9
MOTUL TT ASSEN
Assen, Sunday, June 30
Pos
Pts
Rider
Time
World Rank
1
25
Billy KING
40’51.968
164
2
20
Santos SAUCEDO
1.582
151
3
16
Mason KING
4.376
92
4
13
Massimo VITOLO
6.449
119
5
11
Fredek SULZBACH
7.510
42
6
10
Timo GONZALES
9.103
17
7
9
Deven HORSLEY
14.946
45
8
8
Donato MALDONADO
17.591
34
9
7
Aurelio LOGGIA
23.753
37
10
6
Rainier HERRE
29.164
30
11
5
Cesaro SOTO
34.834
18
12
Gregorio PAREDES
42.089
40
13
3
Diarmaid DEAN
46.277
12
14
2
Elliston LAMBIRTH
51.596
32
15
1
Gustavo LIMÓN
1’02.636
10
16
Lorelai HARGROVE
1’09.710
69
Not Classified
Galeno GIRÓN
1 Lap
28
Giovanni MARCHESA
6 Laps
71
Cristiano ARELLANO
7 Laps
70
Harleigh ELIN
21 Laps
39
MOTORRAD GRAND PRIX DEUTSCHLAND
Sachsenring, Sunday, July 07
Pos
Pts
Rider
Time
World Rank
1
25
Santos SAUCEDO
41’05.019
176
2
20
Billy KING
2.196
184
3
16
Giovanni MARCHESA
2.776
87
4
13
Deven HORSLEY
3.376
58
5
11
Aurelio LOGGIA
5.183
48
6
10
Cristiano ARELLANO
5.780
80
7
9
Galeno GIRÓN
7.941
37
8
8
Fredek SULZBACH
12.711
50
9
7
Rainier HERRE
14.428
37
10
6
Elliston LAMBIRTH
21.474
38
11
5
Gregorio PAREDES
25.809
45
12
4
Diarmaid DEAN
25.963
16
13
3
Donato MALDONADO
29.040
37
14
2
Cesaro SOTO
29.325
20
15
1
Harleigh ELIN
34.123
40
Not Classified
Timo GONZALES
3 Laps
17
Gustavo LIMÓN
7 Laps
10
Mason KING
8 Laps
92
Massimo VITOLO
11 Laps
119
Not Finished 1st Lap
Lorelai HARGROVE
0 Lap
69
Chapter 9
Lorelai Hargrove—July; Chemnitz, Germany
“How come there are never any minibars in these hoity-toity suites?” Mason pulls out another drawer on the single writing desk in Billy’s hotel room, like that’ll have a surprise stash of the Tennessee whiskey he’s craving.
I shift again on the couch, sore and impatient. It should start any minute now.
“Thought Germans loved to drink?” Mason adds.
“And you don’t need to,” Billy rumbles, sprawled out in the patterned accent chair with one boot across his knee. His temple is propped against his fingers, his eyes closed, and I wonder if he’s hurting again. If he ever stops hurting. With all my crashes lately, I can’t seem to stop either, no matter how many Epsom salt baths I take. I’m also going to have a big-ass bruise on my side and shoulder tomorrow, but that’s becoming standard too.
“You don’t need to,” Mason mocks, making a face behind his brother’s back. He wanders his Wranglers over to the curtains, pulling them wider open to reveal the night sky. He lets out a low whistle. “Y’all know we can see the Sachsenring from here? Hey, baby!” he shouts at the window. “You may have won me today, but me and my Dabria will see you next year!”
He flips off the racetrack, and I lean over, slyly picking up the remote that Mason abandoned on the sofa before he went on his whiskey hunt. Frank just went downstairs to take a phone call, but the three of us are stuck here instead of being on a red-eye back to Memphis because of a pilot strike. I can’t really blame them, but I also can’t bring myself to care about Frank booking us rooms at Hotel Drei Schwanen as a consolation prize.
I couldn’t give a flip about private messages, crystal chandeliers, or terraces that open to the Ore Mountains when almost every view also includes the Sachsenring stadium that owned my ass each minute from Thursday to Sunday.
I just… I don’t know what’s happening to me. I can’t find the speed I need, can’t find the rhythm. My dreams are all nightmares of me wandering in an empty desert, a fractured helmet in my hand and no bike anywhere to ride, no matter how long I search. Frank says it’s just me wanting to get back to normal, but I think it has more to do with whatever’s going on with my equipment.
My chest plate looked like it had a crack in it when I checked it before Mugello, and my helmet felt too light before Catalunya. Frank told me it was fine both times, but in the Netherlands, it was all still wrong: the speed tasted like ash, every turn a death sentence I wobbled through, until today, when the Sachsenring won the fairings of my now-battered bike. Even my new injuries aren’t bad enough to keep me from racing after the break, but still. Another crash logged, and more bruises rising where others have yet to heal.
“Mason.” Billy’s voice is a sharp tug on his brother’s name. My eyes flick to the eldest King, his gaze pinned on his brother’s back.
Mason turns away from the curtains and the view, drawling an annoyed, “What?” But then he looks to me. He swallows, glancing back to his brother before he clears his throat. “Sorry, Lori.”
“It’s fine.” I glare at Billy. “And don’t do that.”
Billy doesn’t respond other than to pull out his cell phone as Mason comes over and collapses on the couch next to me, bumping my shoulder with his. “Hey, it’ll be okay, man. You’ll come back. You just need some time at home to get your boots back under ya.”
