‘But you have more than enough money till the next Tropics.’ Monique grips my arm. ‘Besides, I overheard Mr Nessic on the phone saying that Lucifer’s Dream could be cancelled! That’s the real tragedy.’
‘Monz—’ I protest.
‘Stop it.’ She cuts me off. ‘I know you have this thing about the old speedway, and I’m not here to shit on your dreams, but there’s no rush. It’s not going anywhere, and the money will come, babe.’ She pauses, regarding me with a look of tough love. ‘We’re gonna get the money, but we’re gonna get it at The Tropics, because that’s where X is in charge. I breathe easier knowing he’s looking out for you.’
I try to laugh. ‘I don’t need X to look after me.’
Monique pauses, the energy shifting into something else. When she chances a glance at me, there’s a sadness in her eyes. ‘I don’t think you get what it’s like.’
Confusion takes over at her serious tone. ‘Get whatwhat’slike?’
She sighs like she’s explaining the most obvious and simple thing in the world to me, then her face softens. ‘I told myself I’d never tell you. Not since you started sneaking out to the blast furnaces after that awful night to teach yourself how to quick-shift. I honestly thought it would stop there. But … I worry about you every race, girl. You know I support you. In anything. I always will. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy, seeing you risk your life every time you come to the races. I’ll bet the cash, I’ll con the newbies, I’ll do whatever. But it doesn’t mean I’m not clutching at my heart the moment you take off from the line. It’s ten seconds of zero breathing. None. Like no air intake at all. Not until you’re out of the car with every curl intact. So, please, if you can do just one thing for me and just keep my anxiety focused on The Tropics … that would be great.’
She’s left me completely speechless. I didn’t know she felt this way.
‘Besides,’ Monique continues, with a little more flair back in her voice, ‘that dude seriously needs a trip to the salon. Like, hello? It’s called purple shampoo. And did you see his shoes? Who told him fringe bows were in?’
She pulls a disgusted face. Our eyes meet, and we burst into laughter. Monique links her arm through mine and stuffs my records into her absurdly huge tote bag.
We make our way to the fabric store. We browse aisles of colourful cloth as Monique fills me in on her new prospect, but I barely take in her words. I can’t stop thinking about Landon’s challenge.
I understand what Monz is saying. There’s risk in this.
But she can’t be anxious about something she doesn’t know is happening.
I’ve already beaten Landon once. I know I can do it again.
Chapter 8
Ryker
FOUR YEARS AGO
It’s Thursday, which means it’s shooting practice. I turn the basketball in my hands but my mind keeps replaying how I spent yesterday.
She’s your best friend’s baby sister.
Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll sink into my brain, but I’m starting to realise that maybe I don’t care.
I’ve always thought Gianna is beautiful. We’ve grown up together, but it’s getting harder to look away, and I can’t keep ignoring the way my body lights on fire when I see her. When I watched her in the art rooms yesterday, immersed in her project, in her element? Damn. There’s an ember in her eyes that makes me curious. She’s got a whole fucking wildfire contained within her, and I want to see it burn.
‘Listen up, ladies,’ Coach Clarke bellows by the corner of the court. ‘I don’t care if this is just practice. We don’t stay number one unless we practise like we’re beating number one. Every time you step on this floor, we are pedal to the metal. We run. We pressure. We play … Mr Fernando!’ he screams at Renny as he waltzes through the gym doors. ‘You’re late. Twenty suicides before you join the court.’
Renny protests, muttering in Portuguese, while our basketballs bounce off the walls. He eventually gives in and starts running the length of the court, touching the white painted lines on each end. Coach barks out the rest of his instructions. We’re doing full court dribbles. Crossovers, layups, and defensive slides.
I love this game, but I can’t focus, especially when I make it back to the starting baseline in time to see a head of chocolate brown curls approach the bleachers. Gianna takes her usual spot off to the very left of the middle row. She opens her sketchbook and places it on her lap, holding a pen to the paper. As if sensing me, she looks up and I lock eyes with her. A smile spreads across my face. Her eyes are my favourite, little chestnut whirlpools that don’t hide a thing. I know every thought that runs through her mind by a single glance in her eyes. A faint red glow rises to her face before she refocuses on her book. She does this cute thing where she sucks on the corner of her bottom lip when she concentrates.
It does things to me. It makes me want to give her anything she wants.
She’s your best friend’s—
Fuck it.
Knowing I’m in the final months of seeing her every day is urging me to stop being so chickenshit. I want Gianna Brooks, and I’m sick of wasting time pretending that I don’t.
Plus, yesterday, something shifted.
It was the first time I started thinking that she might feel something back.
