I’m definitely closer to his sister, Delaney, but I love Damien too. His wife died two years ago, and he’s been a single dad to their little girl, Josie, ever since. I respect the hell out of himand his ability to make it look like he has everything under control, even when we all know he doesn’t—at least not all the way.
Damien’s staring down at me, judging me for my very obvious concern. “Ad, he’s gonna be okay, it’s Reid.”
“Yeah, I know.” I bite my lip, shifting back and forth again.
Damien grips my shoulder as he towers over me. “Stop splashing me, dammit, I thought I had some toddler-free time.”
His seriousness makes me laugh, and while I’m sure that wasn’t his intention, my shoulders still fall a fraction of an inch. Reid’s GoPro feed finally pops back up on the big screen, and he looks more confident than ever.
Rain drips off the visor of his helmet and right onto his handlebars. He’s going to lose his grip and fall. I shake my head, baffled by my own thoughts. My natural propensity to concoct the worst possible outcome in my head is a likely indicator that I’m in the wrong profession. Worry has always been my default, but it’s gotten out of hand the last couple of years.
Reid and I couldn’t be more opposite in our riding style. Reid is a force, always the first one to send a jump, never holding back an ounce of anything. They call him ‘Hasty Hastings’ for a reason. Every event it seems as if he’s trying to prove how accurate that name really is.
My style is much more cautious. I approach every corner with precision and every jump with calculated intensity. We make a good team when we can get along long enough to actually listen to each other.
Reid finally makes it out of the forest and barrels down the final stretch of trail. There are two paths he can take. One features a massive jump followed by two smaller ones, and the other is a straightaway with a few smaller technical features.
I already know which one Reid is going to choose. As much as I wish he would be more careful, I know he never will be.Recklessness is in his DNA, and it’s a big part of why he’s become such a recognized name on the circuit.
Reid hits the first jump perfectly, and as he launches himself into the air, he lets go of the handles and leans back for a no-hander. It almost looks like he’s laughing. I’ve truly never seen someone look so free on a bike before, and the announcers agree.
Their voices are booming through the crowd, but I can barely hear them over the thudding rain. I catch the end of their praise. “Hasty lands yet another massive jump. Can’t wait to see what he does this season.”
The second announcer chimes in, “Oh he’s a shoo-in for rampage this year.”
Reid comes out of the air after what seems like an hour and takes the next two hills in stride. He doesn’t attempt any tricks—he knows he’s already won. His primary competitor, Cole Sampson, wiped out on the first downhill section and his score never stood a chance at winning unless Reid also crashed—which he never does.
His front tire skids through the puddle of mud at the end of the trail and he makes no effort to minimize the splatter. Reid hands us his muddy helmet before waltzing over to the podium.
I can barely tell what color his helmet is, it’s caked so thoroughly with mud. The only clean spot on his face is a small ring around each eye. Somehow, the mud makes his eyes appear even more green than usual. He looks right at me, beaming as wide as he can. His teeth are stark white against the rest of him.
“Did you enjoy the show?”
I don’t reply, assuming he’s talking more to the cameras than to me. But he’s making direct eye contact with me, looking like he wants some sort of praise. I’m not giving in. “Go get your medal, hot shot.”
“I’ll let you touch it later.” He winks at me.
I’m pissed off that his wink always makes me blush, but it does…every time. I pray it fades by the time he gets back from talking to the press. Two skinny brown-haired girls are fawning over him, trying to offer their t-shirts to clean the mud off of his face. He ignores them and walks straight over to the photographer. She starts posing him. Reid lifts his gold medal, pretending to bite it without any prompting. He adds his signature smirk, and I swear I can hear the girls around the podium purring.
Damien stifles a laugh. “Let’s head back to the car.”
We trudge through the mud towards Damien’s Range Rover where his daughter, Josie, is playing with her Aunt Delaney in the ridiculously large trunk. Pausing to look at myself in the rear view mirror, I’m suddenly jealous of them staying out of the rain. Fruitlessly, I squeeze out my frizzy blonde braid before placing a soft kiss to little Josie’s forehead. Kids have the softest foreheads, I don’t know how they do it.
Delaney rubs her eyes and sits up straighter before smiling softly. Her tone is cautious. “How did he do?”
Most people in our lives are involved in at least one dangerous sport, but we all hold our breath until we know for sure that everyone is safe. People die mountain biking all the time—an unfortunate reality that I can never seem to forget.
Damien replies before I get a chance to. “He crushed it per usual. No broken bones. No concussions.”
There’s a muffled ‘thankfully’ at the end that I think he meant to keep to himself.
Delaney slumps back down against the side of the car. She looks me up and down, taking in my disheveled state. Disgust covers her tanned face. “Why are you guys covered in mud? You weren’t the ones racing.”
Her brother ignores her and grabs us some baby wipes toclean off. I try my best to comb my fingers through my hair again, but it’s no use. It’s getting puffier by the minute.
This is a home competition—well, as close to home as we’re going to get for the rest of the season. The track is only an hour away from Sterling Summits, the mountain and resort that Damien’s family owns. We all grew up there crowded around each other, running and racing down the slopes.
I’m glad we’re so close to home. The reality of leaving for the season still hasn’t hit me. Plus, I could use one more soak in the hot tub and an extra night wrapped up in my plush duvet. I’ve been riding the circuit for a few years now, but I usually pick and choose which competitions to participate in. I’ve never treated it like a serious thing—something that could actually be a career for me. This year though, I’m determined to give it a real shot, even if the idea terrifies me. It’s time to make something of myself aside from being a disgraced rich kid.
