Page 70 of Off the Mark
“That’s me. And you did look great out there.” She was a slightly taller Black woman, with square-rimmed glasses and long braids pulled over one shoulder. When she offered her hand to shake mine, I spotted Riley’s name tattooed on her inner wrist. “I hope it’s not too dorky to admit we’re both a little intimidated to ride against you at the championships.”
I shook my head. “Not at all. I’ve been intimidated by you both all year.”
They laughed, Riley taking Quinn’s hand with a squeeze. A few fans called their names, and they waved, off-handedly, but stayed focused on me. I peered around their shoulders and saw that same group, whispering excitedly.
“Heads up, but I think this fan club is gonna ask you for autographs in a minute.”
“They’re too sweet,” Riley said. “We got to meet your agent at the press event the other night. I told her she was the first out, gay dirt bike racer I knew and was, um, low-keyobsessedwith tracking her career.” She wrinkled her nose. “I might have made a fool of myself.”
Quinn scoffed. “No way, she loved it. I could tell.”
“And I second Quinn,” I added. “She’s really open about what she went through and has always loved getting to meet other queer racers. I’m sure she adored meeting you.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “I don’t know what your agent situation is right now, but Dempsey’s brilliant if you’re looking to switch. I don’t know why she puts up with me and my shit, but she’s the best.”
Quinn cocked her head with a quizzical smile. “Well, because you’re Charlie Maddox.You’rethe best.”
I didn’t even have time to fully react to such an unexpected compliment before Riley was taking a step closer. “We’re not currently looking for new agents. But Quinn’s leaving privateering to join our team.”
“Archer’s Angels?” I asked.
“The very same. And I guess…” Riley shrugged, looking nervous. “I wanted to ask how things were going with Bettencourt?”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Bettencourt? It’s a big contract and they’ve been…” What the hell did I say? “Great. They’ve been great. I was privateering too until recently. It’s tough being out there on your own so I totally get joining a team.”
“It can be tough being on your own even with a sponsor,” Riley pointed out.
I remembered the easy camaraderie between the women on Archer’s Angels,remembered the sharp edge of my yearning for something I felt like I never had the luxury to enjoy.
“And joining our team isn’t a guarantee we could ever make you as much as one, single Bettencourt contract,” she continued. “In fact, I know we can’t. But the money’s still great. Consistent. Our team owners are amazing, we get to travel and train together, and when one of us wins, we all win.”
I blinked, my stomach fluttery. “Are you…?”
“Asking you to join our team? Yeah, I am,” Riley said with a bashful smile. “This isn’t an official offer or anything. But Imayhave been asked by our team owners to feel you out. See what you were thinking. I know you’ve got a contract with hard dates attached to it, so we’re not trying to steal you away. The next time you’re a free agent, would you consider it?”
“I, uh…I’m not sure. I never even considered joining a team.” I bit my lip, legitimately unsure. And very, very flattered.
I resisted the words I wanted to say:I never thought a team would want me.
But maybe Archer’s Angelswouldn’t make me feel like my public persona and personal life were somehow an embarrassment, a flaw in their “family-friendly” image.
Riley reached for my arm, touching my elbow. “Just think about it. And we’ll message you on Instagram with our numbers. Call us anytime if you’ve got questions, because we would love to have you join us.”
With that, they turned to go and were swallowed up by a few clusters of fans, while I stood there in a happily stunned silence for a minute. Shaking my head, I dropped back to the ground and picked up my rag. Wiped down the spokes of my tires and ran my fingers through the grooves, checking for leaks or anything more troubling than a few rocks lodged in the rubber.
Second place. Archer’s Angels. Second place. Archer’s Angels.
It was like my brain couldn’t handle this burst of double good news—because even if I didn’t join their team, it was a hopeful sign, reputation-wise, if the motocross team that boasted Riley—and soon Quinn—on their roster was sniffing out if I was available.
Well, you’re Charlie Maddox. You’re the best.
A honk sounded behind me. It was Rowan parking my truck, his right arm lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other hanging out the window. A wicked grin appeared on his face the second our eyes met.
I’d tossed him my keys so he could meet me by the track where I’d load my bike in the back, but I hadn’t expected seeing him drive my car to feel so intimate. It was a simple domestic act performed by romantic partners everywhere, the kind of thing a fake boyfriend would do for his motocross-racing girlfriend.
Then why did the sight of him climbing out of it make a hot flush creep up my neck?
If this wasn’t fake, we’d already be back in that giant hotel bed of yours. And I would be eagerly, happily, at your service.
Oh. Right.
