on two wheels (maxley fic)

CHAPTER 04

September 13, 2002.
"I look to you and I see nothing."
— Fade Into You
Mazzy Star

"Sorry, dude, can't help you there."

That was the fifth person I found on campus and asked if they could be the scooter for my team (still unnamed).

As soon as I realized I'd wagered against Bradley Uppercrust III, I bolted back to my dorm room. I needed to write down a plan. I needed to visualize.

Not that it actually helped. I'm still lost. Why, why did I have to bet my dignity in the name of the X-Games?

I'm sure of my talent. I can nail the Kickflip. I can land the Heelflip. I'm still working on mastering the 360 flip, which needs knowing the other two, but I've pulled it off twice now. I know that by November 16th, the day of the X-Games, I can master the 360flip. Then, I'll throw a Backside Flip into my routine... and I'm sure I'll have the highest score.

But it won't matter. P.J.'s solid with his bike; I know he'll get a high score too. Bobby's no different: he's a killer rollerblader. But I'm afraid he ain't better than Uppercrust. And if that ends up being true...

Back in the early days of the X-Games' tradition, with mine and P.J.'s high scores, Bobby didn't need to be better than Bradley Uppercrust III. However, this isn't the past; the Games have changed. Now, I won't even be able to compete if my team doesn't have a scooter.

And right now, we don't have one.

So why does my new routine matter? I had written down that I should find a scooter first, but no such luck today, apparently.

It's just so tiring...

"You know," P.J. starts. He has been renting ideas for a minute now, but I've been too mad at myself to truly listen, "Maybe we should print out flyers? Spread them around campus, see if anyone shows up. We can use your mobile number."

I sigh. "Fine. But you do it. I'll already have randoms calling us."

"That is, if they do," Bobby remarks. "If we get any interested students."

My hands go to my face automatically, rubbing up and down. I'm trying to relieve the tension. I'm trying not to think. I'm trying to pretend we don't only have nine weeks to train and get better.

I think my expression worries P.J. because he places a hand on my forearm and suggests, "Why don't we spend tonight practicing? I'm sure the park will be empty."

I slowly open my eyes. Bobby nods.

"If we're really good, we can have anyone do tricks on the scooter, and it won't matter," P.J. says, his voice velvety.

I try not to think that my stress is scaring my friends because there's not much I can do about it. I've got a dangerous gamble at stake.

"Sure, we'll practice," I agree, but I have a feeling that it won't matter if we're the best. I have a feeling that a great scooter rider will be sorely missed.

We pack up our stuff and head out to the skate park. The night air is cool, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the concrete ramps and rails. The park is quiet, just as P.J. predicted.

I drop my board and push off, letting the familiar rhythm of skating calm my nerves. P.J. and Bobby follow suit, each of us finding our own groove. We spend the next few hours practicing, pushing each other to land trickier moves, perfecting our routines. It's good to be out here, to focus on what we love, but there's a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I can't shake.