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embarrassment.
    There she stands, the apparition of my every recent dream come to life at the most inopportune time imaginable. In all the scenarios I made up in my head about how, when, and where we’d finally meet again, I assure you this was not one of them. She looks even more incredible than I remember, far more perfect in real life than my dreams. I’d remembered a dime; she’s a fucking quarter and I don’t need change.
    The purple streaks in her ebony hair are gone; she has long, deep brown locks with dark red tips now. She’s a bitty thing, maybe 5’3” tops, but her jean shorts, pockets hanging out, make her tan legs look deceptively longer than they are. On her feet are black cowboy boots that match a wide black belt that pulls my eyes to her rockin’ fucking hips.
    Badass hair, cowboy boots and the face of an angel… she’s fucking Skittles—one package, every fucking flavor!
    When I make it back up to her eyes, an almost unnatural dark green, like lush grass wet with morning dew, she’s got me locked in her crosshairs. She cocks her head at an angle and raises her eyebrows, silently and incredulously saying, “can I help you with something?” louder than actual words.
    “I gotta go.” I duck my head and start to move past her, feeling hands pulling me from behind.
    “Wait! Don’t you want my number?” Mariah calls out desperately.
    I turn around but continue my steps to the track backwards. “I’ll um…I’ll catch ya around later, okay?” I sling my thumb over my shoulder. “I gotta hurry. Race time.”

Chapter 3
    Hope Sinks
    —Sawyer—

    S he’s out there, somewhere in the crowd, watching the race. I can feel the grit in my eyes and between my teeth, the balmy heat and the motor’s vibration coursing through me, but I don’t feel her eyes on me. I know it, as sure as the sun will rise in the east and set in the west, that if her eyes were on me, I would feel it.
    As we line up, I steal a quick glance to the crowd, trying one last time to pick her out—nothing. The place is packed with hordes of college guys seeking the rush and even more college girls seeking those guys; it’s a big ass meat market. There are more female heads of dark hair than not and exactly how many people are wearing a yellow fucking shirt?
    Know who I do see? Laney Jo Walker.
    When you climb onto the bleacher rail and wave your hands in the air, people tend to pick you out in a crowd.
    I give her, and Dane, who’s standing beside her shaking his head and laughing, a wave. I’m surprised that he’s here at all. What happened to the whole “stop with the destructive behavior” speech?
    I turn my attention back to the flag, the familiar surge of exhilaration taking over. When the flag drops, the flight of ten bikes takes off, slinging up dirt and clouds of dust. It only takes me three laps to gain a huge lead, so I use it to my advantage. I will get her attention.
    I’m having a fucking blast, taking the hills a tad faster now that I’m out of the pack and adding some kick twists when I’m airborne. Purposely allowing some fishtailing, flying sideways around the corners, I keep my eyes on the track, despite the need to check the stands. Thoughts of her race through my head as fast as the testosterone through my veins. Is she watching yet?
    The last foothill before the finish line, I go all out and turn out a flip…easily landing it and crossing for the win. The horn blares and I rip off my helmet, lines of sweat dripping down the sides of my face. A flip. She had to have noticed that, right?
    I don’t know how or when Daney, my clever combination of their names a nod to the single person they’ve fused into, make it across the track, but here they are beside me. That had to be like a real life game of Frogger, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he carried her across the traffic.
    “You won!” Laney screams. “The shenanigans at the end scared me a little,” she slaps my arm, “but you won!”