Like the pistons inside an engine, my feet pound the pavement at regular intervals, splashing water in spots where it had pooled earlier. The rain had been on and off all afternoon, and a light mist still hangs in the air as I run through old town Chemnitz. While this is how a million horror movies start and I half expect a vampire to pop out from behind the next corner, there's an odd sense of peace from doing something so familiar even in a foreign location.

The cool vapor mixes with the warm sweat dripping down the side of my face, and I wipe it with my hand before settling back into a steady rhythm. There aren't many people around. Well past closing time, the shops are shuttered and the sidewalks nearly deserted. Some of the pubs I pass are playing dirndl music, while most of the restaurants smell like roast sausage. As my stomach growls, I'm not-so-subtly reminded that I probably should have had more for dinner than a bag of ketchup flavored potato chips.

Cast iron streetlamps cast a warm glow on the slippery cobblestone pavers as I round the base of a medieval-looking tower to make my way back to the hotel. After sixteen laps of racing on a wet track just hours ago, you'd think my body was already way past the point of exhaustion, but my mind can't seem to settle down.

I should be happy. The race has given me the best finish on the world circuit so far, with an almost point-scoring sixteenth place. One position better would have let me cross another milestone off my list, but the important thing is that I'm getting closer with every try. I'd also done it all on a replacement motorcycle with an intermediate setup. That's almost like completing an expedition to the Himalayas using gear bought at the local sporting goods store. It's adequate, but definitely not ideal.

But my success today has—in a weird way—come at others' expense. While it's every man (and woman) for himself in road racing, I hate to come out on top only because some other guy got screwed over. Diego going down right in front of me was scary. Him taking Tobei with him was scarier. It had been close. Too close. I barely missed running into their downed machines, forced off-track in the chaos. Seb had also ended up in the gravel. It was only through a little luck and lots of skill that he managed to salvage his race.

These last couple of days really have been a perfect storm of bad luck. Tanner's crash from just a week ago still bothers me. It was actually the first thing I thought of when Diego went down, and I called him in California again as soon as I could just to make sure he was still doing okay. My own collision with Gareth on Friday was a close second. His comeback to win today's race after that mess is a testament to his professionalism, no thanks to me.

Maybe I'm obsessing because my brain is exhausted. Paranoia and 'what if' speculations are pointless. The German race is done, leaving just Italy and the US. After this run, I'll go back to the hotel, soak my shoulder in a nice warm bath, and then it'll be time for another painkiller. That's pretty much all I can do for the pulled ligaments and bruised muscles, apart from the biweekly physio for the next month. At least nothing's broken.

As long as I can get back on the bike, it could have always been worse. Tomorrow morning, I'll fly back to California again for a few days. A girls' night with Cam is definitely in order. It'll be nice to also see in person how Tanner is doing. I've never wanted to be at home as badly as I do now.

I crank up the music streaming from my favorite station back in Morgan Hill—it's a true miracle living in the twenty-first century—and sprint the last few blocks. I'm gasping for air by the time the uniformed doorman holds the door open for me. Hurrying across the lobby while keeping my gaze down, I go to the nearest elevator and push the 'up' button. When the carriage stops with a ding and the doors slide open, someone gets off, but blocks me from entering.

I look up. It's Seb and he's mouthing something, but I can't hear him over the perky indie ballad blaring into my ear. Our last real interaction ended with him bolting from my trailer, and while I'd love to eventually find out what that was all about, I really don't have the bandwidth for it at the moment.

Pulling the rain-soaked hoodie off my head, I tug the cord of my ear buds. "What?"

He stalls long enough for the elevator to close behind him. "Did you go for a run?" he asks.

"No, I was baking a cake." I frown, tucking the buds into my pocket. "But if that's all you wanted to know, I need to go take a shower."

I try to reach around to press the call button again, but he grabs my elbow. "You should not be upset about the race."

"What makes you think I am?" I shake off his hold, annoyed at the spot-on observation.

He smirks and looks me up and down. "If not the race, then maybe about something else?" So he is just guessing and too polite to say that no person in their right mind would be out in this weather to take a leisurely jog.

"I'm totally fine," I say.

"If that is true, then come to the bar with me." He sticks his hands in his pockets and nods toward the in-house watering hole. "I would like to talk."

"Why?" It's an honest question. We've never had a post-race heart-to-heart, so why now?

He smiles. "Because I am bored."

"Well, in that case . . .." I roll my eyes. As if somehow I can be responsible for his amusement, when I can't even manage my own.

