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JT
The clutch stuck. JT shifted on his seat to avoid squirreling to the side of the track or into another race. Another ride, probably Blake, clipped his right handlebar.
Come on. JT squeezed, released, and squeezed again, but his Honda refused to respond. He was fast losing his spot in first, hell, his chance to place at all.
The cacophony of roaring engines surrounded him, vibrating from under his jersey to his helmet. Even muffled, the thrum filled his body. In the short second everything happened, JT remembered to breathe.
Pop the gears down into first, and then... he closed his eyes and released his clutch. The bike jerked forward and JT pulled hard on the throttle. He snapped his fingers tight and jerked his left foot up to fourth as fast as he could. That last side crunch on a jump had messed with his cable, or something, messed with the mechanical aspects of his bike.
A full bike-length behind fifth place when he entered the whoops, bumps on the trail that demand skill to cross over, JT took the corner at full speed. Idiot. Once again, he had to downshift or lose his balance in the curve.
Blake’s blue and gold helmet weaved in and out, popping up when he hit the triples and nailed all three slopes. He disappeared again past the tabletop.
JT’s breathing sped up. He had to catch Blake. If Mac won, fine, but Blake couldn’t beat JT. Not again.
This season had to be different. It had to be.
Someone on a Kawasaki cut in front of JT, roostered around him, and crested the first plateau. The mud and rocks peppered JT’s jersey and pinged on the plastic of his bike.
A tangled milieu of bikes and riders covered the course thirty yards in, just feet from the finish line.
Back far enough to observe the mess, JT throttled over a fallen bike’s rear tire. He grinned when he recognized the bike’s gold Fox emblem. Ah, Blake. Down this time.
As the checkered flag waved through the thunderous applause of the crowd and cameras flashed, JT downshifted and cruised toward the two bikers who’d finished before him – Mac and a rookie. There weren’t many things more annoying than to be considered old when other kids JT’s age were just finishing college.
Distant roars echoed off the stadium walls, mixing with the droning crowd. Unclipping his helmet, JT slid it from his head. “Mac, glad you made it!” he yelled as he thrust his chin upward at one of his best friends.
Mac leaned across his handlebars and shook JT’s outstretched hand. “Hey, man. Great race. Was that Blake down again? Where the hell are the rest of the riders?”
JT wiped his sleeve across his damp forehead. “Yeah, that was Blake, alright. Punk passed me after I thudded off the whoops. Messed up my clutch. Karma, right? Here they come now.” He pointed at the stragglers coming into the fielding area.
A rider decked in orange and a healthy layer of brown mud brushed at his jersey. Another in yellow pushed his bike down the incline, the handlebars hanging at an angle.
One hand steadying his bike and the other resting on his leg, JT pasted a fake smile on his face when Blake’s Yamaha came into view. Pushing the bike, Blake clenched his helmet over the side handle and glared at JT.
“What the hell was that? My rear tire’s bent now ‘cause of you, prick,” Blake groaned.
The fact that he’d reclaimed third place helped JT maintain his good mood. “Hey, good race, Blake. Maybe next time, yeah?”
JT ignored the urge to flip off his friend. Only during the season was it hard to remember they loved both riding and each other. Exhaust filled the air, the sweet smell of Maxima two-stroke oil wafting just under the high octane of the four-strokes, announcing Eva’s arrival.
Mac’s sister only rode two-strokes for practice, but raced four-strokes. She was the only girl that practiced with the pro circuit. Too many girls tried, but zero held their spots with the men.
She pulled up and parked next to Mac in time to witness him call JT and Blake to task.
Mac held up his hand. “Alright, boys, that’s enough. Blake, your manager’s over there. Go grab your replacement and get to the awards area. JT and I will go around for interviews and meet you there.”
“Pssh. Your captain is showing.” Blake growled, but managed a smile, He glanced at Eva as he smoothed his shoulder-length dark brown hair back from his face. His solid jaw and dark eyes sobered as he watched Mac and his sister.
Mac had been voted as their leader a long time ago. About the time they’d all crept into the woods to face the werewolves together. Mac had been the only one smart enough to bring a flashlight and not run screaming from the forest when an owl hooted. Eva had laughed the entire time they’d been shaking in the mud room, huddled around the fire.
