Page 1 of Off the Mark
1
CHARLIE
Showing up to the racetrack hungover was a mistake.
I stood astride my dirt bike in the muggy morning air, trapped behind a starting gate with twenty other riders. The jagged roar of the engines had my back teeth grinding together. Beneath my boots, the earth vibrated, sending shock waves through my bones.
Dempsey appeared on the sidelines, coffee in one hand and a glare I recognized. I lifted a tentative hand in greeting. My agent cocked her head like a predator, sizing me up.
Yep.
Mistakes had beenmade.
A fluttering green flag rose in front of us, and adrenaline pulsed through my veins. My body shifted forward, the entire world narrowing to that blaze of emerald. Anticipating its glorious descent. The tunnel vision banished the worst of my nausea and residual regret from last night. Though Dempsey’s obvious ire flickered in my periphery.
Green flashed. The gates fell with a screech of metal. Pure instinct had me rushing headlong in a pack of bikes, aiming to be the first to the turn.
I was fifth.
My wheels careened through ruts carved into the packed dirt and mud by countless tires before mine. There was the usual jostling within the middle pack until we all hit the first jump looking like an angry cloud of dust. I soared high with a muffledwhoopof satisfaction—nothing more than a hurtling projectile of leather and metal.
Then I landed, gritting my teeth through the familiar shock beforefinallytaking the lead.
Growing up, my dad tried his best to curb my competitive streak.The only rider you ever need to focus on out there is you, Charlie. You’re competing against yourself and no one else.
Except once I was old enough to travel with him on the road, I watched that man lose hismindover every lost race. Watched him fume and fret like a reluctant toddler being put down for a nap. His irritation never lasted long. Not his style.
But I understood from a young age that his attempts to coach me out of needing to win were mostly bullshit.
I leaned low into the next turn, dragging my wheels through rough mud. A trio of riders were hot on my tail, and on the next long stretch they caught up to me. We battled it out through another single jump and then a sharp, nasty drop-off that rattled my joints.
The four of us bolted over the starting line for our second lap. Our bikes pitched to the side in unison on that first tight turn, and my blood sang with a buoyant weightlessness. Even tethered to this dirt-packed track, there was no mistaking the joy that snapped at my heels, urging me towards flight.
We roared into lap three as one single blur of movement. And, okay—I’d done too many shots last night but I could still feel this victory in my chest. Especially when a patch of mud stalled the rider next to me, her tires spinning out as she tried to push through. I avoided the same slowdown, and suddenly I was tearing up the crest of the final drop-off.
My belly flipped as I soared, and I punched a fist in the air in preparation for my win. I landed so hard, my shoulder blades shook. And then my front wheel hit a large, jagged rock on the track that must have been dislodged during the second lap.
“Shit,” I hissed, fighting to stay upright, losing my momentum. Which sent me sliding sideways into the last slope, pitching me off at an awkward angle. I bailed from my seat—the kind of rookie error I hadn’t made in years—aiming for a soft patch of grass that turned out to be dirt as unforgiving as concrete.
Every gasp of airwhooshedfrom my lungs. Stars swirled in my vision while my limbs reverberated with the impact. I coughed out a shaky “Fuck me”and pressed my head back into the dirt with a wince. Tugged off my goggles until I was gazing up at a bright blue summer sky.
A member from the crew rushed over to wave a yellow flag over my prone body, letting the other riders know I’d taken a fall and to use caution moving past me. Someone in the front pack called out a muffled, “You okay, Maddox?”
I held up a thumb to indicate I was probably fine, though the crew member didn’t look so sure.
“The med team’s running over,” he said. “Did you break anything?”
I gingerly pushed myself to sit and did a little mental scan for injuries. But I only felt the sting of wounded pride and a back that would ache tomorrow. So, about the usual for a professional motocross racer.
“Trust me, I’ve had way worse,” I said, squinting one eye shut against the sun. “But can you carry my bike off? And tell the team not to bother. I’ll have them check me over before I leave, promise.”
He nodded eagerly and went to work. Behind him, Dempsey picked her way along the track in stiletto heels with the confidence of a former rider and the expensive pantsuit of an in-demand sports agent.
“Are you dead?” she called out.
I dropped my head back down to the dirt. “Don’t think so.”
I heard thecrunch-crunch-crunchof her heels. Then her pinched face appeared over my body, less concerned. More annoyed.
