Our next few sessions are curt. Tyler seems fine on the surface, as though our kiss has been long since forgotten, but something feels off. Gone is the friendship we'd started to build, replaced by stilted talk about racing, and it's all his fault for kissing me.

Still, neither of us wants to acknowledge this shift, so we focus on riding. He has me riding the circuit on a never ending loop, perfecting every turn and jump, and even then, it's not good enough. But I refuse to give up: I refuse to let him see me quit.

I grit my teeth and go full throttle, desperate for this session to be over. It's the first time in forever that the thought has crossed my mind, but right now all I want is my bed.

Tyler stands on the sidelines, watching me intently. He's in a strange mood today – even stranger than normal – like something has got him riled up. If this were just a few days ago, I'd feel confident enough to ask him what's wrong, but everything feels different now.

"Push harder!" he shouts.

I clench my jaw. Somehow, despite my hatred for him at this moment, it's hard not to think about that night. It's like the memory of his kiss has been burned across my lips, and now I can't seem to forget it.

He pulls me to the side at some point to give me his feedback. I brace myself, knowing from the mood he's in that he's not going to sugarcoat, but maybe that's a good thing.

"You're losing momentum as you make your way around the track," he says, sounding frustrated. "That fire that you have when the whistle blows needs to last the whole circuit." He's wrong, I keep that fire going right until the end, but I grit my teeth anyway.

"Fine," I say. "I'll go again."

This time around, I push myself harder than I have all morning, desperate to get a good job out of him. It's my only motivation, the one thing stopping me from collapsing of exhaustion, because right now, I'm running on fumes.

The steepest hill on the track is coming up, and that's when I feel it. The involuntary release of the throttle, the weakness in my thighs as their grip lessens slightly. Tyler is right: I'm losing momentum.

Heart pounding, I try to pick up speed as I surge over the hill, but that few seconds break is the difference between first and second place in a race. Second and seventh.

Anger knots my stomach as I finish the last stretch of the track. As I get closer, I see Alex join Tyler on the sidelines of the track, and my body slumps a little with relief. I slow to a stop in front of them before peeling off my goggles.

Alex grins and gives me a hug before pulling back a little. "You looked good out there."

I glance at Tyler, waiting for him to confirm this assessment, but instead, he tilts his head. "Good doesn't win championships," he says, "or impress anyone. Come on, let's keep going."

But none of us move. Alex's eyes narrow, and she folds her arms before glaring at Tyler. "Who exactly is she trying to impress? You?"

"No, the thousands who will be watching her." He turns to me now, his eyes softer. It's hard to tell whether his attitude today is because of our kiss, or if he's channeling his Dad. "You are good," he says, his voice low, "but you're not ready, Roxy."

It feels like a slap to the face. Not just because I know he's right, but because he doesn't believe in me.

"Who are you to decide if she's ready or not?" Alex demands to know. "You're not a real instructor, Tyler, or have you forgotten that in the midst of this power trip you're on?"

"I'm not on a power trip," he growls, "I'm trying to help her. She's got money on the line and Sam on her case. That's not a good combination."

"Trying to help her by acting just like Dad?" she asks. "When has that ever helped you?"

"Yeah, well maybe he was right," Tyler mutters. "It's because of his tough love that I made it this far."

I don't hear the rest, I've already slipped off to the parking lot. But I can still hear their voices, loud and distorted as they argue back and forth.

It makes me feel nauseous.

I'm about to slip on my goggles and tear my way out of this parking lot when Tyler steps in front of my bike. I still for a moment, carefully taking in his face. His eyes are dark and somewhat stormy, but they're softened by the rosy pink color dusting his cheeks. If I didn't currently hate him, I'd think him adorable.

"What do you want?" I ask coldly.

He sighs and steps forward, resting his arms across the handlebars of my bike. Then he lowers his head until our eyes are almost level, his face far too close to mine. "You wanted things to go back to normal," he says. "You wanted me to just be your trainer. That's what I'm doing."

"No," I say, "you're being a jerk again, which is exactly why I didn't want to do this–" I wave my hands wildly between us, "in the first place."