JT smothered the grin he wanted to throw at Blake. He’d get interviewed while Blake had to clean up and watch. “Yeah, you need to do what the boss says.”
Blake’s glare could bubble the graphics on JT’s Honda. Chuckling, JT glanced around for his father who acted as his manager. Relief stole through him at the man’s welcome absence.
“Stop baiting him, JT.” Mac tossed his helmet into his dad’s open arms.
Mac’s father, Brian Hudson, acted as his son’s manager as well, but he didn’t tie Mac into a contract or take three times his cut of pay.
“Hey, Dad, do you have any more of the Pepsi caps? I’m heading up to interview.” Mac pulled a wristband from his pocket and wrapped it on his right wrist. The logo of one of his sponsors prominent on the wide leather strip.
“I have some.” Eva pulled off her backpack and withdrew a flat brimmed cap from the pocket. “Don’t tilt it to the side this time. You looked like an idiot.” She handed over the hat and glanced after Blake and the group of women following him for an autograph.
“Yeah, and don’t forget to drink this and hold it. The last shot wasn’t really clear and the sponsor wasn’t really pleased.” Brian held up his son’s can of pop and smiled at JT. “Good race, Josiah. It looked like your clutch was sticking. Did you smash your handlebar when you landed off that double?”
“Yes, sir. I must have hit the jump at the wrong angle.” JT cranked on the bar and shrugged. He didn’t want to admit that he’d most likely gotten cocky and relaxed into the jump instead of being ready.
“Have your dad take a look, if your pit crew won’t do anything.” Brian poked Mac. “Get goin’, son. First place waits for no man.”
He one-arm hugged Mac, smiling at him with genuine affection. Something JT didn’t remember ever getting from his own father.
Blond hair stuffed under a dark blue Pepsi baseball hat, Mac gripped the can and slid off his bike. “Thanks, Dad. Ready, JT?”
JT wiped at the mud splatters on his jersey. It wasn’t the first time he’d wished Mr. Hudson was his dad. His own father’s notorious tardiness was usually due to ogling the card holders and crowd teasers. JT waved to a pit member loitering by the gates and left his bike with him to be returned to the loading area.
Paraphernalia would be nice to display, but JT had set up his sponsors to pay for plastering his jersey and bike with logos and ads, rather than count on his dad to bring the stuff he needed for interviews. He did wear an LBZ bandana under his helmet to hold his long hair back from his face, but it fell back often and didn’t always stick where it was supposed to. He’d never let his hair get longer than nape of the neck. He couldn’t cut it short like he wanted to, or he’d miss a huge opportunity to piss off his dad.
The trophy area and media stage had been mashed together at the north end of the arena. Bulbs flashed and the attention hungry waited to descend like vultures. Mac glanced back at JT and raised his eyebrows to bolster them both. This was the worst part of the gig.
JT tilted his head toward Mac as if to say, “let’s get this over with.” On the other side of the stand, coming up the stairs, was Dick Thompson. JT’s dad.
Dang it.
JT had been so hopeful he wouldn’t have to deal with him. No such luck. The end of the day couldn’t come soon enough.
***
JT’S BOOTS CLUNKED and clanged with each downward step, the sounds echoing off the cement stairwells. Tight around his calves, the strapped boots took too long to undo and JT ignored the pinch as he moved. He needed new boots and as soon as he was free from the contract with his father, he wanted to sign with Fox to get some new gear. Their new line matched exactly what he was looking for.
He’d claimed third place, even with a stalled engine in the middle of the race, and he needed the interview. More face time on the screen meant more sponsors. JT needed more cash in the bank. How did he collect it without his dad finding out? Lousy as he was, his dad was still his manager and had to sign each contract which meant he knew about every dime that came in. JT hadn’t had a chance to figure out how to bring green in under the radar.
Only a few more weeks and he’d be free. Free from the stress of dealing with his jerk father, free from being saddled with a manager that pushed signing with whoever would take them, free to run his brand the way he wanted to.
