AUGUST 29, 2020 / SAM BOYD STADIUM

The temperature was making Asher sad.

Specifically, the hotness and dryness of the Nevada air — even in the evening — called to the mind the exact night that Tallulah and he had broken up. It had been just over a month since the separation, so Asher may have been thinking in dramatics still, but he didn't know if he could ever feel the heat of a desert without remembering that pain.

Other things were not making him sad, however.

Sam Boyd Stadium, usually turfed over, ready for football, had been filled with a supercross track that almost matched Joshua Lowland's stunt course. Of course, it was not that extreme. The dirt had been laid and shaped into a densely-packed, winding racetrack — trying to squeeze as much distance into as little area as possible.

There were tight curves, drops, rows of hills and valleys and large mounds of soil packed into jumping ramps. Powerful spotlights around the circumference of the field caused the moisture in the soil (artificially sprinkled over it) to glisten and shimmer. The same way that people talked about diamonds on the surface of the ocean, Asher thought the sight beautiful.

Well, not beautiful. It was mud. But the sight of the course certainly inspired feelings of anticipation and anxiety both so strong and so conflicting that he nearly couldn't name them. Asher felt like tonight would change his life somehow.

The racers had been called to the starting line. Asher rested atop his motorcycle, the engine humming restlessly as they waited. To his right was an unnamed, unknown rider in green. To his left was Robyn Morrison in red, whom he'd beaten at the East Coast Semi-Final. She managed to cling to second place, and they ended up being the two riders representing the East Coast sent to the Semi-Final and Championship heats.

It was, in a way, comforting to see a familiar face (well, helmet) at the competition. Both representing the same rough geographic area, they had gotten to know each other better in between races. 

"Good luck."

Asher genuinely wished her luck tonight, but only so much luck that enabled her to place second or below.

He knew it was petty. He didn't care.

"Same to you."

The megaphone system came on, welcoming the audience and preparing the riders. There were to be ten laps. The metal gates in front of each bike were going to drop at the end of the countdown. Engines were revved and riders braced for a sharp acceleration.

"Three . . . two . . . one!"

Asher lurched forward and attempted to make his way to the right, which would decrease the distance he'd have to ride come the first turn. In his periphery he saw his competitors alongside him, seeming to float closer and further as they each manoeuvred for the interior position. 

Of course, they weren't really floating. It was relative motion at work, each racer at high speeds so similar that each other person appeared to drift over the dirt like graceful fairies. Asher snorted at the thought, and doubled down as the first set of whoops drew closer.

Whoops were small hill and valleys that made one's jaw judder as they went over them. They were also small enough to skim right over, some of the time busting through the top of them, which Asher did. There were three racers ahead of him, but not by much.

The first lap passed as well as Asher expected, though he was determined to prevent anyone overtaking him.

The second time Asher passed the starting line, thoughts of relative motion filled his head. It was strange, considering he remembered only a few snippets from his high school physics class, where they'd learnt the very basics of special relativity.

The third time Asher passed the starting line, he'd overtaken another person at the quad, which was four successive jumps that had to be cleared as one. Jumping had always been his specialty.

The fourth time Asher passed the starting line, he thought about how his life would have turned out had he followed his love of physics instead of motocross. He probably would have become an engineer like Ryanel — perhaps even alongside him. He wouldn't have met Tallulah. Maybe he would be with him—

The whoops were coming up again.

The fifth time Asher passed the starting line, he finally managed to pinpoint where his friends and family were sitting. The VIP section was close to the starting line, where they could see the culmination of the race up close. He didn't see anything faces — he passed by too quickly — but he saw a flash of the banner that Vasily had painted at home.

The banner read "DELROV FOR THE WIN!!!" — Asher had suggested the triple exclamation marks for emphasis. Regardless of whether he saw them, he knew Vasily, Vanessa, Kerrish, Annalise, Kelvin and Aria were there watching him. It made him smile as he raced into a jump.

The sixth time he passed the starting line, Asher decided that he really hadn't chosen motocross over science. Asher knew science. He didn't know he knew, and he couldn't explain the exact model of dry friction (not that there even was a model for that). He didn't study it, but he lived it and he breathed it all the same. 

He understood tension as the way his obliques tightened as he dipped into a curve. 

He understood gravity as his opponent when he leapt off a ramp and into the air. 

He understood acceleration as a race.

The seventh time he passed the starting line, he thought he saw Ryanel. Someone with familiar hair and familiar stature just happened to catch his eye at the point where all his friends and family were sitting, but after their talk in the hospital, Asher had given up trying to drag him to his races. He was just just glad they were on talking terms again. He even helped recommend European universities to Ryanel.

The eighth time he passed the starting line, he was sure it was Ryanel. He didn't see anything at all, despite him looking out to confirm what his eyes had glimpsed. He just felt it. He didn't look at the audience again after that, training his eyes on the course ahead.

The ninth time he passed the starting line, Asher was in second place. Ryanel watching made Asher push his limits. He attempted jumps lower and lower, giving just enough airtime to clear them, and busted through more whoops and curved around corners at ridiculous velocities. Those saved seconds made all the difference.

The tenth time he passed the starting line, it was the finish line. And Asher passed it first.

Cheering. Flag waving. Hugs from Robyn and co. (a.k.a. his competitors). Hugs from team managers and coaches. Handshakes from organisers. Being ushered onto the podium. Champagne. Camera flashes. Medals. Big-ass trophy. Kiss it. More camera flashes. Louder cheering.

Ryanel.

The people in the VIP section had been let out onto the track to commemorate the moment with the racers. The fact that Ryanel was here meant that he'd organised this with his friends and family days prior to the race. One did not just bypass security and appear in the VIP seats on a romantic whim. The implied forethought and consideration behind his gesture meant ten thousand times more to Asher than an impulsive, passionate whim ever could.

He and Tallulah had once talked about angles and perspectives. Reporters could read a situation a variety of ways. Asher couldn't help but think of the angles that would sprout from the next few moments. 

Would sports mags condemn him for introducing his personal life onto the track? Would culture columns applaud the LGBTQ+ representation he had foisted onto the world? Would feminist websites examine his rejection of a heteronormative, male-dominated athletic sphere? Would homophobes decry the collapse of society's morals?

Tallulah's warm, approving voice (at least, Asher hoped and imagined she would approve, whenever she found out) filled his head. All the above, love. Every angle that exists has to be written by someone. And you've got to write yours.

Asher's angle was quite plain.

I love Ryanel. Ryanel loves me. I don't see how they could write articles about something that simple — but let them try.

It was simple. When one loved someone, and someone loved oneself, one kissed them. 

And, by all means, one should have pulled them up onto the podium first — if one must.

And one should have said hi.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I can't believe you came."

"Yeah—"

Ryanel.

See? Simple.