aturday mornings are always dedicated to pancakes. It used to be that Dad was the champion pancake flipper, but now he sits at the table with his coffee while Mom works the frying pan.

It's these little changes I notice the most, and Dad does, too. Every so often, he looks up and sips his coffee, watching Mom standing at the oven. She had no clue how to make pancakes eight months ago; now she's a pancake-flipping pro.

"I'm thinking it might be nice for us to go for a stroll after breakfast," she says without turning around. "Explore the town a little bit. I'm thinking we could try out that new walking frame I bought."

I glance at Dad, who doesn't look up from his paper. "I'm not ready."

"The doctor said we'll never know until we try," she continues. "We could–"

Dad slams his cup on the table and repeats, "I'm not ready."

We all fall silent. Out of the three of us, Mom is the one who still holds out hope. She didn't, at first, until the doctor mentioned 'incomplete paraplegia'. It means one of Dad's legs is fully paralyzed, but the other only partially. While the doctor was clear this didn't mean he'd be able to walk again, Mom still holds out hope; I don't blame her.

"I have lots of homework anyway," I say to break the tension, "and then I'm going for dinner with a friend."

The worry on Mom's face dissipates. She turns to face me and smiles. "From school?"

"Sure." I down the rest of my orange juice and glance at Dad, who is back to reading his paper. Mom serves us up a stack of pancakes, and I wolf them down while thinking about my race last night.

Embarrassment settles in my stomach. While dinner with Tyler is an unfortunate consequence, I'm more concerned about what this means for racing. I'll no longer be able to compete with the best, which means I might not be ready in time for the tournament. My only other option now is to use this dinner to butter Tyler up, get him to change his mind; I just hope it works.

I spend the rest of the afternoon finishing off homework. I tell myself I'm not nervous about seeing Tyler tonight, but the knot in my stomach betrays me. It's just hard for me to read him, to know what he wants, and that makes me anxious. He could have asked for anything, so why did he choose dinner?

When it nears six, I jump in the shower and spend far too long washing my hair and enjoying the steam. My body still aches from the race last night, and I can feel the familiar burning of my thighs. If I don't get more practice in, the tournament will be torture on my body.

When my fingers grow wrinkly, I step out of the shower and wipe the steam from my mirror. I look more like my father than my mother–same brown hair, eyes, and olive skin–but there are parts of her that insist on being acknowledged, through my lips, and my cheekbones, and the way my mouth curves upward naturally. It's comforting, in a way, to be able to look in a mirror and see them both on my face; it's like I am never alone.

When there's nothing left to distract me, I head to the track for something to do. I almost wish I was working today instead of tomorrow; at least it'll help pass the time.

I park up my bike and take off my goggles and helmet, hooking them through my finger before heading up the patio steps. The place is busier than usual, but I manage to find a table near the railing, offering a perfect view of the track. I take a seat, rest down my helmet, and get out my notepad and pen. Tyler might have forbidden me from riding, but he didn't say anything about watching.

The next circuit is about to start, and I spot Tyler's familiar bike in the lineup. My heart does this jolt when I think of him beating me, but it doesn't last long. The whistle blows, and the racers are off, with Tyler in the lead.

I'd come to watch them all, but my eyes end up following him, instead. There is just something about the way he rides, something that makes it hard to look away. I can only imagine how much practice he's put in to get to his stage, and I start to worry I'm in over my head.

I race to get things down on my notepad, noting his strengths and weaknesses so that later, I can study them until the words start to blur on the page. By the time the race has finished, I've got four pages worth of information to pour over.

"Hey."

I turn to the next table over, where the same group of girls I'd seen yesterday sit. The pretty blonde one who'd spoken looks at me expectantly. "Yeah?"

"You're that girl who raced yesterday, right?"

I put down my notepad and nod. "Not my finest moment."

She smiles and says, "It happens to the best of us. We're rooting for you, though."

I raise my eyebrows. I'd assumed the way they kept looking over yesterday was because they were rooting for Tyler, not me. "Thanks."

She nods and, without another word, turns back to her table. I'm about to turn back to the track when Alex finishes her table and walks over. She takes a seat opposite, but from the look on her face, she isn't too pleased.

"Heard you're going on a date with Tyler tonight," she says.

"It's not a date," I say. If I didn't know better, I'd think she is jealous. "It's a bet."

She raises an eyebrow. "You know, you did good yesterday, considering you've been out of service for a while. You'll get there."

"In time for the tournament?" I ask.

She hesitates–only for a second–but it's enough. "Maybe," she says. "If you keep your head straight."

I frown. "Meaning what?"

Tyler comes running up the patio steps still wearing his helmet, and we both turn to look at him. He raises his goggles and scans the patio, his eyes briefly flitting to me. I glance at Alex, who nods at him.

"Meaning that," she says. She gets to her feet, grabbing the empty glass on my table before heading inside.

Tyler walks over and stops just short of me, cocking his eyebrow. "I thought we had a deal," he says, but he doesn't sound mad. If anything, his dark eyes are vaguely amused.

"You said I couldn't ride," I remind him, "not that I couldn't watch." He glances at the notepad on my table and squints. I slam the cover closed and tuck it into my bag before getting to my feet. "Let's get this over with."

The corner of his mouth twitches. He steps back a little to let me move past him, then nods to the patio steps. "After you, then."

He follows me down the patio steps and over to our bikes. My heart is thumping, though I don't know why. He might be a stranger, but it's not like he's a serial killer. And this is just a bet–an opportunity for me to get him to agree to me racing.

So why do I feel nervous?

🤚🏽