Mid-flight, JT pushed the caution-floor-wet sign to the side. He picked up speed as the cheering grew louder. The scent of corndogs and nachos made his stomach growl. He reached into his pocket to check for his wallet.
As he leaned forward to access his pants better, the lip of his boot caught on the stair edge. He fell, twisting to protect his chest. His hip, side, and ankle took the brunt of the force as he tumbled down seven steps. Every angle and sharp point poked into his body. The side of his head struck the railing.
Pain blinded him. He groaned and landed on the cement floor.
And didn’t move.
***
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” An oxygen mask threw JT’s words back into his throat, the rubber band holding it to his head tight under his closed eyes. The vehicle bumped and swerved. JT fought nausea from the migraine exploding behind his temple.
He didn’t get an answer.
He didn’t hear anything.
No sound. Nothing. Maybe some fuzz like a static-filled TV channel. No pulse. No sensation of plugged ears. JT tried to turn his head, but lightning shot down his spine with the tiniest movement. He gasped and the oxygen made his head spin more.
Sudden jostling of the gurney and a flurry of touching down by his feet and someone, or multiple someones, jerked the bed around. JT clenched his teeth and held his breath.
Oh, stop. Please stop. His head, his ankle, and his hip, oh, his back... everything burned, ached.
After what seemed like forever and a day, the movement stopped and the inferno encasing JT’s body dulled to a dim ache. He welcomed the rush of cool gas from the tube. His eyelids fluttered, blurring the reddish-blonde hair waving over his face.
***
“MR. THOMPSON? CAN YOU hear me?”
Faint pressure against his wrist and throat brought him from his blackout. Warm fingers pulled down his lower lid on either eye. Something cold slid along his cheek, leaving a tingling path behind. A beep to his right pulsated with the pounding pressure in his head. The tinkle of metal on metal became a clatter and his headache increased.
The soft voice spoke again, soothing the shattered peace of his unconsciousness. “If you can hear me, wiggle your fingers or toes, Mr. Thompson.” The voice pushed the intense ache to the edges as everything else aggravated his pain.
He needed to hear the voice again. What had she said? Something about moving something. He could follow directions, if only to hear her voice again.
JT pushed past the pain and focused on his fingers. Everything in him struggled against moving the digit, but he fought the pain and the slightest flutter finally came. He nearly lost consciousness. Again.
“Good. Oh, that’s great, Josiah. Just relax and I’ll up your meds. You’ve been on a sedative, but I’m discontinuing it so you can come out of it. In a second, you’ll feel warm and a bit of light headedness. Just breathe through it. You should be able to open your eyes in a few minutes.”
Fingers caressed his elbow and readjusted something on his finger. Slight jostling of the bed suggested she leaned against it and JT was overcome with the need to see her. He had to tell her he hated being called Josiah. Hated that name so much.
But on her lips... Josiah wasn’t so bad.
JT would have gritted his teeth, if he had any real control over his muscles. Mixed in with the pain meds must have been a muscle relaxer. His jaw wouldn’t even clench. Damn. He’d missed the awards and the interviews. He needed more exposure, or he’d never get the sponsors.
His frustrations warred with his desire to find out what was happening with the soft-voiced angel. Hopefully, she didn’t know how he’d hurt himself.
The feathery-subtle scent of vanilla and strawberries wafted over him, overtaking the cold puff of oxygen in the tube in his nose.
Falling down the stairs, what an idiot. He’d survived the races and the first motos of the season, but he couldn’t handle simple cement steps? Loser. Blake probably had a laugh and a half over that one. If JT didn’t get up and get going, he’d lose to Blake over the next couple races and he didn’t have time for that.
The fuzzy weight holding his body down seemed to lift bit by bit. His chest rose and fell with less pressure and he was able to inhale without trouble, except for a sharp twinge beneath his arm just at his ribs.
JT blinked and squinted as he worked his eyes open.
Her full smile filled his gaze first as she leaned across him to tap a machine. A stethoscope hung from her neck and pink flowers spotted her light blue scrubs. She wore a pink long-sleeved tee under the short-sleeved top. Only a faint sheen on her lips suggested chapstick and nothing else. She leaned down to meet his lowered gaze.
