Burnout (The Holland Brothers Book 1)

Adrenaline thrums under my skin as I sit on my bike behind the gate. The purr of the engine idles under me and sweat trickles down the nape of my neck.

My teammate Link is beside me on a red Honda, identical to my own, talking loudly as he drums absently on his handlebars. “This one is mine. It’s time for the Link era.”

He repeats it like a mantra until I can’t help but engage. I snort and shoot him a sideways glance.

“You have something to say, Holland?”

“Nope.” I shake my head, then under my breath ask, “The fucking Link era?”

He either has super-hearing or can read my thoughts because he doesn’t drop it. “You don’t think so?”

“It’s anybody’s race,” I tell him. “You’re a good rider. Stay on your bike and don’t get sloppy.”

In response I get an eye roll before he brings his goggles down in place. “Like I’d take advice from you. I might be younger, but I’ve been racing longer. You’ve been lucky this season. Mike and the rest of the team got caught up in your underdog comeback story, but they’ll see. I’m about to show everyone what I can do. If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of my way. Maybe they’ll keep you around to block for me next season.”

His words get to me more than I care to admit. I have worked my ass off to claw my way back, but I can’t get back those years I was absent while taking care of my brothers.

I push Link and everything else out of my mind. This is it. It’s the last race of the motocross season. I came in second on moto one earlier today, so I need to cross the finish line first on this moto to win the race. And I need to win.

It’s easily a hundred degrees out here, but the crowd is fired up and they’re on their feet, gathering around the perimeter of the track to cheer us on as we speed by.

I love this sport. There’s nothing better than racing on dirt with the sun shining overhead.

Tension is palpable behind the starting line. Each of us in our own world while we wait for the signal. I’m visualizing myself thirty minutes from now standing on the podium with a first-place trophy in hand.

“Are you watching, Mom?” I mutter the question quietly and lift my left hand to the mouthpiece on my helmet and kiss the rose tattoo inked between my thumb and pointer finger. “This one’s for you. Happy birthday.”

Ten years without her and I don’t know how I’ve survived a single second of it. It feels like another life and like yesterday all at once. She would have been fifty today and I know she’d get such a kick out of watching me race.

Dad might have been the one who taught me to ride, but she was the one who always told me that no dream was too crazy and that I was capable of doing anything I put my heart and soul into.

The girl holding the thirty-second card turns it sideways and walks off the track, the official right behind her. It’s time.

I rev my engine and stare straight ahead, blocking everything else out. When the gate drops, I move on instinct alone. Muscle memory mixed with a desperate determination to end this season on top has me tearing past the other riders on the straightaway.

It’s always a clusterfuck until we make it through the hole shot. Dirt sprays behind us and we jockey for position while trying to avoid crashing. Ten seconds is all it takes to separate the serious contenders from the rest of the pack. My speed is my biggest asset and I use it every chance I get.

The usual guys are out front early. Three of us have been fighting it out for podium spots all season. There are always a few other riders that manage to hang on at the start of the race, but thirty minutes with me breathing down your neck is enough to make almost anyone crack under the pressure.

I don’t let up. I use every straight stretch, every whoop, every jump to edge my way around anyone standing between me and the finish line.

Around the halfway point, I find myself in third place. I push back my frustration and concentrate on doing everything I can while I bide my time. All it takes is one fuck-up, one slip from the guys in front of me and I can pull ahead. Once I’m in the lead, there’s no stopping me. I’ve never lost a lead. I just have to get there.

As I’m coming around the final corner of the track, I clock a bike on my tail. Red flashes in my peripheral and I grind my teeth as my teammate Link hits the booster at the finish line at the same time as me.

Link could be a good rider if he wasn’t so aggressive. He takes too many risks. And coming from another rider, that’s saying something because we’re all fucking nuts. He has more DNFs than wins. The last thing I need is him crashing in front of me and costing me valuable seconds.

I’m on the inside line, gaining on him as we go around the first corner again. He manages to keep up with me, furthering my irritation. I can’t shake this kid. He finally makes a mistake on the next jump, landing on soft dirt that stalls him. I breathe a sigh of relief and return my focus to the leaders.

I get through the next section of the track cleanly and close some of the distance. Second place is within reach on the next lap if I can just find a good line to get around him. He’s tiring. I can see it. I can feel it.

My brothers used to say that when it came down to the last five minutes of a race, I could find another gear and that’s what it feels like now. I push away all distractions. I only care about the next ten minutes.

Second place takes a corner too fast, and his back tire slides out, giving me an opportunity to pass him.

One more person stands between me and victory.

As I’m taking a series of small jumps, that fucking red bike returns. I let my gaze shift to him only long enough to see a cocky smirk splashed across his face. If we can both manage to finish in the top three, that’d be huge for Thorne Racing. I want that, but I want to be first more.

I keep my corners tight and grit my teeth any time Link tries to cut in front of me. Less than three minutes to go. I need to make a move soon if I’m going to take the lead.

I see my opening as we ride side by side uphill. After the next turn is a rutty spot before a double jump. Link struggled with it in our practice runs. It’s hard to get enough speed going into it and at this point everyone is tired.

I’m dialed in. I hit the first jump and shift my body weight and the bike to one side, whipping to realign and get a better line. I’ve got him and he knows it. But instead of taking it like a good sport, Link maneuvers his bike closer. There isn’t room for him to go inside on me, but he goes for it anyway. His front tire clips my back one just enough to send me off the track and down a steep embankment. I’m thrown from my seat and land flat on my back.

For the first time since the race started, the noise of the crowd comes back into focus. Their gasps are just audible over the ragged breathing slipping from my lips. Everything hurts, but none of it matters. I bring the rose tattoo on my left hand up to my mouthpiece as black crowds into my vision. “Sorry, Mom.”