he moment I step inside, my mother is ready to pounce. Knowing this will last a while, I take a seat at the breakfast table while she tells me how worried she's been and don't I love her enough to call?

Dad watches from his wheelchair at the head of the table. He's nodding enthusiastically, umming and ahhing as though he agrees with everything Mom brings up, but eventually says, "As long as you've learnt your lesson, Roxy."

"Yes," I say, "I have. I promise to call next time."

"And not stay at boy's houses without our permission," Mom says, "even if you claim nothing happened, which I'm not sure I believe."

I don't say anything, not even to claim my innocence again, and Mom frowns before walking around the counter. Hand to my head, she says, "You don't seem like yourself. Are you sick?"

"No." Clearly, I am not good at hiding my emotions. She must be able to see the defeat all over my face. I hadn't planned to talk about the crash – she'd only worry – but the truth starts pouring out.

I tell them everything, from the race with Sam and how he'd bumped into me to the fact he'd destroyed my bike. Both listen intently, and even though it's Mom that I'm mostly confiding in, it's Dad that I look at. His face goes through several expressions, from anger to sorrow and everything in between. He knows what it's like to have your dreams ripped from under you – he knows because his were taken too.

"Oh honey," Mom says, stroking my hair, "I'm sorry about the bike, but maybe it's a sign. You could have gotten hurt in that crash, and you weren't. Maybe it's best to quit while you're ahead. Right, honey?"

She looks at Dad now, who has remained quiet for most of our exchange but now meets Mom's gaze with a heart-wrenching look I've never seen before. I'd known he missed racing, that a part of him has been missing ever since the crash, but it's only now that I realize how badly.

"Right," he says, but his voice comes out flat and nothing like his own. "I think I'll go and get some fresh air." He turns around and wheels himself out while Mom and I look at each other uncertainly.

"You'll be okay, honey," she says, "I'm just glad you're safe." She pulls me into a motherly hug, a little tighter than usual, and even though her words don't exactly bring me comfort, I know she's saying it because she doesn't want me to get hurt.

When she gets back to cooking dinner, I head upstairs to the bathroom, where I strip and step into the shower. And finally, with the hot water ready to mask any tears, I let myself truly break down. I can't help but feel stupid for crying, but maybe this is what I need to move on. I'll let myself grieve, I'll dream and fantasize about what could have been, and then I'll move on.

It's a while before I make it back out. I dry and change into a baggy hoody and sweatpants before checking my phone. There's already a message waiting for me from Tyler, and it says:

A ghost of a smile crosses my lips as I send one back:

Then I throw my phone aside and fall back onto my bed. It's a strange feeling to accept defeat. For so long, I've focused only on the tournament. What am I supposed to do now? Sighing, I get up, about to go for a ride to clear my head when I remember I can't. Instead, I mope around my room for a while feeling sorry for myself before deciding to pull it together.

Maybe I'm right, and there's no hope left of me entering the tournament, but I refuse to give up yet. There has got to be something I can do to fix this, even if I can't see it yet, and that's enough to keep me hopeful. Hope, Dad would say, is why we get out of bed in the morning.

When Mom calls me down for dinner, I hotfoot downstairs and slip into the chair next to Dad. A steaming bowl of spaghetti awaits me, so we start to dig in when Mom stops us with a clear of her throat.

"So, I have some good news," she says, looking between us expectantly. "Cooking Digest saw my cupcakes on Instagram and they were so impressed, they want to feature me in their next article."

Dad blinks once, then twice, before breaking into an almighty grin. "That's incredible," he says, rolling toward her, "get down here."

She smiles as she reaches down to hug him. "I'm so nervous, but this will be great for business," she says. "They're going to do a photo shoot and everything. They're even talking about a cookbook."

"Wow," Dad says, leaning back in his chair to grin. "I told you the world would love your cupcakes as much as I do."

"I know," she says, smiling coyly, and then we dig into our spaghetti while Mom gushes about all the finer details. The whole time, Dad watches her talk with the biggest smile on his face – almost as if he's forgotten how unhappy he's been lately. It's as if seeing my mother happy has woken him up, and watching the way the pair reminisce about the start of her cupcake ventures reminds me of life before the accident.

