My cup of coffee warms me a little, and I keep my hands wrapped around it for warmth. As the sun slowly starts to rise, a line of headlights can be seen at the entrance to the track. It’s five minutes before seven, and all hell is about to break loose. I’m sitting in the score tower with Marcus, who is chatting with the track owner. There’s a ticket booth window on one wall of the building where people can walk up and pay their entrance fee on a normal race today. This morning, they’ll be driving in, getting a raffle ticket, and then hanging out near the spectator area to see whose names are drawn.
Marcus thought it would be fun to have the guys arrive early and sign autographs for everyone regardless of the raffle, that way the crowds of hopeful people won’t go home empty-handed. I can already imagine how annoyed Clay must be at this idea, and I’m glad my job is to hand out raffle tickets instead of trying to persuade him to sign autographs.
After what he told me last night, I’m hoping I never have to talk to him ever again. Heat fills my cheeks at the memory of it, and suddenly I’m not so cold anymore. I can’t believe he said that to me! Does he think I have a crush on him? Did Keanna and the other girlfriends mess with him the way they joked with me about how we’re both single? I don’t think they’d do that, but maybe they did. I remember his words to me last night – he said heknowsKeanna is messing with me. How the hell does he know that? Have people been talking behind my back? Ugh.
I have been nothing but professional around him. I mean, sure, he’s totally hot, but so what? Every guy on Team Loco is attractive. But the fact that he felt the need to tell me that we would never be romantically involved just really felt like a slap to the face. I don’t like Clay Summers. I’m not even friends with him. Up until last night, he’d kind of scared me with his standoffish personality and intimidating features. So screw him. I can’t believe he felt the need to tell me that he didn’t like me, like I’m some kind of pathetic lovesick girl who was secretly crushing on him.
I take a sip of my coffee and watch as the track owner opens the large metal gate at the entrance to the track, officially letting everyone inside. It’s seven a.m. sharp and hundreds of parents are about to get their raffle ticket, but I’m still sitting here fuming over Clay.
I don’t like him. I don’t have a crush on him. I’m going to make sure he knows it, too. Maybe I’ll even volunteer to be the person to make him sign autographs. I’ll be professional and strict and I won’t smile or show any signs of liking him.
I chuckle to myself at the thought of it. He needs to be put in his place. He probably thinks all the girls like him, but not me. The more I think about it, the more annoyed I get. He’s an arrogant jerk. I’ll show him exactly how much I don’t like him.
Just as Marcus suspected, the parents are eager and pushy and demanding. I go through an entire roll of raffle tickets in just half an hour. The track owner got smart and set up his concessions trailer so he can make money selling food to all the people who are eagerly waiting to see if they’ll get a coveted spot on today’s training camp.
Most parents just take a ticket and leave, but some of them are chatty, trying to see if there’s anything else they can do to improve their chances. It’s a little annoying how intense these motocross fans are. They’re just all so excited to have their kids trained by professional racers. Every day I learn a little bit more about the world of motocross. It’s fascinating.
From my vantage point in the score tower, I can see across to where the Team Loco guys are set up at an autograph table. There’s a somewhat organized line of people of all ages who are wanting to snag a signed poster. It brings me great joy to know that Clay hates every second of this. He’s sitting at the far end of the table wearing the same hoodie I wore last night. I wonder if it still smells as good as it did last night.
And then I quickly shove the thought away. Clay is a jerk, and I need to remember that.
I pass out more raffle tickets, but as it nears eight o’clock, the line thins out. We’re supposed to draw winners at exactly eight and then the camp begins. After handing out the last raffle ticket, I cross the room and refill my coffee cup. I’ll probably be so buzzed from caffeine that I’ll be bouncing off the walls soon, but at least I’ll be warm.
When I return to the window, I notice that Clay has left his place at the signing table. Figures. He’s so selfish he can’t even sign a few autographs.
A woman walks up to me, her bright red lipstick smile beaming at me as if we’re old friends. “Hi, hon,” she says, placing a hundred dollar bill on the windowsill that separates us. “I need a winning raffle ticket.”
She’s so confident that I’m a little confused. “I’m sorry,” I say. “A what?”
“Awinningticket.” She gives me a knowing look. “My son is fifteen and he’ll be ready to go pro next year. This camp is exactly what he needs to be ready for a professional sponsorship.”
“Only three of the tickets are winners and we won’t know which tickets win until the drawing in a few minutes,” I say, giving her a polite smile. I ignore the hundred dollar bill that’s resting between us. I’m not about to take a bribe, and what she’s asking is basically impossible. Marcus will probably be the one drawing the tickets out of the jar. You can’t exactly rig a random drawing, especially not a few minutes beforehand.
“All you have to do is give me a ticket and keep the other half in your hand when you draw the winners,” she says, never losing her smile.
I’m vaguely aware of the door opening behind me, but Marcus is standing next to the autograph table so it’s probably the owner of the track. He’s already been in here a dozen times to refill his coffee and to bring coffee to the guys.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I say politely. “I can’t do that.”
Anger flashes in her eyes. She’s a very attractive woman, probably in her late thirties, and I get the feeling she’s not used to being told no, especially when I notice the gigantic diamond ring on her finger. “Listen, sweetheart,” she says, her jaw clenching. “This camp is extremely important. It doesn’t need to be wasted on some snot-nosed kid who has no chance of turning pro. My son will go pro and these lessons will help him get there. Just take the money and give me a winning ticket.”
She places two more hundred dollar bills on the windowsill, while I stand here, mouth agape. No one has ever talked to me this way, and I’m extremely offended that she thinks I’ll sacrifice my job, my moral compass, and some other kid’s chance at happiness for three hundred dollars.
I tear off a raffle ticket from the roll and place it on top of her bribe money. “Here’s your ticket,” I say. “Your son gets the same chance as everyone else.”
“Why are you being such a brat about this?” the woman hisses. “You have an opportunity to make some money and to make a difference for someone who matters. My son will be more famous than these guys when he’s older.”
“Wow, you’re a terrible person.”
The words come from behind me, and they’re immediately followed by that crisp ocean smell I remember from Clay’s hoodie. Then Clay is standing next to me, his hardened gaze staring right at this lady. “I hope for your son’s sake that he does get famous. Then he can move far away from bad influences like you.”
“Clay!” the lady says, bursting into a smile as she seemingly ignores what he just told her. “Honey, I need to explain why it’s so vital that my son gets into this camp. He really admires you—he would love to work with you personally—”
Clay reaches through the window and takes the ticket off the pile of money. He rips it in half and lets it fall to the floor. “You’re not welcome here. You can either leave now, or I can have the police escort you out.”
The woman’s eyes flare with rage, her jaw trembling. I can see her thinking of a million things to say, but after just a few seconds, she grabs her cash and stalks off. I want to throw my arms around Clay and thank him for saving me, but only now, that we’re alone in this small building do I remember that I’m supposed to hate him. I refuse to give him any inkling that I might like him.
“Thank you,” I say as I put the plastic lid on the jar with all of the raffle tickets. I don’t look at him. I don’t show him any gratitude other than those two words that I said with as little emotion as possible.
