1
Camryn
The first thing that hits me isn’t the sight of the track. It’s the vibration.
It starts in the soles of my beat-up Converse and travels straight up my spine—a low, guttural thrum that turns the night air into something solid. Engines. Dozens of them, tearing through the humidity like a pack of starving wolves.
“My teeth are rattling,” Maya complains, though she’s practically vibrating with energy herself. She’s navigating the gravel parking lot with a manicured-nail death grip on my jacket, trying to keep up.
“Speed,” I say, not slowing down. “We’re already behind.”
“We’re on time, Cam. You’re just possessed by the spirit of a high-stress team manager.”
“I am the team manager,” I shoot back, dodging a group of guys in grease-stained tees. “And if Luke blows his start because I wasn’t there to breathe down his neck, that’s on me.”
“You’re a sophomore in college,” she reminds me, breathless. “Your dad is the one who signs the checks. You’re just the one who does the actual work.”
“Exactly. Which is why we need to move.”
We hit the chain-link perimeter just as the stadium lights bloom—a harsh, artificial white that washes out the stars. The scent hits me then: a potent, intoxicating cocktail of high-octane fuel, burnt rubber, and sweat-damp dirt. It’s the smell of my childhood, of every scraped knee and victory lap.
I grab the cold, vibration-heavy metal of the railing, peering into the chaos of the paddock.
The Lawson Racing trailer sits like a fortress in the center of the madness. My father is pacing by the staging area, his headset pushed back off one ear, jaw working as he shouts at a mechanic. Luke, my brother, is strapped into his gear, looking every bit the poster boy for the sport. He’s fine. He’s locked in.
I breathe a sigh of relief, my shoulders finally dropping.
“See?” Maya yells over the screech of an idling bike nearby. “The world didn’t end.”
“Not yet.”
I scan the track, eyes flicking over the familiar rhythm of pre-race rituals, when my gaze snags.
There’s a rider sitting on a matte-black bike near the practice jump. He isn’t moving. While everyone else is a whirlwind of frantic preparation, he’s a statue.
He’s not wearing a team jersey. He’s not even wearing regulation gear. Just a charcoal tank top, the sides shredded into jagged ribbons that offer a glimpse of sun-bronzed skin with every breath he takes. The fabric is thin, pulling taut over the slope of his traps and the hard, sharp line of his collarbone.
My gaze travels down, tracing the ink that snakes from his shoulder, winding around his bicep like a warning, disappearing beneath the heavy-duty fabric of his gloves. His arms are corded with muscle, his hands steady as he grips the throttle, the bike beneath him purring with a deep, predatory idle.
He looks dangerous. He looks like he doesn't belong here, and yet, he looks like he owns the very dirt he’s sitting on.
“Cam?”
I don’t turn. I can’t.
“Cam, you’re staring.” Maya’s voice has lost its edge; it’s now laced with that specific brand of amusement that usually precedes her teasing me for weeks.
“I’m observing,” I murmur, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears.
“You’re cataloging,” she corrects, leaning against the fence beside me. She follows my line of sight, and when she finds him, her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. Oh. Okay. I stand corrected. Carry on.”
“I’m not… he’s just wearing a tank top at a professional event,” I defend, though the heat climbing my neck has nothing to do with the summer humidity. “It’s unprofessional.”
“It’s a masterclass in marketing,” she whispers. “Look at his shoulders, Cam. I think he’s trying to kill us both.”
I should look away. I should go find my dad. I should go check the data logs.
But I’m frozen.
He’s still sitting there, a pillar of stillness in a hurricane of noise. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement that feels like it’s aimed directly at me, he tilts his head. The dark, reflective visor of his helmet catches the stadium lights, turning his face into an impenetrable black mirror.
He doesn’t look at the track. He doesn’t look at his bike.
He looks in my direction. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me specifically because his face is blocked by his helmet.
The air in my lungs feels suddenly, inexplicably thin.
The roar of the crowd, the smell of the fuel, the frantic energy of the paddock—it all drops away into a static hum. There’s just the distance between us, the dark glass of his visor, and the undeniable, terrifying sensation that he wants to keep my attention.
