he next few nights, I barely sleep. I keep replaying the night I broke Tyler's trust, only I dream of a different outcome, one where I choose to be honest and we live happily ever after. But as always I wake up, alone and tangled in my bedsheets, remembering that dreams are just that: dreams.

And yet the tiniest part of me wonders if maybe it's for the best. As hard as I've tried not to think about it, competing with Tyler for first place in the tournament would have been hard, if not impossible. The pair of us, head to head, both desperate to cross that finish line first – it's relationship suicide. At least this way, we're no longer distracted. I can focus on the one thing that brought us together in the first place.

Winning.

I sit up in bed and glance at the clock, which reads four a.m. Today is the day I can safely start training, so I intend to make the most of it. I down some raw eggs like I'm Rocky and change into my riding gear before heading to the track.

The whole ride there, I can't stop thinking about my parents, who've been arguing more than ever this week. Dad has shut down since his doctor's appointment and will only ever utter I'm fine, even though it's clear he's not. Mom's in denial, trying to remain hopeful and positive throughout, which only ends up irritating Dad.

The end result is an explosive argument, with Dad accusing Mom of being delusional and her of him of being pessimistic. I've been caught in between, pulled back and forth between sides like a rope that's on the verge of fraying. Maybe that's why, with this week away from Tyler, I'm starting to see things more clearly. My parents are proof that even the most solid of foundations can crack, so what hope did I stand with Tyler anyway?

Despite the fact the roads are quiet, I seem to hit every stoplight. I wait impatiently, foot-tapping as I desperately wait for it to change to green. Right now, the thought of racing the circuit today is the only thing holding me together.

As soon as I pull up, I scan the track for him out of habit. The tiniest flicker ignites in my stomach before it quickly fizzles out. Of course he's not here – he's already made it clear he doesn't want to train me, and I've already decided it's for the best.

So why do I feel disappointed?

Ignoring the knots in my stomach, I ride a quick lap of the track to warm up. It's easy for the most part, and other than the slight twinge now and then in my ribs, I forget that I'd ever gotten hurt.

In fact, for the first time all week, I don't think of anything at all. I just focus on the rush in my chest as I charge up the hill, the throttle of my bike propelling me faster. And just like that, I'm soaring through the early morning sky, nothing but the wind beneath my wheels. I suck in a breath, anticipating the drop ahead, but I'm not scared of hitting the ground. Every high must follow a low, and that's what makes it worth it.

I spend hours practicing the various techniques Tyler taught me, as well as new ones I'd learnt from the practice race. At first, it's hard to focus on Tyler's advice and not Tyler himself, but then racing takes over, and soon the only thing on my mind is winning the tournament, the way it should be.

By the time I'm finished, the sun is coming up and Alex is opening the cafe. Sam, to my horror, has appeared out of nowhere and is waiting at the end of the circuit. I think about riding another lap just to avoid having to see him, but my legs are starting to ache. Reluctantly, I finish my lap and pull up in front of him before flicking up my helmet.

"You really need to get a life," I say.

He pushes himself off the barrier and says, "My life revolves around money, and I have a lot of it riding on you."

"Well, I haven't changed my mind," I say. "I don't want your help."

He folds his arms and moves in closer, which only makes me flinch. Voice low, he says, "How do you think you're able to train here before hours? How did you enter the qualifying tournament when you weren't old enough? It wasn't Niko's influence that got you in, it was mine. You might not want my help, darlin'–" he leans even closer, positioning his mouth near my ear, "but you've already taken it."

My heart sinks when I realize he's right. I open my mouth, about to say something along the lines of not anymore, but then I catch sight of a figure in the distance, and my heart drops even further.

Tyler.

He's staring straight at me, arms folded, expression flat, and I can tell that he's hurt. The only reason he'd be at the track this early in the morning is to train me, and instead, he's caught me with Sam. My heart pounds, and I'm ready to head over and tell him he's got it all wrong, but just like that, he's gone.

he next week, I train around the clock. I wake up early, ride a few laps, head to school and then it's back to the track again. And in all that time, I haven't seen Tyler once. Either he's training during the day when he knows I'm at school, or he's not training at all, and I don't know which is worse.

Still, as well as preparing me for the tournament, training has given me a distraction from the heartache. I'm operating on autopilot, pushing down my emotions to focus on the race, and it's working. Mostly. But there are times, like now, when I get to the track and I search the bikes on the circuit for his, only to be left disappointed.

I ignore the crushing feeling – I've gotten good at that – and spend the next hour on the circuit, losing myself to the rhythm of my bike. Sam watches from the balcony, and even though I don't look at him, I can feel his gaze like a laser on my skin. When I'm finished he comes over to offer some advice, but I barely hear a word. For the first time all week, Tyler has pulled up and is making his way over to the track.

My heart stops, then beats twice as fast. He looks better than ever in his riding gear, and his hair is tousled and slightly damp like he's not long gotten out of the shower. My first instinct is to run over and hug him, but I'm not allowed to do that anymore. Somewhere along the line, he's become out of bounds, which only makes me want to do it more.

He turns and pauses as he takes us both in, but this time, I don't hesitate. I hurry over but stop when I get near. Something is wrong. He looks different somehow, his face a little more chiseled and hard, and his eyes are bruised with dark circles. He hasn't been sleeping, and I can't help but wonder if it's to do with us, or if something else is keeping him up.

"Hey," I say, tilting my head. "Can we talk?"

His eyes look behind me like I'm not even here, and he slips on his helmet. "I didn't come here to talk," he says. "I came here to ride." And then he's grabbing his bike and he's walking right past me to join the others on the track.

I stand back and watch him as he races the circuit, my heart still pounding away. Something is wrong, not just in his demeanor, but in the way he races, too. He zips around corners with an air of carelessness, focusing on speed instead of control. It's so different from his usual style that I can't look away, certain any moment he'll come crashing off his bike.

I hold my breath for most of the race. Every jump or turn twists my stomach in knots, and I finally understand how my mother must feel whenever I race. He's gambling with fate, one wrong turn away from ending up dead, and I'm terrified.

The second he wins, I let out a breath, relieved when he parks up his bike. I walk toward him, but when he finishes locking up his bike, he walks right past me as if I'm not there. My chest tightens as I grab his hand, forcing him to face me.

For about a second, neither of us speaks. Just the feel of his hand takes me back to before, and it hits me how far we've fallen. "Tell me what's wrong," I say.

"Nothing." He pulls his hand back, and I try not to let the hurt show.

"You're lying," I say. "You haven't been here all week, and now you're racing like a crazy person. Is this about Sam? Because we're not–"

"Believe it or not," he says, "my life doesn't revolve around you," and he heads up to the patio without another word.

The sting of his brush off burns my cheeks. I don't know what I'd been expecting after a week of no contact, but it certainly wasn't that. And maybe it's my anger that's driving me forward, or my desire to win, but either way, I find myself heading back to Sam, where I do the one thing I never thought I'd do.

I make a deal with Satan himself.

💕