28. Cole
“You need to scrub there if you want to cut time. You know this shit, Cole. What’s happening?” I don’t want to explain to my coach why I suddenly suck. You would too if the love of your life was off fucking someone else. “Clean it up.”
“I’m having an off day.” I wipe my face free of sweat.
“Off days won’t get you that red plate and I’ll be honest. You can’t afford off days,” he lays it down. “You’ve seen these kids. They’re coming off the 250 with speed and stamina. They’re hungry to take on the older guys in the 450. Sorry to break it to ya bud, but you’re one of the older guys now.” The last thing I need is a reminder. The whole team wants this. I’ve had big hopes tacked to my back when I was signed to a factory team. I have it in me. That drive, fire to compete burns in my core. These eighteen-year-olds may want it…I want it more.
“I’ll get podium either way.” He hands me my water and dries his hand on his breathable blue lycra t-shirt. I take a drink before pulling my goggles back in place. It’s been hot as hell all day and the temperature has finally broken as it reaches six in the evening.
“I like your confidence, but you know this sport, Cole. One mistake and, well, you don’t want a stupid mistake to cost you,” he replies. We both know what it means. It’s like I live in that scene from Knocked Up, where the women are trying to get into the club and the doorman calls them out for being old. I’m a moto rider. Fuck age.
“Fuck retirement. I’m not done.”
“Alright, then get your shit together. Do whatever you have to do to get your mind right. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m heading out.” He heads off the track. A few of the members of the team watch from above. For the most part, it’s begun to clear out.
“Gotta hot date, Pat?” I joke.
“You know it.” He flicks his chin up, smiling.
I restart my blue YZ450F practice bike and take off, getting back to drill sequences. Taking the corner, I shift, keeping my speed. Timmy takes the inside, taunting me with his orange KTM, clearly show-boating. At least he didn’t take me out.
Going into round seven, I’m ready for Archer. I’m ready for Redwood.
Peeling off my sweat and dirt-covered jersey, my phone buzzes inside my locker. Incoming call from Lovebird. I need to change her name.
“Hello?” I answer, tucking the phone against my shoulder while I flip my jersey around.
“Hey, um. I…how’s Ri?”
“She’s fine, Max. She’s with Mom.” I scoot my boots to the left of the locker with my foot and unlatch the lower compartment.
“Oh, am I interrupting something?”
“I just finished up with practice. Did you want to talk to Riley? I can put her on the phone before bed.” I grab my phone from my shoulder, holding it to my ear.
“No. I mean, I’d like that, but I was calling to talk to you.” She wants to talk to me?
Five seconds of hope fuck up my gut.
“What’s up?” I ask, tucking my phone again to shimmy my black jogger shorts over my white boxer briefs.
“I started therapy again.”
I grab my Alpinestars gray tee, close both parts of my locker, and push my helmet farther back on top. Sitting my phone next to my helmet, I click the speaker option. “Is it helping with, um, healing?”
She tells me more while I pull on my tee. “It’s better than it was in high school. I think that’s why I held off for so long. The couples therapy thing felt more doable because I wouldn’t be going into it alone. I guess that felt different in my mind, like safer. But, well, you know how it used to be. I really click with my therapist though and she’s been an outlet…It’s more than here are the tools, stop doing this and that, and you’ll be fixed. Maybe that’s teenage me being dramatic.“ Her laugh captures my smile.
Tossing my dirty gear in my black backpack, I zip it up and pull the strap over my shoulder. “I’m glad it’s going well.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I pick up the phone and hold it to my ear as I slip my Nike’s on.
“How you met Ryke a few weeks ago.” She swallows loudly, resembling taking a drink. “I thought you were going to be at your mom’s when I picked up Riley? I would’ve liked to talk about it.”
“I was mad. I said some things I didn’t mean.”
“Are you willing to give Ryke another shot?” She’s hopeful. I can’t feed her fantasy.