"Per favore." He steps closer, but I move away. Putting his hands together as if in prayer, he exaggerates a frown and—oh my freaking god—pulls out true puppy-dog eyes! It's ridiculously cute. "Are you going to force me to beg?"

I'm tempted to make him work for it, but I'm too tired even for that. It'll probably be easier just to hang out with him for fifteen minutes then scoot off to bed.

"All right. Lead the way," I say before I change my mind.

I'm a hot mess, so of course the bar is packed. Half the 3Prix riders and their swipe rights are in the darkened lounge, most huddled around candle lit tables in the back. A U2 song is winding down as we sit at the end of the counter, a few stools away from two older men.

"Hallo! Seb Bianchi!" The youngish bartender with slicked back, blonde hair and a very tight, black t-shirt greets us. Leaning with his palms on the smooth surface, he smiles. "Great race today."

Seb pouts and nods. It must be tedious to be this adored all the time. "Thanks."

"And you are that girl." The bartender points to me with wide-eyed amazement, like I'm supposed to be flattered at the vague recognition.

"Been one all my life," I mutter, starting to regret every decision that brought me here. The dude could not have picked a worse time for this shit.

"My teammate's name is Lauren," Seb offers.

"Right. Right." He continues to wag his finger in my direction. "Lauren the Persephone."

My increasingly favorite Italian shakes his head. "No, just Lauren. Or Fraulein Dimas, if you want to be formal."

"But in the newspapers—"

"The press can fuck themselves. Can we order now?" Seb's tone remains even, but his feelings about the subject can't be any clearer. I could hug him for standing up for me.

"Of course." The bartender throws his hands up in a show of innocence before motioning toward the packed shelves behind him. "What will you have?"

Seb doesn't hesitate. "A Weissbier for me," he says before turning to me. "If you like beer that is sweet and a bit sparkly, you should try it also."

"It's probably a sacrilege to say it in this country, but I don't really like beer." My eyes dart between the dozens of different bottles on display before I instinctively turn to see if Dad is anywhere nearby. "Besides, I'm only eighteen and I'm pretty sure my father would kill me if he found out I was boozing it up."

"Eighteen? That is good." The bartender leans forward. "You can have anything you want. Schnapps, wine, cider, anything. Even for non-spirits, the drinking age here in Germany is sixteen."

"Do you need ID? I left my passport in my room—"

"No, no. It is okay. I know who you are," he says, still waiting on my order. I guess being on TV is official enough even if he doesn't know my name.

"All right." I nod. Germany is even cooler than I'd thought. "I guess I can try the cider."

"Good choice. I have an excellent local Apfelwein for you." He gets to work, first pouring my fermented apple drink from a screw-top, brown bottle into a tall diamond-patterned glass before setting it on a coaster in front of me. "And thank you very much for taking Martin out today. I would hate to see that arrogant bastard win the championship."

What the what now? I have no idea why he'd assume I'd do something not only so unprofessional, but illegal. Slowly pulling the drink closer, I stall for time. "I wasn't trying to knock him out," I say, more reserved than he probably deserves. "We didn't even make contact. If anything, he almost made me crash."

The guy places a long, tapered glass under a beer tap and pulls the handle. "That is not what the television said."

"What are you talking about?" I ask as a light, frothy liquid climbs up the side of the slim glass perfectly illustrating my escalating annoyance with this topic.

Seb leans forward. "You did not see any replays?"

What the eff? Him, too? "I didn't have to," I say, turning to my teammate. "I was right there. I saw why Diego crashed, and it had nothing to do with me."

"Not specifically, no. But very likely indirectly," the bartender says, putting Seb's beer—its impressive foam reaching the rim—on the counter. "The announcer said that Martin thought he'd left you behind. When he looked back and saw you, he pushed too hard and lost control. That helmet of yours was certainly something viewed from the front like that. Like a mad warrior out for blood."

"What? So I spooked him?" I laugh. "That's just stupid speculation. Tobei and I were both right on his tail. Of course Diego didn't want either of us to catch up."

"That is possible, yes, but many of us have chased him before, and he did not make such a mistake," Seb says, wrapping his fingers around his glass. "This is the first time he almost gets overtaken by a girl."

"I don't buy it." I shake my head, but it doesn't matter whether I agree or not. If a long-time race announcer made the claim on air, thousands of Diego Martin fans are now blaming me for his ouster. As if I didn't already have enough reason to hate the guy. Fuck my life. "It was an accident," I say.

The bartender shrugs. "A happy accident then. Enjoy." He steps away to serve other customers, leaving us alone.