His eyebrows draw closer as he lowers his voice. "That has nothing to do with this."

"Then what's your problem?" I ask, "and don't tell me you don't have one, because I can tell when something is wrong. The only thing I don't understand is why you're taking it out on me."

Briefly, he closes his eyes. In the silence that follows, I watch the way his masseter muscle tries to break through his jaw. "I'm sorry." He opens them again, raising his gaze until his eyes are on mine. "It's not you, it's–" he pauses, and it's like I can see the internal war sitting just behind his eyes, "–forget it. Look, I'm not trying to be hard on you, Roxy, but we're running out of time here. Part of the problem is that you don't trust me out there. You don't listen to half of what I say."

Disappointment takes over. "Fine, then I'll listen. We'll train harder," I say, but his uncertainty in me makes my confidence waver. "We've still got a few months left. I'll just fix whatever it is that needs fixing."

He shakes his head. "It's not that simple."

"Why isn't it?"

"Because your problem isn't physical," he says. "It's mental."

"What are you talking about?"

"You didn't come seventh because you're not good enough for first," he says. "You came seventh out of fear."

I suddenly feel under attack. "I wasn't afraid."

"Maybe not consciously," he says, "but in here–" he gently rests a hand on my cheek, running his thumb across my temple, "–something has you scared. It's making you ease off on the steeper hills, and it's killing your time. Until you can find a way to overcome it, you won't get any faster."

My heart beats once. Twice. Out of nowhere, an image of Dad looking crumpled on the track tears its way through my mind. His eyes are closed, his breathing so still that he might as well be dead.

We thought he was.

For a moment, I can't breathe. "You don't know what you're talking about," I say. "In fact, I'm starting to think you never did." I yank down my goggles, expecting him to move out of my way, but he doesn't. We glare at each other, his eyes as dark and as stormy as the overcast sky.

Then finally, he steps aside. I kickstart my bike, tearing out of the darkened parking lot and onto the brightly-lid road. Why couldn't he leave it alone? Why couldn't he just tell me, Good job, Roxy, I'm so proud of you.

Why does he have to be right?

***

The second I get home, I smell pasta. I leave my helmet and gear at the door and head into the kitchen, where Mom and Dad are wearing aprons and feeding each other sauce.

"Hey kiddo," Dad says.

"Hey, honey," Mom follows, but then her face falls. "You look exhausted."

"I feel exhausted." I slump onto the breakfast stool and rest my head on the cool marble counter. "My thigh is killing me."

"From riding?" she asks.

I groan. "Don't start."

"I wasn't planning on it." She moves to the freezer and gets out some ice. "Hold this to it. I'll go run you a bath."

I lift my head, surprised that she's not trying to argue. "Why are you helping me? You hate that I'm racing."

There's a moment of silence. She's wearing her, Don't be ridiculous face. "There are going to be lots of times in your life where I don't support your decisions," she says, "but that doesn't mean I will ever stop caring for you."

"Or me," Dad chimes in. "Even if you turn out to be a serial killer, which I'm not ruling out."

I narrow my eyes. "Can you stop?"

He grins. "Hey, it's not my fault you used to do some questionable stuff as a kid." He turns to Mom. "Remember that time she collected a bunch of rocks, drew sad faces on them, then forced them to listen to Ariana Grande on repeat while she spoon-fed them jello? If that isn't serial killer vibes, I don't know what is."

"On that note," I say. I get up and kiss his cheek before heading up to my bedroom. My body is sore, every limb and bone feeling as though it's on fire, and it's infuriating to know that I still could have pushed harder. So, why didn't I?

Deflated, I give Kiana a call before lowering myself onto my bed. I lean my head back, listening to the sound of the bathwater trickling down the hall. I attempt to clear my head by letting my thoughts wander, but I hate where they keep trying to take me.

Quit, they whisper. You don't need the hassle.

It's the first time it's truly crossed my mind, and not just because of  the complexity of Tyler, but because deep down, I know that he's right. I'm not ready for the tournament: maybe I've only been kidding myself.

A/N

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