“Another shot? We’re not going to be friends, Max. I can only promise that I won’t intend to knock his teeth out. I’m working on channeling my anger. I have a lot of pent-up rage. Who knew?”
“Oh wow, talking to someone is working for you.”
“Yeah. I don’t always want to and it didn’t fix anything overnight…my relationship with Mom and…other stuff,” I confess.
“I’m proud of you, Cole.”
“Thanks.” It’s bittersweet hearing those words from her mouth.
“I’m not there yet, but one day I hope we can talk like this more often.”
I’d like that.
No… We should stick to talking about Riley stuff for now.
Unable to make up my mind on what I want to say, I don’t answer. I grab my street helmet from the floor and push through the door, making my way down the staircase.
“I’ve been catching the motocross rounds,” she continues. “You’re doing well.”
“Till today,” I groan.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“My mind’s a mess,” I scoffingly chuckle.
“I’m all ears.”
“Max, I don’t know if I’m there yet. I know you’re doing well…it’s…” I want to talk to her. So fucking bad. We can’t rewind. Acting like she was my sister when we were kids didn’t work. It won’t work now.
“Can’t hurt to try. Tell me what’s on your mind, maybe with a few more words than we exchanged in that Oak as teenagers.”
Hah, yeah. I was pretty bad at communicating with her early on. I guess we never got better. We only got louder.
“It only took me fifteen years to learn to use my words.” My chuckle intertwines with hers. Okay, Max. Let’s talk. “I started seeing someone.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s your mom think?”
“She set it up.”
“Ugh. So she’s uppity?”
I was waiting for this reply. I wish it was jealousy, but we both know how Mom is. Yet, no matter how much of a bitch she can be, she cares about her kids, including Max. She feels betrayed by our divorce. It’s one more thing that’s not about her that she found a way to make it her business. Max is over dealing with my mom and I make it impossible for her to completely cut her off, sending Riley to my parents’ house for exchanges.
“No, she’s okay,” I lie.
What am I saying? She’s okay? She’s not you, Max. Fuck. I’m trying to move forward. I want someone to come home to at the end of the day. I want that friendship wrapped in unconditional love and sex appeal. I don’t want another woman to gut me and leave me out to dry.
“That’s how you describe a breakfast sandwich, Cole.” God, I missed her laugh.
“She has bigger titties than you, so…”
“You prick. How big? I wanna see.” We laugh in unison. It’s what I would expect from her. I’m supposed to replace her. Isn’t that what she’s doing to me? “That’s okay. I found an extra inch.”
“Oh, you dirty hoe.” I hope she’s joking.
I work my way through the parking lot.
“Manwhore,” she fires back.
“Skank.”
“Tramp.”
“Hooker.”
“Tart.”
“Tart?” I can’t control my laughter, folding over. I glance at the silver Camry next to my black MT-09 street motorcycle. “Fucking tart,” I repeat before catching sight of the three young guys nodding in laughter. They overheard my side of our insult battle.
“Not the snacking kind either.” I picture her weaving her head around in a sassing manner.
“Oh, I’m a snack.”
“Does that line work on the girlfriend?” It doesn’t matter because it works on you, in the way I intended, anyway.
“She likes my game,” I tease.
“Maybe you can help me out. I have a hypothetical question.”
“Right. Okay.”
“So you know like in the movies and books, the friends with benefits always end up together. That’s bullshit in real life, but say you’re the new friends with benefits and find out about the old friends with benefits and she’s friends with both of you. Should the new friend with bennies worry?”
“First off, that was the worst way to ask that question. Second, did you seriously call me for relationship advice? The guy who wasn’t a great husband,” I mock.
“Shut up. You weren’t that bad. We were just that bad to each other.”
“I can’t disagree.” I swing my leg, straddling my bike. Pulling my backpack to my chest, I dig out my thick black jacket, laying it over the front of the bike while I zip the bag back up.
“What do you think? Is there a threat for the new friend with bens?“ Max asks.
