the transfer, but he wanted to show Dillon what he could do on the track.
He put pressure on Bowie, riding his rear tire close.
Every time he moved to pass, Bowie shifted and blocked him.
They blasted through the whoops section side by side.
Then around the turn to the final stretch to the finish jump, he clipped Bowie’s rear tire. He skidded and slammed into Rico.
Rico went down.
The bike fell to the side, knocking him over the tough block.
“Fuck!” He scrambled, shoving the bike upright.
He got on and started it, taking off, but it was too late.
Forget first. Forget second. The other racers had flown by him while he was down in the dirt. He wouldn’t even get a transfer spot.
So much for showing Dillon what he could do.
He took the finish jump and headed off the track. He didn’t even wait for Mickey. He rode back to the pit, wanting to hide. He was thankful Dillon wasn’t actually there this time, but he also knew he’d be watching it at home.
Pulling into the pit, he handed his bike off to Tyler. “Where’s Mickey?”
Rico didn’t answer, he pulled off his helmet, dropped it on the ground, and slammed the door to the trailer open so he could get inside. He started stripping his gear but hadn’t got past his jersey when Tim joined him. “Are you throwing a temper tantrum?”
“Fuck.” Rico didn’t want to talk about.
“Come on, man. Happens to everyone now and then. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Don’t even want to talk about it.”
“Just be ready for LCQ. No pushing too hard. Just get that transfer spot.”
“Easy as that, huh?” Rico flung his jersey.
“It is. If you want it to be.”
He thought about flipping Tim off, but the guy hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. It was all on Rico. He still felt relieved when Tim left him there to unbuckle his chest plate alone.
Rico had no idea how long he’d been standing there in the center of the trailer in his pants and boots, hands on hips, wondering how he’d gotten himself into this situation when the door opened again. He didn’t look to see who it was. He didn’t care.
“Nice move, asshole.” It was Mickey. “Leaving me there to walk back was not cool.”
“It wasn’t far.”
“Not even a sorry? Man, you’re a sore loser.
Who would have thought? Here’s your fucking phone, by the way.
Hasn’t stopped buzzing since you fucking crashed.
” Mickey set the phone on one of the counters and stormed out.
He did owe Mickey a huge apology, but he wasn’t up for it yet.
He glanced at his phone—pretty sure he knew who was calling.
With a sigh, he picked it up. Six missed calls from Dillon. And one text. Saw you choke! Win the LCQ & I’ll choke on your dick!
Rico burst out laughing. How could he not? Dillon knew exactly the right thing to say. He let his fingers fly over the keys. I’ll take you up on that!
He tossed the phone on the counter and went in search of Mickey. Time to kiss and make up.
Rico took first in the Last Chance Qualifier.
He shouldn’t have been worried, but he never thought the likes of Chris Bowie would get the better of him.
At least Bowie had only come in second in that heat.
Their little mishap had allowed Cole Lindt to fly by him and take first. Ultimately, Rico would still be in the Main Event.
He’d have the worst gate pick, but that couldn’t be helped.
Sometimes getting a good start and racing hard could overcome a crappy gate, and Rico was on a killer bike.
Tyler and Mickey made damn sure of that. Now it was up to Rico.
With Dillon waiting for him at home to collect on his LCQ debt, Rico lined up for the Main Event with a smile on his face. He was stuck on the far right side, while the top racers like Tate, Cole, and Chad were on the inside. So be it. He was ready anyway.
When the gates dropped, Rico flew down the straightaway toward the first turn. He was squeezed out by Tate and Cole, and it looked like Tate took the holeshot, but Rico was not deterred. He roared past Cole Lindt and pushed hard on the leaders.
The track had some great features and was challenging, and he only had twenty minutes to get to the front. Over the whoops, jumping quads, getting roosted by the racers in front of him, still, he pushed his hardest, leaving everything—heart and soul—in the dirt.
As he came to the finish jump on the final lap, he was still following Tate Jordan and Cole Lindt. But it was his first podium with a third-place finish. Despite not taking first, he pumped his hand in the air as he soared over the jump. He was proving he would be a challenger.