“There you are. I don’t want you to try to talk, but if you can blink at me once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’, I can get you more comfortable.” She narrowed her eyes as if she’d be able to make him blink once.
JT couldn’t focus. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled back in a nape bun, escaping tendrils tucked behind her ears. Little ladybug earrings graced petite lobes above an elegantly curved neck.
She trained eyes as green as Kawasaki plastic on him. “Mr. Stone, did you hear what I said?”
Was it twice for no or yes? JT scrunched his eyes closed twice. Yes, I can hear you.
Laughter like falling glitter edged more pain out of JT’s head. She wagged her finger. “Twice for no. So, if you didn’t hear me, how’d you know to blink?” She applied one last strip of tape to his IV tube, and then gathered up the garbage and tossed it in the receptacle.
JT wanted to see her eyes again, but he couldn’t move.
Panic arced through him. Was he paralyzed? Humiliation replaced worry. He’d be retired early and not because of a bike accident – the honorable way to go – but instead due to a markedly irrational act of clumsiness. He’d never have kids and possibly never be able to feed himself. Who knew if he could even use the john by himself? Great, he’d be tubing it the rest —
“Okay, Mr. Thompson, let’s go over a few things before I give you more meds.” The strawberry blonde pulled up a chair and rested a clipboard in her lap. She brushed a stray chunk of hair behind her ear and crossed her legs.
JT could’ve watched her for hours.
“Do you remember your accident?” Those eyes of hers watched him carefully. They were wide and doe-like. Little creases at the corner were surrounded by pale-translucent skin with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her top lip was a touch bigger than her bottom and she wielded her half-smile like a subconscious weapon.
After the longest moment, JT remembered to answer her and he blinked.
“Oh, good. And do you remember what you had for breakfast?” She circled something on her paper and turned her gaze back on him.
One blink. What was there to remember? He never ate on race day. The contents of his stomach rose too fast at the starting line. A fact Blake loved rubbing in his face. JT focused on the sheet of paper she wrote on, rather than her distracting face. He didn’t even know her name.
She finished writing and then raised her eyes. “Blink the number your pain is at, one being none at all and ten being unbearable, screaming and writhing like you’re burning to death.” She winked, not flirting, but her friendly teasing made her question easier to consider.
JT tried to focus his attention inward to answer her question. He hurt, but he couldn’t pinpoint where and it came and went in waves. At the peak, maybe a seven. He blinked seven times.
“Seven?” She wrote the number down at his answering single blink. “Okay, that’s actually pretty good for a sprained wrist, bruised ribs, twisted ankle, and a concussion. Do you have reactions to any medications other than the penicillin allergy we have on your records?”
Two blinks. Did she say he had something wrong with his arm? The rest of it was a blur.
That wasn’t going to work for him. He had another race in a week.
JT swallowed against the weight of his tongue and the sandy texture of his mouth. Moisture, he needed something to drink. If he blinked five times, would that get him water? He cleared his throat, but only managed a small push of air which whistled around the oxygen tube in his nose.
He parted his lips. Dang it. She would walk out of the room and who knew when she’d be back, if ever.
“I...” And now he sounded like a frog. Great. His voice had to be there. She hadn’t said anything about his neck or throat.
Somehow, he found enough saliva to moisten his mouth and he croaked out, “What’s your name?”
He did it. If he hadn’t been strapped to the bed by his own fatigue, he would’ve jumped up and attempted to dance on the ceiling. Maybe even grabbed her hand and spun her around. Yeah, right, who was he kidding? He didn’t have the guts for a move like that.
“Oh, I’m sorry, let me get you some ice.” She held out her name tag with a smiling picture above the text. “I’m Kelsey. I’m your nurse for a little bit longer today and maybe tomorrow. Since you’re talking, I can let the doctor know and we can get some food for you. Isn’t that exciting?” She addressed him with a tolerance he hadn’t received since kindergarten, like he was simple-minded.
She didn’t see him as a man, that fact was plainer than the sterility of the hospital room. His appreciation for her femininity growled under the injustice that she didn’t see him the same way. Frustration at his situation burned hotter than the pain from his injuries, but he tamped down his temper.
It wouldn’t do to be rude to the woman he was going to marry.