“Depends on the guy and if he’s an idiot.”
“His best friend told me by accident.”
“I thought this was hypothetical?” I pull my jacket on, zip it, and swing my backpack over one arm. “But Max, he’s a guy. If you have a problem, you have to—”
“Spell it out.” The things we know and never did, huh? “Why can’t I just pout and he automatically knows what will fix it.”
“How long have you been in therapy?” I ask, being a smart-ass.
“You’re hilarious, Cole. Hi-lar-i-ous.”
“I’m here all week.” Call me every fucking day. I’ll answer. I’ll listen. I’ll be the friend again if that’s what it takes to keep you in my life.
“I have this bad feeling that you’ll start charging per call.”
“I’ll keep that in mind as a career backup.”
I’m at a crossroads. End the call and get on the road or spend another five minutes talking to the wife I’m separated from. The woman I’ve loved since I was thirteen and couldn’t…I couldn’t fucking compromise. Bullheaded and stubborn, just like her, battling with more than playful insults. I don’t know when it became that way. We used to lean on each other for support. Then, we started comparing our demons. Now…it’s too late. She may very well leave the guy who she practically told me she’s not serious about. It doesn’t mean she’ll come back to me. Not after everything we’ve been through. It’s too much pain.
“There’s always selling your socks on the internet.”
“That’s on my list of potential career opportunities. Legitimate gold mine.”
“Okay.” She laughs. “I’ll let you go so you can focus on the dream career and avoid the cringy backups.”
“I’ll have Ri call you tonight. Oh, and Max…” Switching to speaker, I rev the motorcycle, holding my hand out.
“Is that a street bike?” She asks knowingly, yet shocked.
“Maybe I’ll take you for a ride sometime,” I flirt.
“Maybe I’ll take you.”
“Yeah, sure. Anyway, I gotta go, lovebird.” Shit. I didn’t mean to say that.
“Yeah, Okay. I’ll talk to Ri tonight.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
“Bye.” She hangs up and I stick my phone in my backpack, tugging my gloves on, and pulling the other strap over my shoulder. I yank my helmet on, dropping the visor.
I miss her. Distance is said to make the heart grow fonder, but they don’t talk about how it takes ahold of your heart and clenches it just tightly enough to remind you of what’s missing while still leaving you able to function. It’s that constant reminder that I haven’t talked to her today…and how I couldn’t crave a text message from her more. I long for the day that her arms will be wrapped around me, her lips will touch mine, and we’ll hide from the world for hours in a field. Every minute—no—every second of those hours I will stay drunk on her scent and free in her smile because it will end too quickly and she’ll remember why she left in the first place. I wasn’t good enough for her. The world is a big place and Max is one of the billions of people in it that I couldn’t imagine not meeting.
I live a dangerous lifestyle. I like adrenaline and speed. Bikes.
You can take all the precautions and do everything right, but somewhere along the lines, you’ll get hurt. I’ve taken enough pain from the track, but sliding around this curvy back road…I should have slowed the fuck down. I didn’t. I was high on Max’s attention. She was my last thought, besides oh fuck. I was risk-taking, and it didn’t pay off. It happened too fast. The tires of my bike slip out on the slick corner, whipping it sideways with me underneath. My jacket and t-shirt peel up as the impact drags my body across the asphalt.
Road rash is a bitch.
“Mr. Warren, your mother is on her way.”
I blink open to the LED hospital lights, dreaded white walls, and a woman with black, short curly hair. Her smile is soft as she sympathizes with the idea of eating the orange gelatin cup on my tray. I dozed off for the third time since they brought me lunch.
She turns her back, restocking a cabinet. “I can’t believe I did that,” I mutter to myself.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” The five-and-a-half-foot woman reaches the door and turns back to me.
“No. Thank you.” She begins to walk out when I stop her. “Oh, wait. If there is a young woman with my mom, about your height with dark blonde hair, can you tell her only family is allowed in?”
She nods. “No problem.”
“Thank you.”