Friday, October 11 – Free Practice

I lean left into the final corner, my knee puck scraping the pavement. Shifting my weight back into the center of the seat, I accelerate up the hill into the straightaway to cross the finish line. I'd gotten in some good laps, but if I'm lucky, there's just enough time to squeeze in one more before the day's second free practice is over. When there's no flag out yet at the finish line to signal the end of the session, I stay on the throttle.

The first half of the thirteen-corner track is tightly packed with one turn coming right after the other. It leads to slow going, but still takes a ton of concentration. One wrong calculation and I can easily take a corner too wide or not wide enough, losing precious tenths of seconds. But this part of the course doesn't bother me. I actually kind of enjoy the extended series of compact twists. To be honest, I'm comfortable with my performance here until it comes to turn eight.

This is where Seb had told me earlier that I'd been holding back, and he gave me some tips on how to improve. So far, I've pushed myself to follow his advice, but it still doesn't feel right. I have one, final shot today to practice. Mastering it could help get me an extra spot or two during tomorrow's qualifier.

Accelerating out of turn seven after four back-to-back left handers, it feels good to be vertical again even for a few seconds. The track ahead is clear as I pass under the bridge and slow ever so slightly to take one more left-hander. In spite of not seeing the end of the turn, I fight the urge to brake early as Seb instructed, then fly into the corner at one hundred miles per hour. It goes a little wide but—

Holy shit! Another bike is right on my line. I try to pull out of the turn early, but the rear tire can't take the added pressure. Slipping out from under me and taking the rest of the motorcycle with it, all I can do is release the handlebars and let the momentum carry me. The world goes all topsy-turvy as my body tumbles across the strip of grass lining the track before I fly into the gravel trap.

After coming to a stop, my first instinct is to get up, and I jump to my feet. My whole body tingles, but at least I'm still in one piece. Looking around to get oriented, I find my machine lying on its side about thirty feet away. It must have made contact with the bike I'd seen on the track because the number six Busch Edison is crashed out not too far away.

Six. That's Gareth Watts' ride. Son of a bitch, he could have known better than to diddle around on his way back to the pits. I was on a legit hot lap, and he should have followed the flags to give me right of way.

"What the hell?" I shout into my helmet, approaching Gareth. Lifting my visor, I resist the urge to jump out of my skin and strangle him. "Jesus! What were you thinking?"

The British rider looks totally out of it, ignoring me and stumbling toward his immobilized bike. Three corner workers also run out from behind the barriers to right our machines.

"Dude." I point at Gareth when he finally looks up. "You don't do that. You nearly got us both killed."

He doesn't reply. A medic convinces him to sit on the ground, but I wave away the one who comes to me. Instead, I stomp to the nearest gate leading to the service road. A guy on a scooter is already waiting to haul me back to the Cadmium garage. I've never been so happy for German efficiency.

Only after I climb behind him do I feel the pain in my right shoulder. My hands also shake as I hold on. The initial surge of adrenaline is already wearing off.

I replay the accident in my head over and over again to figure out what had gone wrong—and what I could have done differently—until we're outside the pit box's back door. My legs are like Twizzlers when I get off, so I dawdle a bit to take off my gloves. It also doesn't hurt to mentally prepare to face Nigel. While I didn't get a good look at the damage to the bike, his mechanics probably would've liked to spend their Friday night on anything other than putting it back together.

The paddock right now isn't super crowded, but there are still people around. The break between sessions is always good for fans since the 2Prix guys are just now going to their garages, while those in the 3Prix category—like Schulz and Pichler who pass by me—are heading back to their trailers to change. Others like Seb are already mingling with fans. With a branded ball cap on his head and his leathers unzipped down to his waist, he's standing like a modern-day Adonis just a few yards away with two giggly admirers.

