he first half of the race is peaceful – it's not often I get to ride with so few others on the track – and I feel myself relax in my seat as I get the upper hand. Despite the bravado, Sam is all bark and no bite.

As though he knows this too, he picks up speed and draws in closer, his front wheel unsteady as he battles for control of his bike. For all his talk about finding a balance between speed and control, he's certainly losing the latter. I push ahead, picking up speed in a bid to outrun him, but he's hot on my tail, not through what I'd consider precision or skill, but what Tyler would say is recklessness – a recklessness I have to compete with if I want to gain the upper hand.

I'm almost relieved when the finish line comes into view. We hurtle toward it at full speed ahead, and when my wheels start to buckle and vibrate from the pressure, I fight to keep my handlebars steady. Several more feet and I'll be the first one over the line.

Sam gains closer, but my wheel takes the edge as I cross the line first, my body exploding with excitement. I don't slow down yet – I couldn't if I tried – and Sam doesn't either. Instead, he acts as a barrier behind me, trapping me in. I try to slow down in the hopes he will too, but his wheel clips my bike. Just like that, the last of my control unravels.

The force of the hit sends me flying off my bike. I roll several times in a sick deja vu, certain Sam's bike is about to run over me. At the last second, he swerves as I rush to cover my head, curling into a ball as I wait for the pain to hit.

But it doesn't come. Other than a slight ache or sting in certain places, I don't seem to be hurt. I pat myself down, searching for anything that could be bruised or broken, but my lucky charm has saved me. I reach for my wrist, about to run my thumb across the shiny motorcycle pendant, but the bracelet is gone.

I straighten up as Alex rushes over and throws an arm around my waist. "Oh my god," she says, "are you all right? Don't stand, just–"

"I'm fine," I say, but my voice is breathless and shaky. Someone else comes to assist, but I brush them both off and scan the track. Sam has already taken his bike and got the hell out of dodge, but whether it's down to embarrassment at losing or because he knows I'm going to kill him remains to be seen. I ignore the sting in my shoulder and drop to my knees, patting around in the dirt for my bracelet. Maybe it's stupid, but the thought of losing the bracelet Tyler gave me hurts more than falling off my bike. "Can you help me?" I ask. "I lost the bracelet Tyler gave to me."

"Forget about the bracelet," Alex says, crouching down. "You need to get checked out. I'm not having a repeat of last time."

"I promise I'm fine this time," I say, "I just need to find that bracelet. It's my good luck charm."

She sighs heavily. As someone who most definitely does not believe in luck, Alex no doubt thinks I'm being stupid, but I can tell she's about to start combing through the dirt anyway when her eyes fall to something behind me. "Oh no."

"What?" I turn around and follow her gaze to my bike. My heart drops, not just drops but hits the ground and shatters. I scramble toward it, picking up parts along the way. The main body of the bike lies crumpled at the barrier, bruised and broken and in no way reparable before the tournament.

A noise that sits somewhere between a word and a cry escapes my lips. I cradle the parts I've already picked up and fight back the sting in my eyes. For a moment, as I stand here and take in what's left of my bike, every memory and hope rushes back.

This is the bike Tyler gave me: the same bike that carried me over hurdles and hills and gave me the confidence to conquer my fears. It's the bike I'd spent hours on, committing to memory each curve and line and ridge. And up until now, up until the moment I'd seen it in pieces, it was the bike that would win me the tournament.

"Roxy," Alex says softly, but her voice is like an echo in the wind. Fire runs through me like never before and scorches my veins. If I don't get angry, I'll cry instead, and right now, that's not an option.

Rage drives me forward. I dump the scraps of my bike and push through what's left of the lingering crowd in search of Sam. Alex hurries after me, pleading with me to stop and listen, but there is nothing she can say. With my chance at winning the tournament in tatters, the only thing I'm focused on is Sam.

