By the time my shift comes around, I'm determined to prove that I'm not afraid to race. Maybe there's a sliver of truth to Tyler's words, but even so, it's not going to stop me from racing. If anything, it's made me more determined to try.

The place is busy, every table occupied by large, rowdy groups, which puts me on edge. I'd been planning on racing the evening circuit, desperate to get some practice in, but with this many eyes, I'm not sure I want to.

Slipping on my apron, I get to work clearing tables, but as soon as I've finished, a new round of empty glasses appear, like I'm stuck in a never-ending loop. Still, every now and then I get to wander past the railing that looks out on the track. The sound of engines roars in my ears, and my heart does this flip. There is something magical about watching them coming over the horizon, like for a moment, I'm part of something bigger.

At one point, as I'm making pointless small talk with a couple of the riders, Tyler makes his way toward a bay. My heart stops, then switches to beating twice as fast. He takes off his helmet, propping it beside him before checking his bike.

"It's you."

I turn on my heel, glancing at the table closest to the railing.   It's overcrowded with a group of old men, and to my surprise, the one sitting closest is none other than Tyler's dad.

"Roxy, right?" he says. "Nice to see you again. I hope Alex isn't working you too hard."

I smile. "Not at all, Mr. Wakeford."

"Please," he says, "my father was Mr. Wakeford. Just call me Rico." He turns to his friends and adds, "Guys, this is Roxy, Tyler's girlfriend. She's an amazing racer from what I hear, too."

My eyes almost bulge from my head. "Oh, no," I splutter. "I'm not Tyler's g-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Alex says behind me. "Roxy's too smart to fall for his crap." She leans forward and kisses his cheek before swiping the empty glasses on the table. "What are  you doing here?"

He grins and says, "Just checking in on my boy. "

We all look to the track again, where Tyler is still checking his bike. It's hard to see his expression from here, but I can tell by the way that he's moving he's rigid, tense, like he knows he's being watched. Then, before I can turn, he's looking right at us. His eyes meet his father's before slowly finding mine, holding me frozen.

"I'm not really sure if he'd want us all to watch him like this," I say, but Rico shakes his head.

"Ty's going to be a world champion one day," he says, and the affection in his eyes is unmistakable, "he's not worried about a few spectators."

I share a glance with Alex, who also looks uncertain. From what the pair have told me, Rico can be overbearing when it comes to Tyler's racing, and I've got a funny feeling I'm about to witness it first hand.

Nervous, I get back to serving tables, all the while keeping an eye on the track. Tyler has now taken his position at the start line, and even though it's hard to tell, I'm certain he's clenching his handlebars. His head turns slightly, lifting in my general direction.

My stomach sinks. As hard as I'm trying not to, I can't help but feel sorry for him. I can only imagine how hard it must feel to have to live up to someone else's standards. As hard as my mother can be on me sometimes, it's nothing compared to this.

I wave at him, hoping it'll take some of the pressure off a little, but he doesn't wave back. Instead he turns, body stiff, and when the whistle blows, he's off. 

For the first few minutes, he rides like the first time I'd watched him on the track. The sun has started to set beyond the hills, a warm orange haze against his dark silhouette, but I can still make out the curve of his spine as he crouches over his bike.

He's the kind of rider that steals your breath, makes you hold it in anticipation. His turns are sharp, his body and bike like well oiled machines, perfectly synchronized. Chaos surrounds him, the sound of engines thundering out as the others draw in near, but not once does he seem to lose composure. If someone like me was born to race, then Tyler was born to win.

"Aren't you meant to be working?"

I clench my jaw but don't turn around. "What are you, my manager?"

"If I were, I'd have fired you by now." Sam sidles up to me, leaning his arms against the railing.

"Then I guess it's too bad you only own the land and not the cafe."

He nods to the track, then nods at Tyler's bike. "That lover boy out there?"

My heart stills. Did Tyler say something about our kiss to him? "I didn't know you and Tyler were a thing," I say. "Congratulations."

He gives me this look like I'm testing his patience. "We don't, but something tells me the two of you are more than just friends. I'm perceptive that way."

"If you were perceptive you would leave. Me. Alone."

He smiles and turns to the track again. "You heading out there after? You need as much practice as you can get."

"You know, I think it's funny how you went from refusing to let me race the evening track to persistently encouraging me."

"Yeah, well, if there's one thing I hate more than people breaking the code, it's losing bets."

"And how much is this bet exactly?" I've been too scared to ask outright after heatedly going all in, but the uncertainty is eating away at me.

"It's minor," he says, "but hell if I let Tyler win."

"How much?"

"Thousand."

My eyes widen. "A thousand dollars? That's how much I bet?"

"Yeah." He grins and then, "You backing out?"

I swallow. I'd assumed it would be a few hundred, something I could easily pay off with my waves from the cafe if I did end up losing, but a thousand? Tyler was right: my pride has finally caught up with me.

"Hey," he says, "if you're not confident in your abilities, I'm willing to let you out of the bet. I'll tell the others you didn't understand the stakes. They'll understand."

Voice clipped, I say, "That won't be necessary."

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Clearly, this is not what he'd expected. Grinning, he says, "If you're sure."

I nod, about to tell him that he can leave me alone now, but I don't get the chance. A quick glance to the track shows another rider drawing closer to Tyler, and the pair are going head to head to the finish line.

My heart sinks. It's the first time I've seen anyone else get close to winning the evening circuit – having his father watch must be throwing him off his game.

"Come on," I say beneath my breath. "Come on, come on." Both hands are clenched around the railing, my heart pulsating like it's me on that track. Despite a part of me knowing that I need to get to work, I can't tear myself from this balcony.

Come on, Tyler. You can do it.

A corner comes up as the pair go head to head, surging around it. The other rider gains traction, and that's all it takes. He overtakes Tyler by less than a meter, soaring down the last stretch of track and straight across the finish line while I try to slow my
heart rate.

He lost.

Tyler lost.

A/N
Raise your hand if you like Tyler  ✋🏼