Even if I'd like to take a minute to stare at his impossibly perfect, naked torso, the scene is so bizarre that I can't spare the attention. It's like a slow motion train wreck and it makes me want to hurl, although that could also be the result of slamming into the asphalt not ten minutes ago. Oddly enough, I still can't look away as the thirty-something, blonde Amazons touch his arm and chat him up while a kid—possibly the son or nephew of one—records the whole thing on his smartphone. It's hard to tell if Seb is into it or not. He appears to be slowly retreating until he catches me looking, but then he pulls one of the women into a side-hug.

Ugh, so gross.

I turn and hobble through the door—what is it about hurting a completely different part of the body that makes a person automatically limp—and run into my dad.

"What happened?" he asks, taking my gloves and guiding me to the chair.

The question is less "What led to your leathers getting all scuffed up?" and more "How did you screw up that corner, kid?" There's no way the cameras didn't capture everything.

I take a deep breath and unzip my suit with my good hand. "Watts was on my line in the blind turn. I was going too fast and couldn't avoid him." Lifting my chin, I point to the strap on the helmet that needs two hands to undo. "Could you help me with this?"

When he's done, Dad places the helmet on the shelf while I try to pull my arm out of the sleeve. "Ow." I wince. It's a no-go. Even the slightest movement strains the bruised joint.

"Hold up." Dad comes back to save the day again. Gently pushing the suit over both shoulders at the same time lets the sleeves slip down with ease. From the waist up, I'm left sitting in just my black sports bra.

"Well, this isn't pretty," Dad says, eyeing the large, maroon bruise on my upper right arm. "Swollen, too."

"Has a doctor seen you?" Nigel appears from behind him.

I shake my head. I'm not a fan of doctors, and I've gotten through worse without one. "No, but it's fine."

"Oh, sure. It's all 'you're just overreacting, Nigel' until someone goes and loses an arm." He dramatically throws up his hands.

"What? Who said anything about losing an arm?" I ask. I'd also laugh if even the slightest movement didn't bring more pain. "I fell on my shoulder. It's sprained at the most. I'll put some ice on it and rest—"

"You'll go right now to the medical center and get it looked at, that's what you'll do. No arguments." He points his index finger at me as if that makes the demand any more official. "If you don't care about your health, then at least care about the team's liability insurance."

"Fine, but you need to file a complaint against Watts for obstructing my right of way."

My team manager's posture relaxes, and he puts his hands on his hips. "I could do that, but we probably don't have a case since it looks like he had mechanical trouble. Plus you veered off line. He had no way to know he'd be in the way and move over in time. I wouldn't be surprised though if he reported you for your outburst."

I flinch at the accusation. "What outburst?"

"Your behavior right after the incident. By your body language, I assume you weren't thanking him for ending your lap early," he says, tilting his head in an attempt to dare me to convince him otherwise.

I can't argue, but my immediate reaction was fueled by shock and adrenaline. The rules about unsportsmanlike conduct surely have exceptions in light of the circumstances. "No. I just needed to get a few things off my chest."

"Well, you can't get too emotional out there. Pros know how to handle disappointment," he says just before a flatbed truck pulls up with my wrecked bike. "Excuse me. I need to go see how much you just set us back."

Nigel leaves, and I take my cell from the shelf so I can head off to the med center, but there's an unread text. It's from Shane. U okay, Dimas?

I smile. He must have seen my crash. He's such a sweetheart. I'll live, I type.

"Ready to go?" Dad asks, offering to help me stand.

Shane replies with a thumbs-up emoji just when Nicola arrives.

"Hey now. What's all this?" she asks, waving her hand up and down in front of me.

"Just a bump." I touch the sore spot with my other hand. Damn, that's tender. "I'm going to see a doctor now. I'll be fine." Leaning on Dad, I get to my feet.

Nicola crosses her arms. "Well, that's lovely, but I meant why are you undressed?"

"Undressed?" I look down at my boobs, safely smushed flat under the thick spandex. "It's a sports bra. I'm hot and sore. Is that a problem?"