I offer him a smile, checking the time on my phone before my eyes dart to the TV screen. “Thanks, Mason.” He means well. He always does.
“Aww, man!” He gestures toward the television. “What happened to the Michael Dorn biography I was watching?” He starts looking around for the remote. That I hid.
“Ended.” My heart starts pumping faster and faster as a commercial plays, and I wonder when I started having anxiety attacks about absolutely everything. It’s only a nightly sports news recap. But it’s gonna have interviews with the other riders about the big story of the day. Mainly their hot take on me locking up and crashing out. Again.
“Hey, honey,” Billy says, followed by an extensive yawn. I look over, and his phone is pressed to his ear like always. “How was your day?”
A jealous twist pulls at my lips. Maybe I needed to talk to Taryn. She may be his girlfriend, but she’s my best friend. Except, come to think of it, I don’t even know what track she’s preparing to race on. The Superbike circuit is completely different from Moto Grand Prix, and I haven’t been paying close enough attention. Too wrapped up in my fledgling career to remember there’s another world outside the circuit gates.
I’ve really sucked as a friend lately.
The commercial ends, morphing into a banner with the standard anchor photos and name of the program. It fades again to the anchor desk, a dark-haired guy smiling at his gorgeous coanchor before they start speaking German.
“Crap,” I mutter, pulling out the remote.
“Fibber,” Mason says. “Should’ve known you stole it.”
It takes a second to find the button, but every time I check, they’re still showing pictures of guys in soccer uniforms and haven’t started Moto Grand Prix yet. One more click, and then English words start scrolling across the bottom of the screen. It should make me feel better. It doesn’t. I debate whether to turn them off.
“Hey, hold on.” Billy pulls his phone away from his ear. “Lorelai, what are y’all watching?”
I glance at Mason, who isn’t saying anything, but his smile is pure guilt. “Movie.”
We’re not supposed to watch this stuff, according to Frank’s rules. He says it only does more harm than good, and I get that. I do. But…
“Think they’ll have an interview with Santos?” Mason says.
“Hey, one of you turn that off before Frank gets back!” Billy jumps up from the chair like his ass caught on fire. “I’ll call you back.” He ditches his cell phone, practically running over to the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. He feels around the side and squints at the bottom, then tries to see the back. “Where’re the buttons on this thing?”
“Get outta the way, Billy!” Mason barks. “I wanna see if they show my crash today.”
The picture in the corner of a guy making a soccer goal disappears, and I peer past Billy’s pearl-snap shirt blocking the TV as the camera focuses on just the two anchors. When I get a glimpse at the subtitles, I only have to see the word Sachsenring to know I’m up next.
“Five minutes,” I barter as he keeps searching for the power button. “Billy, come on!”
“Aw, hell.” Billy gives up with a defeated fling of his hands, going back to his chair. He picks up his phone as he sits, sticking it up to his ear. “Hey. Yeah, you’re not gonna believe what these two yahoos are doing while Frank isn’t here. Jesus, Taryn, they aren’t doing that! What’s wrong with you?”
“Hey, I heard that!” I call out loud enough for her to hear me through his receiver. The TV screen changes to a clip of me going down today. Like clockwork, a cold sweat breaks out over my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I still hear them play it. Three times. I’m guessing from different angles. Great.
Mason bumps my elbow with his. “Tough luck, Lori.”
I bump him back. Gently, considering my newest injuries. Couldn’t have asked for a better teammate, really. Mason doesn’t care about rivalries or sabotaging anyone. Just sucks that I’m bringing him down. That I’m bringing all of Dabria Corse down.
Rapid German takes over, and since it’s safe to look, I do. Except Santos Saucedo is now on my screen, looking more thrilled with h
imself than ever.
“Screw you, asshole!” I yell at the TV, flipping it off.
“Boo!” Mason yells in solidarity, tossing a throw pillow at the screen.
We share a high five as Billy groans and props his boot carefully on his opposite knee. I don’t care what he thinks either. This is all Santos’s fault. If he hadn’t hit me, I wouldn’t have crashed. I would be winning and happy and… Goddamn it!
The screen cuts to a clip of Santos finishing in sixth place, and then I hear it: Massimo Vitolo.
“Uh-oh.” Mason’s body stiffens beside me. “Hey, um, Lori, you find that clicker yet? I think I saw the last Bourne movie playing a couple channels back…”
I don’t respond. I’m too busy sending up a prayer that Massimo didn’t totally rip me apart with criticism like he’s done in the past, always more than happy to tell the world they moved me up in divisions too soon, that I should be fined for reckless behavior, that he doesn’t know what place I finished because he doesn’t worry about the riders who aren’t a threat to him.
But that’s what you get from a guy with the nickname “No Mercy.”
“Hey, Billy,” Mason says loudly. “Where’s your deck of cards at? Why don’t we play some poker or something while we’re waiting for Frank to get back?”
“That is a great idea,” Billy says loudly, tilting the receiver away from his mouth. “Go find them.”
“You go find them.”
“You’re closer to the bag…”
“It’s your bag, and I’m not supposed to touch your stuff…”
I ignore the bickering King brothers, my brow furrowing when another crash plays on the screen. I suck in a breath when I realize: it’s Massimo. He went down today too.
It’s more of a slide than anything—he came around a corner in lap seventeen, and she just slipped out from under him. Easy, controlled slide into the dirt, and then he was up, jogging to a stop. He and a crew of people mess with the bike for a minute, Massimo eventually walking away and ripping off his helmet, clearly pissed.