Page 6 of Off the Mark
Dempsey looked ready to call me on my bullshit—and she’d be well within her right—when a happy-sounding commotion drew our attention back to the racetrack. The final scores had been posted. Next to Charlie Maddox, it readDNF.
Did Not Finish.
My cheeks went hot. Been awhile since that happened.
Cheering fans circled around the winner, a rider my age named Riley Miller. Unlike me, Riley rode with a team called Archer’s Angels, and those same teammates hoisted her in the air while she held her medal high, sun glinting off her pale, freckled skin and hot-pink hair.
When they finally placed her on the ground, they gathered around for a group photo, their body language with each other easy and familiar. Their joy obvious.
Until Bettencourt had signed me, I’d been a privateer, so I only got paid when I won. Good race or bad, the responsibility was solely on me.
Teams were more collaborative. Even a single member placing in the top three meant they all got paid—the overall winnings might be slightly less, but at least you weren’t alone. I watched them now with a flicker of something like jealousy in the center of my chest. A yearning with a sharp edge that made me afraid to examine it too closely.
I shrugged it off. Being on a team seemed cute and all but relying on others had always been a surefire way to get disappointed.
My eyes slid to Dempsey’s. “Tequila was a mistake.”
“It’s always a mistake.”
“But I’m honestly confused as to why Bettencourt cares,” I continued. “Yeah, I fucked up today. And last night. But I’ve got three more races before the championship race, plus the press conference and the dinner. How am I violating my contract?”
She held up my jacket and tapped the logo emblazoned on the back. “The extremely lucrative contract I scored for you comes with rules and expectations, babe. Those include attending investor dinners, so they can see that their generous investment in your career is working. And you’ve blown off the last three.”
I scowled. “I hate all that fake fancy shit. And I was busy practicing.”
“They’re mandatory.”
I shifted, that burn in my cheeks growing hotter. Interacting with my fans was always fun. We shared a common, adrenaline-fueled language, a love of muddy tracks and rattling engines.
Interacting with a bunch of men in suits who gawked at women pro racers like we were animals in a zoo always put me on edge.
Her voice softened. “Part of this contract is that they expect you to win races, Charlie.”
“Today was a legit fluke.”
Her eyebrow raised. “You haven’t even placed in the top three inanyrace since The X Games six months ago. An issue we’re going to have to address at some point.”
I gently flexed my sore hand again. “I’m winning the next three and claiming that championship, Dempsey. It’s been my destiny since the X Games win.”
For any professional motocross rider, there were a handful of significant races that could make your career. I’d already won The X Games—twice—but had only ever placed at the annual Women’s Motocross Championship. These three weeks were the biggest, most well-attended moto events of the season. Multiple races with hefty purses led up to the championship, on top of trick demonstrations, vendors and exhibits, fan meet-and-greets, and a gala dinner, where riders schmoozed potential sponsors.
And this year it was being held in Philadelphia. I’d been here less than 72 hours and my senses were already heightened, anticipating a glimpse of dark red hair, that cocky grin, those broad shoulders.
Dempsey handed me her tablet. “I believe it’s your destiny too, babe. Because I believe inyouor I wouldn’t have flown all the way out here.” She tapped her manicured nail on the screen. “Bettencourt’s reputation is family-friendly. No controversy, squeaky clean. You know I get it, all the public image bullshit you’re up against all the time. The way you have to be a million different things to a million different people. The endless hypocrisy.”
I snagged her hand and squeezed in sympathy. Before she was my agent, Dempsey McKenna had been one of the racers I’d followed obsessively. She was fast and flashy on the track. Charming with her fans. But she’d also been an out, gay woman in the early 2000s, completely at the mercy of homophobic reporters.
She was an expert in how hypocritical this industry could be.
“But,” she continued, “regardless of all of that, it’s still completely reasonable for a sponsor to expect the rider wearing their name on their back to not be on sports gossip sites looking trashed.”
I finally glanced down at the article on the screen.The Bad Girl of Moto’s Night on the Town Turns Drunk and Disorderlywas the cheap, and inaccurate, title. My dad had been surprised at this nickname the first time he’d heard it, a moniker that earned me adoration or scorn depending on the day and who you asked.
Though he shouldn’t have been. He was the original bad boy of the sport, after all: heavily tattooed, surly with the media, a racer with an aggressive, fearless style.
And he always had me—the wild, scrawny daughter he dragged along to every race.
But moto had changed from the early rough-and-tumble days of my father’s reign. It was more popular than ever, with a growing global following hungry for content from their favorite riders.
