Series: Fever Falls Series by Riley Hart
Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Holeshot. I got the holeshot. Excitement built inside me, knowing I was the first bike to make the first corner. The whoops—areas of small hills on the track—were rutty already, and it was the first lap of the first main race of the day. I chose my line, held it as the speed and pure exhilaration made adrenaline surge through me. Glancing up at my trainer as I sped down a straightaway, I read his message on the pit board and saw that Livings was right on my ass. The fucker was going to be fast this season and had the fastest qualifying time today.
It felt like I touched the damn sky when I flew over a triple. The crowd got louder, some I thought for me, but then I glanced back and saw that Gabe cased the jump and crashed.
I kept going, stood as I jumped again, put my leg out as I rounded corners, fought not to let anyone around me. My heart raced. My body tired, but I kept going, running on pure thrill and love as I gave my heart during every lap.
I was running on pure happiness at that point, my chest aching, my muscles weary, but still feeling like I was fucking invincible as I stood at the podium for Anaheim 1.
It was only the beginning, but I could feel it in my bones. This was my year. The supercross championship would be mine.
We’d had back-to-back-to-back California races—Anaheim, San Diego, and then Anaheim again, so there really hadn’t been a reason for me to go back to Fever Falls. It was one thing to go home for the week when I was traveling to different states, but since my trainer had a track in Southern California, along with the numerous tracks they have out there to choose from, I’d stayed put.
We’d all had a long day of practice in Riverside, so afterward, Livings, another racer, asked if I wanted to go out for dinner with him and a few of his buddies. It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do, so I agreed.
After heading to my hotel to shower, I met them at a little sports bar. It wasn’t Fever Pitch, my favorite place to grab a bite on Fever Street, but it would do.
We ordered, and the conversation was lively, but I couldn’t get riding out of my head. I was thinking about shit my trainer said and the upcoming San Diego race and smiling, when I thought of the text Linc sent me when I’d gotten on the podium after winning at Anaheim 1.
“Holy fuck. Did you see them?” one of the guys asked, a friend of Livings’s whom I hadn’t met before tonight.
My eyes darted up to see a group of four women looking our way. I was out in all aspects of my life, but my sexuality was something the motocross league fought to ignore. Frankly, I was okay with that. I knew who I was, they knew who I was, and that was all that mattered. I didn’t want to be known as the gay supercross racer. I wanted to be known for my skill. I was fully aware of the fact that there were guys in the league who weren’t too fond of a gay man racing with them, and I made sure to beat them, show them I was better than them, no matter who I fucked or loved.
Livings had always been cool with my sexuality, though, and we were friends off the track.
The girls smiled, and of course there had to be the same number of them as there was of us. That was the way the universe worked.
“Jesus, she’s fucking gorgeous. We should invite them over,” Livings’s buddy said. I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name.
Livings’s eyes darted toward me, and I could see he wanted what his friend did. He was young and single. Why shouldn’t he? But he said, “Eh, I’m not in the mood.”
“Don’t do that. Invite them over. I can make it known I’m not interested. I’m beat as fuck anyway. I’ll be heading back to my room as soon as I’m done with dinner.”
“Why wouldn’t you be interested? You married?” one of the guys asked.
“No.”
Then the known fact that I was gay seemed to suddenly hit him. His cheeks colored slightly. “Shit. You’re the gay racer. I forgot. You seem straight.”
My hackles rose. Seemed straight? As if you could tell just by looking at someone? “How do I seem straight?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You just don’t seem gay.”
Anger burned at the back of my neck. “What makes someone seem gay? They don’t play or race professional sports?” I hated that stereotypical bullshit.
“Rush…I don’t think that’s what he meant,” Livings said.
“Sounds like what he meant.” I shrugged. This wasn’t anything new.