I find him sitting with his friends on the patio. I'd figured his ego would be a little too bruised to hang around after my win, but he's talking and laughing like he didn't just destroy my only chance at winning the race. As soon as I get closer, it dawns on me he's not just laughing, but laughing about the state of my bike.

"Is something funny?" I ask, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm shoving him hard in the chest. He falls off the bench and lands on the ground but quickly jumps to his feet. From the look on his face, he's pissed. But then he looks at his friends, back to me, and laughs.

My cheeks burn with heat as his friends laugh too. "You owe me a new bike," I say calmly. It's taking everything I have not to give in to this rage, but I'm teetering on the edge.

"Hey, you slowed down," he says, folding his arms. "Not my problem."

"You were tailing me. Your wheel was an inch from mine." I take a step closer, glaring at him as my hands twitch beside me, desperate to punch him in the face. He shrugs again, and that's all it takes to break the last of my willpower. My father used to tell me violence is never the answer, and if you punch a boy first you better expect to be punched back, but right now I don't care. Punching Sam in the face makes any hit I take worth it.

A red haze takes over as my fist surges forward and impacts the side of his jaw. Pain jolts through me as I quickly retreat my hand, surprised by how much it hurts. When I look at my knuckles, they've split.

Rage lines Sam's face as he advances toward me. I'm ready to take the hit, my flight or fight instinct now blinking on high alert, and it's the latter I'm ready for. But then Alex sweeps in and fills the small space between us before resting her hand on Sam's chest.

"Back off," she says to Sam. Her voice comes loud, strong, and I've never seen her so fierce. Knowing it's to protect me eases some of the anger inside and replaces it with admiration.

I cradle my knuckle as blood trails my wrist. Some of Sam's friends now get to their feet but don't get involved. Maybe they've realized their friend was in the wrong, or maybe they're not keen on getting into a fight at the cafe, but either way, after one of them trails off, the rest of them follow.

"Just go with your friends," Alex says to Sam, but her gentle push to send him in the opposite direction has little effect.

"That bitch hit me," Sam hisses at Alex, but for now her hand is enough to keep him at bay. "You think I'm just going to let you get away with that?" He's directing that last part at me, his voice so thick with anger that the veins in his neck are protruding.

"Yes," she says, "because if you lay so much as a finger on her, I'll punch you too. Plus, you'll be barred from sitting in the cafe for life."

His eyes narrow. Something tells me his prompt retreat has more to do with losing his hangout and not Alex's threat to beat him up, but at least I don't have to look at him.

As soon as he's gone, Alex turns to face me, once again disappointed. "That was a stupid move," she says. "Let me see your hand." She goes to grab my knuckles, but I pull my hand behind me and take a step back. That rush of adrenaline is tapering off, along with my anger, and now all I want to do is cry.

"I'm fine," I say, "I just need to be alone," and I maneuver right past her and run down the steps, ignoring her calls for me to stop.

Now that my bike is in pieces, I end up having to walk to wherever it is I'm going. Not that I have any idea where that is – I just know that I need to get as far from the track as possible.

Tears burn my eyes as my feet pound the sidewalk. The tournament is in less than a week, and without a good bike to compete with, I don't stand a chance, which means everything I've done to get to this point – the sacrifices I've made to my health and my relationships, the lies I've told –has been for nothing.

I start to walk faster like maybe I can outwalk the tears in my eyes or the sharp, throbbing pain in my hand. Maybe I can outwalk the misery. But it doesn't work – if anything it makes the tears burn harder, demanding to be acknowledged.

Despite the fact I should be blaming Sam for this, I can't help but blame myself. I could have walked away when he'd challenged me to a race, and if I had, I'd still have my bike in one piece. I'd still have a chance in the tournament. Instead, Tyler was right, the way he's right about everything: I have too much pride.

Somehow, it's his house I end up at. It only dawns on me when I'm in front of the door, and their little gold house number gleams back at me. I turn in a panic but freeze again. My throat feels tight, my chest compressed like I'm struggling to breathe, because this is the last place I should be.

So why is it the first place I thought of?

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