Who the hell is she?
I open my eyes and glance at Dom. He’s still staring at the fire. His beer bottle rests against his thigh. He looks calm and detached, but Dom’s always been good at hiding what’s going on in his head.
“Hey,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “I saw that pink biker again.”
He glances at me with mild curiosity.
“The Barbie dream bike?”
I chuckle. That’s pretty clever for Dom, even if it’s true.
“Yeah, she almost got herself killed racing past a train the other night.”
“That’s your new type now?” His tone is flat and uninterested. “Suicidal speed junkies?”
I snort, shaking my head. He knows my history and would never support me getting with the female version of myself.
“No. She reminded me of someone.”
Dom’s brow furrows slightly as he slowly sips his beer, the flickering firelight reflecting off the bottle.
“Yeah, yourself,” he says after a beat. “You’re bored, just a class away from being done, and she drives as wild and crazy as you did. Of course, she reminds you of someone. The version of you before you broke your back at MotoGP.”
His words hit hard. I glance away, my jaw tightening. He’s dragging up memories I’d rather keep buried.
The crash.
The surgery.
The months of rehab.
The endless discussions and opinions from my doctors, parents, sponsors, and team about returning to racing or risking being paralyzed. It’s been years, but the scar still feels fresh.
“Maybe,” I mutter, my voice low and void of the lingering hurt. “But it’s not just that.”
Dom shifts, turning his full attention to me now.
“Then what? You’re not seriously thinking about tracking her down, are you?”
I shrug, not meeting his gaze despite feeling it bore into the side of my head.
“I don’t know. She’s just . . . stuck in my head.”
“Is this about her, or are you looking for an excuse to chase something since you’re healed up and shit?”
I grip the bottle tighter. The glass is cold against my palm. Dom knows me too well. Better than I’d like. He knows how much I miss the adrenaline. The high of pushing myself to the edge.
The pink biker is more than just a distraction. She’s a flash of what I used to be. A flash of ego resurfaced when I was someone more than just a college kid in a sea of college kids in this town.
“I’m not chasing anything,” I say finally, though it sounds weak even to me. “It’s just . . . she was different.”
Dom snorts, downing the rest of his drink and tossing the bottle on the ground.
“Different how? Because she nearly got herself killed? Or because you saw yourself in her?”
I don’t answer, the words catching in my throat. He’s not wrong, but admitting it feels like giving too much away.
“Don’t you have enough on your plate with that professor? Maybe don’t add another impossible chase to the mix.”
