Shifting Gears

2. Sharing the Lead

"Finally, woman!" Clay exclaimed as I appeared next to him at the gate.

I scowled. "Sorry I wasn't fast enough for your liking, your highness."

He grinned cheekily before taking a swig of the ice-cold drink I just brought. Reid pulled up next to us, sliding into the open spot at the gate to the right of Clay. He offered a greeting to us both before getting off his bike and using his boot to scuff up the dirt right underneath his tires.

"You guys feeling good?" I asked.

"It's just a practice. There's no winning," Clay told me, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. "The real stuff is next week."

"Yeah, well, when you put a bunch of competitive boys up against each other, there's no such thing as 'no winning.'"

Reid chuckled, bobbing his head in agreement as Clay replied with, "I just want to get warmed up."

"Right," I said, unconvinced. "I find that hard to believe if this Ryvers person is out on the track."

Clay's jaw clenched. "Yeah, well he can go"—Reid revved his engine loud, covering up whatever word Clay put before—"himself."

"Thank you, Reid."

Reid smiled and turned his sky-blue eyes back to me. "Hey, Cory—you wanna go get something to eat after this?"

"Dude," Clay said indignantly, his hands coming out in a short arc as he looked at his friend in exasperation. "I'm right here. Ask my little sister out some other time, will you?"

Reid grinned, then looked at me, waiting for an answer.

I smiled back at him. "We'll see, Reid." His grin got wider. This was probably the fourth time he's asked me out for dinner or a movie or ice cream. Don't get me wrong, I had picked up on everything before that: the small smiles, the times I caught him staring, the wicked smirks my brother would shoot him when I gave Reid a quick, friendly hug, pulling back to find his cheeks pink.

Reid was a nice guy. And he wasn't bad to look at, either. But I just wasn't sure about it all. I've known him for years—he was basically a brother, and I never really thought about him differently. So I danced around the invites.

Reid opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by a grunt from Clay.

"There he is—the king of jerks himself," my brother muttered. He was looking to our right, and both Reid and I followed his gaze.

Another racer was pulling up to the gate. Everyone grew quieter, their eyes glancing over to him.

The newcomer rolled up casually, one hand steering his sleek neon-plated bike and the other holding his matching helmet. Smugness curved his lips—he knew all the attention he was getting. He did indeed carry it like a king.

"And there, Cory, is the famous, anti-Clay Greyson Ryvers," Reid commented, studying the competition riding up.

I scoffed, muttering under my breath, "The little devil."

"What'd you say?" Clay asked, his gaze still trained on Greyson, his brown eyes thin.

"I've met him."

"You have?" Clay turned to look at me, wariness floating on his face.

I nodded, glaring at the figure that took a spot on the gate about ten down from us. "Yeah. I ran into him getting your water."

"And?"

"He's a jerk. Just like you said."

Clay dipped his head, satisfied with his little sister's answer, and looked back toward his opponent.