Knee Pads

11 | truck and trailer

CHAPTER ELEVEN | TRUCK AND TRAILER

when two teammates skate, one directly in front of the other, with the front (truck) pulling the back (trailer).

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          I never thought I'd say something along the lines of blessed be Corinne Fontaine, yet there we were.

          If I wasn't in such a rush to change clothes and get to the clinic as fast as possible, I would have allowed myself to be a tiny bit excited about riding around town with Corinne. I wasn't much of a fan of motorcycles, nor did I understand why people enjoyed nearly falling off from them and putting their lives in danger, but she'd been surprisingly nice about it all. Nice enough to slightly change my opinion of her, but not too nice to raise any suspicions.

          I didn't think Corinne had put this much thought into offering me a ride as I currently was. She was doing something nice, having noticed the state of sheer panic I was in after my own mother hung up the phone on me, and hadn't even asked invasive questions. It had been a lot more than I expected from her, but perhaps it was just the weight of my expectations being lifted.

          She was right where I expected her to be—in the parking lot—albeit wearing fresh clothes. With the days getting shorter and colder, she was slowly pushing her skirts and dresses to the back of her closet, wearing sweaters and jeans instead. It was probably more comfortable to ride a motorcycle while wearing jeans, anyway, and, fortunately, I'd had the decency to make the same decision. She was waiting with two helmets, which made things seem more real than they previously had.

          "You ready to go?" she asked, handing me one of the helmets. I was too overwhelmed to speak, so I just nodded. "Where are we headed off to?"

          I hesitated, then told her the name of the clinic, waiting for a sliver of recognition to cross her eyes as she realized what I was talking about. That never happened; the only thing she did was mount the motorcycle and carefully put on her helmet. She assured me she knew where it was and knew an alternative route that would be shorter and quicker, but didn't ask any questions.

          I was secretly grateful she was being discreet about it, but I didn't say a word about it. Instead, I quietly climbed behind her, stuffing my head inside my designated helmet.

          The only problem was that I wasn't quite sure where to place my hands.

          She had attached a passenger seat to the bike just for me, complete with two handles, one on either side of the seat, and I tentatively curled my fingers around them. The metal was cold to the touch and not entirely uncomfortable, but, if she drove fast—which I knew she did and knew she would—it would put some strain on my wrists. It could also throw me off the bike mid-drive if she made any sharp turns.

          Naturally, she noticed my hesitation, just as she started the engine, and turned around a bit.

          "You need to slide closer to me and actually grab on to me," she advised, voice muffled thanks to the helmet and the rumbling engine. "I don't want you to fall off."

          "What's with the sudden burst of kindness towards me? It sounds so unlike you."

          "Don't read too much into this." Her gloved hands tightened the hold around the hand clutches. "It's called road safety. If anything happens to you while I'm driving, I'll have to be held accountable, and I don't want to lose my license or get suspended from college. Can you please sit properly and hold me?"