The next few days are a cycle of school and training. I don't mention to Tyler that I know why he's helping me– I don't see the point. If he wants to use me as proof that he's unbeatable, that's up to him; it doesn't mean he's right. Besides, aren't I using him, too?

I wake up extra early to meet him at the track before school. He's always here before me, waiting impatiently, and I can't help but wonder what life he leads outside of this track. Or maybe he doesn't; maybe, for him, this is it. 

My dad was like this at one point. He'd be down at the track until the early hours of the morning before doing it all over again. He lived and breathed it, became obsessed with the thrill. Sometimes, I think maybe this is the silver lining to his accident; it brought us back together. 

Tyler and I don't talk much except about racing. I try to make light conversation between laps, but everything about him remains a mystery, a blank space. As someone who enjoys learning about other people, I'm desperate to fill in the blanks. 

Our lessons usually start off like this: Tyler will have me run the track a few times before bringing me back for an arm's length of feedback. My ego is used to the criticism now, so I don't even mind. 

Today is one of our worst sessions. He stops me after my third lap and frantically waves me over. I release the gas and head to where he's leaning against the railing by his bike. I pull up in front of him, and he goes through a list of all of the things I'm doing wrong before making me do another lap. 

I grit my teeth and try to focus, but it's hard when I'm being watched. Having Tyler study me makes me feel on edge, like I have something to prove to him. My legs start to ache from the movement. I finish the lap and start to head over, but he moves his finger in a circular motion as if to say, Go again.

I ignore the pain and do as I'm told, but inside, I'm plotting his death. After my fourth lap, when my legs are starting to burn from the grip, he beckons me over. From the way he pushes himself off the railing, he's plotting mine, too. 

"You're still doing the leg thing," he says. 

I slap my palm to my forehead. "Ugh, I keep forgetting."

He flicks up goggles to look at me. It's different from how he usually looks at me. Harder, with an air of disapproval. "Then don't." 

The sharpness in his tone surprises me. "Someone's in a bad mood." 

"Yeah, well, you need to start taking this seriously." 

I look around like I'm searching for something. "When wasn't I being serious?" 

His gaze drops to my bike. "You ignoring my instructions on the track means you're not taking it seriously, and you need a better bike." 

"What's wrong with my bike?" 

He gives me a look as if to say, What isn't wrong with it? "It's a crossbreed for starters. You need a real Motocross bike." 

"Yeah, well, we're not all made of money." It's not as if my family is poor or anything, but with the new house and Dad's medical bills, we don't have the cash to splurge on a state-of-the-art Motocross bike; I wouldn't even dream of asking them. 

Tyler shrugs like this doesn't concern him. "You can borrow Alex's for now. Not like she uses it much." 

His unsavory mood today is starting to rub off on me. I fold my arms and say, "Ever stop to think maybe you have something to do with that?"

He turns to me, surprised. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, maybe she doesn't race because she doesn't want to have to constantly compete with you."

"If she doesn't want to compete, she shouldn't be on a track." 

For a second, we glare at each other. It's starting to rain, so his face is littered with tiny raindrops, which sit between his lashes. He takes his gloved hand and in one quick swipe, brushes them away. 

"You know, Alex was right," I say. "You are an egotistical jerk." 

His eyes turn dark. He takes a step forward. "I'm trying to help you. If you don't start listening to my advice, you're not going to be ready in time." 

"You mean you're trying to help yourself," I remind him. "I know the real reason you're training me." 

Surprise crosses his face. He lowers his head until he's towering over me. "My reasons for helping you don't matter. The fact is, if I'm going to train you, you need to start listening to me."

He's standing so close, I have to ignore the urge to take a step back. "And I will. It's not like I was purposely ignoring your advice, I forgot. You need to learn to be more patient."

He looks like he's about to argue before thinking better of it. "You're right."

I falter. I'm so used to arguing with Kianna, who never folds this easily, that I hadn't planned what to say next.

He looks at his hands now, his eyes dark. "I guess I'm used to being the student, not the teacher. I understand now why my dad would get so frustrated with me." 

My anger wavers enough for me to ask, "Your dad trained you?"

He nods and looks into the distance. "He was a great teacher, but he wasn't exactly a patient man." 

I can't relate. Growing up, my dad had nothing but patience, whether it was teaching me to ride or teaching me how to add; he was always kind about it. "Look," I say. "I promise to start taking your advice on board if you promise to be more patient. Deal?"

He nods and takes a step closer, his dark eyes flitting to mine. He leans in closer, positioning his face near my ear. "Deal. Guess I'll see you tomorrow."

My heart skips a beat. "See you tomorrow." 

He steps back and climbs on his bike, kicking up the bike stand. Then, with one last look over his shoulder, he rides off. I hurry into the showers and wash off the mud, but the hot water feels so good that I can't even bring myself to hurry.

By the time I arrive, I'm twenty minutes late. After a berating by my teacher, I slip into my desk and face the front. Vanessa sits three seats ahead of me, but she turns and smiles in a friendly way that makes me smile back.

For the rest of the morning, I'm the model student. Riding before school is almost better, in a way; now that I've gotten my training out of the way, I can concentrate on other important things, like learning. 

At lunch, Vanessa talks my ear off about some new Ballerina series, and despite the fact it's not my thing, I tell her I'll start it tonight. It's not exactly the basis of a groundbreaking friendship, but at least it's a start. 

At some point, her friend, Niko, sits opposite and asks what we're talking about. Vanessa starts from the beginning about this new series, and he tells us he's seen it, too. Suddenly we're talking about the best series on Netflix, and school starts to feel that little bit less daunting.

A little more like home.

A/N

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