Chapter 7
The town of Breaux Valley is like something out of a horror novel. The air is humid and sticky, despite the fact that it’s December in every other part of the country. Maybe this tiny little Louisiana swamp town is stuck in some kind of time warp where it’s always summer. Even if you can get used to the heat, the smells are something else. It’s like a swampy earthy stench everywhere that is so unlike California that I feel I’ve fallen into some kind of fantasy world. Like, the place where the villain of the fantasy world lives.
The only good thing is that they have a pretty decent track for it being such a small town. There’s a motocross track that rivals the professional ones, a separate supercross track, and two kiddie tracks. That’s probably why Marcus chose this location, that plus it’s where Aiden lives.
I honestly don’t know how he lives here in the offseason. Cali is so much better. Sure, it’s expensive and my studio apartment is the size of a shoe box, but the air is fresh and the weather is nice. Aiden actually chose this place instead of Orlando just to be with his sister and girlfriend. That’s some dedication. If I were him, I would have told them to move to Orlando.
We all meet up at the track early in the morning, and I discover one other good thing about this stupid “training camp” scheme that Marcus invented. It’s a closed track. They’ve got the gates locked and they’ve posted that the event is only for the kids who signed up and their parents, which means I only have to be tortured by little kids all day, not the raving public. Since this is Aiden’s hometown, he’s told us all about how many fans there are, and how he can’t visit here without being bombarded by them.
Just a few months ago, we all came up here to hang out with Aiden while his wrist was broken, and I remember all too well how many fans there were. Now, they’re all banned from coming today, so thank goodness for small blessings.
Unfortunately, that small blessing isn’t enough to overpower the massive pain in my ass that is today. Marcus gives some speech about teaching the youth and giving back and blah blah, while a group of twenty-four kids stare on excitedly with their parents. We’re each getting six kids for the day and we’ll be training them on separate parts of the track.
The new girl—Avery, I guess I should get used to calling her by her name—hands out T-shirts to all of the kids, and most of them tug the shirt on over their riding jerseys. She seems better now that she’s doing something. Earlier on the plane she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I can’t believe I ever thought she was a fangirl trying to sneak her way into the group. I watch her bend down to face level with one of the kids and help him buckle his helmet. She smiles at the kid. She’s a much more genuine person than most of the people I meet.
To avoid some kind of popularity contest, Marcus divides the kids up randomly, and soon I’m standing in front of five boys and one girl, all ranging in ages from nine to thirteen. Their eager faces look at me as if I’m some superhero. Ugh.
“Let’s figure out where we’re going, so our kids don’t crash into each other,” Jett says.
“I’ll take the supercross track,” Aiden says. “My kids are all older so I think they can handle it.”
Jett and Zach each want one of the kid tracks and I decide to take the main motocross track. Quickly, I realize a small problem. The kids are all on their dirt bikes but I don’t have anything but my legs to transport me. The motocross track is at least a five-minute walk away.
I glance at Marcus, and he’s happily chatting away with some parents. I wonder how many more annoying mishaps will crop up during the next two weeks of training camps. This whole ordeal is going to be more trouble than it’s worth. However much money Marcus has raised for charity through this, I wish I could have just donated it myself and skipped all this crap. It’s the offseason, dammit. I could be at home surfing right now.
“You guys head over to the starting line,” I tell the six kids who are eagerly awaiting my instruction. “I’ll be here in a second.”
Their bikes start up and I watch them all race through the pits toward the starting line. Going any faster than first gear in the pits is breaking the number one rule of the track, but these kids are clearly eager to impress me. I roll my eyes.
I am not an idol.
I hate that people try to make me one.
I don’t even know the first thing about children, let alone teaching. I grew up on my own. My mother abandoned me when I was too young to remember and whoever the loser was who knocked her up has never been in the picture. My grandmother died before I was born, which left me being raised by my grandfather. After a car wreck in his twenties, he could only hear out of one ear, and most of the time he just kept to himself. Sure, he kept the pantry full and he gave me money for new clothes when my old stuff was getting too small, but I basically raised myself.
We didn’t do Christmas, and we didn’t do Thanksgiving. We watched TV and went to the farmer’s market on the weekends. He wasn’t a touchy-feely kind of guy, which makes him my hero if I’m being honest. I was sixteen years old when he died, a sophomore in high school, and I had to fight like hell to get myself emancipated and declared a legal adult. They wanted to put me into the foster care system, but luckily my old grandad left me enough money that I could get by on my own. I wasn’t rich by any means, but I could afford to take care of myself.
I did what any teenager in my position would do: I dropped out of high school, got my GED, and moved somewhere beautiful.
Then I bought myself a dirt bike. I’m the only member of Team Loco who hasn’t been riding since before I could walk. I’m the latecomer, the guy who had absolutely nothing to my advantage except sheer determination. Jett had his famous motocross racing father, Zach had his mom, his friends, and he lived next to a track, and Aiden had money, plus his famous older brother. All I had was myself.
I’m halfway to the starting line where I see my six little students hanging out on their bikes. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to tell them or how I’m supposed to teach them. No one taught me. I just got on a bike, drove myself an hour away to the closest track each day, and worked my butt off. I lived off protein shakes and McDonald’s and spent every second of my life at the track. I did it because, like surfing, I loved it.
It wasn’t until I was eighteen years old that I got invited to join Team Loco and suddenly an entire world of possibility opened up before me. I hadn’t even thought of going pro. I just liked to ride. But the job with Team Loco was needed because my grandfather’s life savings wouldn’t last forever. I accepted Marcus’ offer and never looked back.
Now, I’m regretting it. Now, I have to teach kids. And this is just the first of five freaking classes.
“Excuse me! Wait up!”
I turn around and see a woman, one of the kid’s moms, jogging up to me. She’s wearing high heels—freaking heels to a dirt bike track that’s all grass and dirt—and waving at me to get my attention. I slow down and let her catch up.
“Can I help you?”
“You’re already doing more than enough,” she says, giving me a big grin and a playful smack on the arm. “My son is so happy to learn from the pros today.”
I just nod and hope she goes away, but she’s clearly going to walk next to me until we get to the starting line.
“My son’s name is Jeremy,” she says, pointing toward the kids. “He’s on the left on the Yamaha.”
