Sunday, October 6 – Laguna Seca, California

Moving down the buffet line, I add a stack of baby carrots next to the heap of hummus on my plate. "How pathetic am I?" I ask of no one in particular, tilting my head back with a sigh.

My best friend in the whole world peeks around my shoulder. "I'd say pretty pathetic. You made a beeline straight to the veggies when there's a whole other table of desserts."

I smile. Yeah, that's the Cam I know and love. She knows how to cheer me up even when we're hanging out at a race we both could be riding in, not just watching from the VIP lounge.

"That's so not what I meant," I say, scooting along the table.

"Oh yeah?" She pops a chocolate truffle thing into her mouth. Her plate is full of nothing, but sugar. "What then?"

"I have almost three weeks off to relax and do practically whatever I want, and all I've done is hung out at home, rode some dirt track, played video games, went to the gym, and now I'm at a race, which means I've literally done the same things I do most of the time."

"You just described my heaven, girl." Cam laughs, her dark brown curls bouncing around her face. "Seriously, though, what did you expect? This is what you know. This is what most of us know. We don't have friends from class because we were homeschooled. We grew up around the track. You should be happy you get to do what you love."

Crap. I am the worst.

She's totally right. What the heck am I doing complaining? Two weeks ago, I was on the starting grid in Barcelona, surrounded by the best riders in the world in my class. Granted I didn't even get to start because my bike crapped out, but at least I had that chance. I chose to leave this series for something arguably better, but Cam's the one who got pushed out due to lack of funds through no fault of her own. No money means no equipment, no crew, and no chance of racing, so she ended up taking a job as a drivers' ed instructor while she courts new sponsors for next year. Teaching teens to ride scooters and helping suburban dads get through their mid-life crises without killing themselves on their Harleys pays the bills, but it's nothing compared to the racing life. "Oh, sweets, I didn't meant to sound ungrateful—"

I don't finish as a bunch of people in the VIP suite rush to the floor-length glass windows on the back wall. There's a live-feed on multiple screens in the room, but everyone wants to see the action in person. From this second-story space overlooking pit lane, we have a perfect view.

"It's starting, come on." Cam leaves the buffet, puts her plate down at another table, and goes to a free spot at the window.

Feeling crumby for my selfishness, I'm not in as much of a hurry. We got comped tickets from a mutual friend so I guess Cam would be here even without me, and the networking she's done over the weekend could help her find new sponsors. I had actually been naïve enough to think that maybe my old team would have given her my spot when I left, but they ended up using the opportunity to test out various wild card riders for the rest of the season.

The nearest flat screen shows a field of about two-dozen US Road Racing Association riders coming around the last turn at the end of their warm-up lap. As they take the grid, my heartbeat accelerates. This would have been my home race, and right now, I almost wish I could be down there waiting for the starting signal. Was moving to the world federation worth it? I would've had a podium spot here for sure.

Being the first girl in international road racing doesn't seem so special right now especially when I compare it to how great winning actually feels. Maybe I should have just stuck to what I knew. I guess it doesn't matter now. I'll be back in five weeks for the final race on the world calendar, but I'd be lucky to be in a point earning fifteenth position let alone have a chance at top three among that field.

What's the saying? Little fish in a big pond? Yeah, that's me now. Ugh. I should have just stayed in my little race-winning pond. Then I could be worrying about which contract to accept for next year instead of what community college classes I'll probably end up taking so I don't end up with a minimum wage job after I get washed up.

I bite into another carrot with a ferocious crunch before joining Cam at the window. The final racers are rolling into their spots, but I focus on the number fourteen Suzuki in pole position. Laying my palm on the glass, I mentally channel good vibes to its rider, Tanner Oleson. We've known each other forever—he even gave us the tickets for this weekend—and he has a good shot at earning his first national championship.

"You know how to pick 'em," Cam says, moving back as the starting lights turn and the bikes lurch forward.

I follow the pack with my eyes as it snakes its way into the first corner. "What do you mean?" I ask, only halfway paying attention to what she's mumbling about.

"First Tanner and now Seb. You always end up with the best. " Cam touches my arm and when I look over my shoulder, she cocks a 'you know what I'm talking about' brow.

I drop my hand from the glass and turn toward her. "Apples to oranges," I say, catching the insinuation and stopping it before it goes further.

Cam knows that Tanner and I had a brief 'friends with benefits' thing going on last year. It's not like we didn't try for a real relationship, but he wasn't exactly boyfriend material. That was clear from the first—and only—real date we ever went on. After inviting fans from an adjacent table to join us for dinner, the shaggy-haired charmer spent the rest of the evening talking about himself before giving his number to the waitress in exchange for getting a huge discount off the bill. He was cute, charismatic, and talented, but worse: he knew it.

Actually, I guess Seb is like him in that last regard. But he's also a colleague I get to work with for another month then possibly never see again. Even if I wanted something from him—which I don't—and if he felt the same—which he doesn't—it just wouldn't happen.

"Oh, please," Cam says, rolling her eyes. "They're both unbelievably good looking, they're the best in their fields, and they're both totally into you. Apples all the way. Golden delicious. Or maybe honey crisp. Pick your poison."

The metaphor isn't surprising since Cam's family owns a fruit farm. That doesn't make it any less wrong. But Seb—into me? The most we've interacted outside of torque settings or grip measurements was on the way back to the hotel from that fancy dinner two weeks ago. While he was definitely super sweet that night, I'm sure he would have been the same with anyone else, even Nicola.

"Poison kills you, babe," I say, pointing out the obvious. But I am curious about how she's reached such absurd conclusions. "And anyway, why would you think they're into me?"

Tanner and I mutually ended things, and he's definitely moved on. One look at his Instagram could tell you that. Something about Seb—like his own social media accounts, tabloid history, and overall reputation—tells me he wouldn't be much different. And apart from a couple of little things, he's made sure to keep his distance. I mean, I guess I could have done much worse in terms of who to share a garage with for five races, but still.

"Tanner asks about you all the time," she says, motioning to the nearby television screen where his Suzuki is still in the lead. "And Seb makes these puppy dog eyes every time the camera catches him looking at you. I watch the news and races. It's pretty obvious if you're paying attention."

I laugh at her increasingly ridiculous assumptions and pull her back to our table. "I love you, girl, but you're delusional if you think Seb Bianchi would ever look at me with puppy-dog eyes. He's just confused because he doesn't know what to make of having me as his teammate."

I'll never admit it, but Cam's words do remind me of certain looks Seb has given me, which caught me off guard. It started the first time we came face-to-face, his attentive gaze boring a hole right through me before he pulled out of the garage at the race in Malaysia. Then there was the curious—or perhaps even impressed—way he reacted when I chewed the photographer out in Australia and most recently, the sad and almost protective way he looked at me in the cab after I told him the true reason I wanted to leave the charity event early. The scent of his musky aftershave trapped in the small back seat still lingers in my nostrils.

In spite of my insistence of how wrong she is, I can't help but smile at the memories. Stupid Cam. I never even thought about Seb like this before, and now she has me thinking about how good he always looks and smells.