ver the next few days, I wear Tyler's bracelet religiously. It's almost become a good luck charm of sorts, and every time I start a race, I brush the motorcycle pendant with my thumb, enjoying the burst of excitement I get – not just excitement but contentment and gratitude and hope. With the tournament less than a week away, I'll know for sure whether what we have can make it past the finish line or whether we'll crash in the face of glory.

But ever since my birthday party, avoiding Tyler has been torture. I keep thinking about the feel of his hands or the daring looks he flashes me, and I get sidetracked again. I'd thought asking to be friends would make the run-up to the tournament easier, but if anything, it's done the opposite.

Take now, for instance. I should be focused on serving the customers at the cafe, but all I can do is stare longingly at the track as Tyler rides the circuit. He's been putting in just as much practice as I have, making me nervous. He's already got the edge on me, and there's nothing I can do over these next few days but pray I'll be ready in time.

When Tyler zips across the finish line first, I turn back to the table I'm wiping. Just because he's winning every circuit he rides does not mean he'll beat me in the tournament. Our last race together had been a close call, which means I still have a chance to win this.

I watch as he parks up his bike and heads up the patio steps. My stomach lurches. Other than the thank you text I'd sent him for the bracelet, we've barely talked. Forcing us to be friends has made him somewhat irritable, but at least it means I can focus.

He scans the patio. I think that maybe he's here to talk to me, but then he walks toward Alex and the pair exchange words. When they're finished, he turns like he's about to walk downstairs before thinking better of it. Our eyes connect, and I can tell he's deliberating whether or not to come over.

Annoyed, I decide for him, crossing the cafe until I'm standing in front of him, arms folded so he knows I mean business. "I get that you're not happy with this friendship thing, but you agreed to it. You can't keep going moody every five minutes."

"I know," he says, looking away. I can see the frustration in his eyes. "Maybe I was wrong, sirenita. I can't be your friend." He turns back to face me, his expression unusually cautious. Vulnerable. "Come over tonight. I'll be at my dad's house."

The pleading look he gives me could crumble monuments, but I can't seem to silence the voice in my head that whispers, Only a few more days. A few more days, and then I'll know where we stand.

"I can't," I say, and I hate the way his face falls. "Not yet, Tyler."

He's silent before giving me a look that fills my lungs with panic. Leaning closer, he drops his voice to a low, frustrated whisper. "When you figure out what it is you want, you let me know." And then he's crossing the cafe and disappearing down the steps, taking a piece of me with him.

I focus on rubbing at a spot on the table, but my chest feels tight at the thought that this will all be over soon. For the last few months, the tournament has been the one thing pushing me forward – what will I do when it's over? When I either win or lose the race? Do I focus on school? On Tyler? On riding the circuit no matter what the outcome of the race? I haven't given much thought to my future beyond the tournament, and now it's looming closer, I'm more uncertain than ever.

"You ready for the tournament, darlin'? Not long to go now."

I tense at his grating voice. When I turn, Sam is standing before me with his thick arms folded, that same smug look on his face. "You know what I think?" I ask. "You suck at racing despite the fact your family owns this place, so now you're trying to live vicariously through me. That's pretty sad."

Something dark suddenly clouds his features. He straightens up, and I think I've touched a nerve. "You think you could beat me in a race? No chance."

"Yes," I say, squirting the table with bleach, "I do."

Clearly, Sam does not like being challenged. He grabs the spray of bleach from my hands until I'm forced to look over. "Then prove it," he says. "We'll race tonight, and if you win, I'll let you off the hook with the bet."

"And if I lose?"

He smirks. "Don't worry, darlin', losing to me is punishment enough."

"Having to talk to you is punishment enough." I glance at the track, catching sight of Tyler heading toward the parking lot. Knowing he isn't here to watch my pride get the best of me, I say, "Fine, we'll race."

There is something different about Sam's expression. His eyes are dark, his smile somewhat sly as he takes a step back. It feels a lot like I'm making another deal with the devil, but not having to worry about where I'd get the money for the bet takes the weight off my shoulders.

"As soon as you finish your shift," he says, "meet me on the track."

As soon as he walks off, I turn back to my table with a feeling of dread. Maybe Tyler is right, maybe I have too much pride for my own good, but people like Sam cannot go unchallenged. If I can knock him down a peg, he'll think twice about showing his face around here – I'll finally be able to ride in peace.

The rest of my shift is tainted by nervousness. I don't know why I'm so nervous, I know I could ride circles around Sam, but something tells me this won't be an easy win. Still, as soon as my shift finishes, I head into the back and change into my riding gear.

"What's this I hear about you riding with Sam?" Alex asks behind me. I turn around, catching the disapproval on her face. "You know this is a terrible idea, right? I mean, it's Sam."

"Hey, there's no way I'm going to let him go around thinking he can beat me in a race." I gather up my hair and slip on my helmet, but I can tell my answer doesn't satisfy her.

"This is a terrible idea," she repeats. "Does Tyler know about this?"

"No, he went home already. Look, stop worrying." I turn around around flash what I hope is a reassuring grin. "Wish me luck?"

She frowns, but after a moment of hesitation, says, "Good luck."

Somewhat nervous, I head down the patio steps and grab my bike before meeting Sam at the start line. He's cleared the track so that we're the only two riding the circuit. From the crowd that has gathered at the balcony and around the barriers, he's told everyone about it, too. I try not to let the crowd unnerve me. I'd figured we'd be riding with a few other racers on a regular circuit, but now he's turned this into some kind of circus, and I know he's done it on purpose to get to me.

Still, the crowd at the tournament will be bigger. I just need to focus on the feel of my bike, on the open road ahead. If I can block out everything else, if I can forget about the fact I've got Satan riding next to me, I can probably win this thing.

Beside me, Sam sits tall and fierce on his bike. I keep my eyes ahead, focused on the gentle curve of the track in the distance, using it to keep me centered. My breath comes out in slow, steady waves. I imagine my father here in my place and wonder what it is he'd be thinking, whether his mind would be solely on the race ahead or if in these moments of peace, he thinks of something else.

I don't have time to ponder much longer. The whistle blows, and I'm surging ahead toward the curve I'd been focused on, carried by a gentle wind.

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