"Yes, it's a problem." Nicola's pitch goes up an octave at being second-guessed. "We have press all over. What if they get a picture of you like this?"

I gasp. The bikini I wore to Santa Cruz beach a few months ago covered half as much. "Are you shitting me?"

"Lauren!" Dad warns, but this time, I'm not having it.

"No, Dad. This is absolute bullshit coming from the woman who was totally okay with me going topless for an international advertising campaign." I turn back to Nicola. "Don't take this personally, but you're a total hypocrite."

"Me? I'm a hypocrite?" She pokes her chest, making the stack of laminated badges hanging on the lanyard jiggle. "You, my darling, are the one who refused to show your back, but are now flaunting your girls for everyone in the paddock. Do you have any idea how much extra work you caused Tommy and the whole ads team with your little moral stand?"

If my shoulder weren't throbbing, I'd do more than tap my foot. "You knew they were going to alter the pictures? Well, I'm glad they suffered for it. And I am not flaunting my girls. I'm more covered up than he is." I wave my hand toward Seb. He'd just walked in, stopping outside our circle to see what the fuss is about. Like me, the top of his suit is hanging at his waist, but there isn't a shred of fabric covering his upper body. "Why aren't you criticizing all the guys who regularly walk around half naked?"

Nicola scoffs. "You can't be serious. That's different."

"Why?" I suspect the reason—they're guys and I'm just a fragile, little girl—but I want her to admit it.

"All right," Nigel says, returning from the work area and cutting off the press officer from answering. "Enough of this. You." He points at me. "Go get that shoulder examined and you." He motions toward Nicola. "Look into whether there's any official WRRF or Cadmium Racing policy about the level of dress a rider must maintain in the pits when they're off their bike. Whatever it is, we'll apply it equally to both of our racers. Now, everyone get back to work. We have a long night ahead of us."

After squeezing my increasingly stiff limb back into my leathers, I decline Dad's help to walk me to the med center. I'm halfway there when the last person I want to see right now—or probably ever—comes around the corner.

"Thank you, querida, for proving why girls don't belong in road racing," Diego says while heading straight for me. He's in the middle of a larger group including a couple of event hostesses in barely-there mini-skirts, a few vendor reps, and by the looks of admiration on their faces, a bunch of his buddies. "You ride with emotion and no thought," he continues, stopping and blocking my way. "You'll never be as good as us, so you might as well admit it and go home before completely embarrassing yourself."

He also must be referring to my crash with Gareth, who—and I want to shout this from the rooftops so even those in the back will understand—was practically stopped on my race line, but he could have commented on the value of the Oxford comma for all I care, it would have made me equally perturbed. I realize that confronting Diego right now in public and in front of his posse would be stupid. While every part of me is screaming to ignore him and walk away, my fight or flight response is shit and my damn brain decides to open my mouth, instead.

"First of all, I want to make sure that I've got this right, so tell me if I should be grabbing your ass to be taken seriously," I say, staring into his eyes before lightly tapping him in the chest with my good hand.

"Second, for your information, I haven't been a girl since I was twelve years old, so you would do well to either refer to me as a woman, or—you know—not be a condescending prick and just use my actual fucking name," I say.

There's a chorus of snickers from around us and Diego begins to look flustered, but I'm on a roll. "And third—we're on three, right—you are completely right about one thing." I poke him again with my finger, forcing him to take a step back. "I know I will never be as good as some of you. But you know what, Diego? I also don't remember seeing a championship title next to your name. So maybe—just maybe—not all boys are created equal, either."

The previously muted reaction from our audience turns to laughter, and with his lips pursed and nostrils flaring, Diego is obviously enraged. I need to get to the clinic before things escalate further, but blindly retreating, I nearly stumble into Shane. There's no telling how much he actually heard, but at least he reserves judgment.Instead, he silently turns and comes with me to the medical trailer, watching me enter before going on his way.