"So," Mom says eventually, "how's Tyler?"

My cheeks burn red as if she can see the truth printed in bold on my forehead. "Tyler's fine."

"And when will you be inviting that strapping man over for dinner?" Dad asks.

"When you stop calling him a strapping man."

"Maybe this weekend," Mom says. "He can taste my cupcakes."

This weekend. My mother doesn't realize it, but she's landed a blow. This weekend is the tournament, except I won't be there to race alongside Tyler like we'd always planned. "He's busy," I say, focused on my spaghetti. "He's racing in the tournament this weekend."

Her eyes soften, and she quickly changes the subject while I try to focus on finishing my food, but now there's a lump in my throat as the hope I'd clung to only an hour ago morphs into disappointment. Dad has stopped listening to Mom and keeps looking at me with a sorrowful expression, which only makes me feel worse. I think a part of him had been living vicariously through me, and now both our dreams are dashed.

When dinner is over, I don't stick around to celebrate Mom's cupcakes. I can't, I keep thinking too much and then feeling even worse, so after talking on the phone to Tyler, I resign myself to an early night. I must only sleep for an hour or two when my phone starts to buzz, and I pull it from my pocket to see Dad is calling me.

"Uh, hello?" I say.

"Come downstairs," he says cryptically. "I want to show you something."

I glance at the clock and see it's only ten p.m. Mom will be in bed by now – she's always in bed by nine on the dot – and usually, Dad would be down in the living room watching romcoms. His change in routine makes me feel slightly nervous as I throw on my hoody and tiptoe downstairs.

After throwing on some shoes, I head outside and over to the garage, surprised to find him sitting in front of the same bike he kept hidden beneath a dirty black sheet as if he couldn't bear to look at it. The same bike that nearly cost him his life.

"Dad?"

He looks over his shoulder and smiles before turning back to look at the bike. "It's a beauty, isn't it?" he says. "It's been so long that I'd forgotten."

"Yeah," I say, stepping closer, "it is."

He turns to me again, eyes soft and filled with affection. "I want you to have it."

Surprise renders me speechless. In his riding days, Dad's bike was a prized possession not to be touched by anybody but him. I'd always ask him repeatedly when the day would come that I'd get to ride his bike, and the answer was always the same: riding someone else's bike is like asking to try on their skin. Despite being a pretty disturbing simile, the day I got my bike is when I finally understood what he'd meant.

Everything changed after the accident. The bike was too much of a reminder of everything Dad lost, so he hid it away in Arizona, and again once we got to Pinewood. It wasn't to be seen or talked about or acknowledged.

Until now.

"I can't." My voice comes out shaky and uneven. This bike was Dad's baby, the same one he won race after race on, and all I can think of is that stupid simile.

"Roxy." His voice is soft. Fatherly – it's the kind of tone he uses when he won't take no for an answer. "A bike like this deserves to be ridden, and I can't think of anyone more capable to ride it than you."

Hesitant, I take another step and run my hand along the shiny black metal. "Are you sure?" When I'd prayed for a miracle earlier on, this isn't what I'd been expecting. "This was your dream bike, Dad."

"It was," he says, but he doesn't sound upset. If anything, he sounds relieved. "Now it's your dream."

Silence engulfs us as he stares at the bike, tracing the clean-cut ridges with his palm. When he studies it, it's not with resentment or hatred or anger, it's with gratitude. He's no longer angry at the bike that took his dream – he's thankful it helped him to dream in the first place.

"I've been so scared since my accident," he admits, "but watching your excitement for racing reminded me of why I loved it so much in the first place, and maybe I won't ride again, but you can. I'm not going to let some punk destroying your bike stop you from entering that tournament."

Now I'm really on the verge of tears. Not just because there's hope again, but because this gesture means more than anyone could know. His happiest moments have been on this bike, along with his worst, and handing it over means there's no more hoping, no more maybe I'll ride again. In giving me this bike, Dad closes a chapter on racing for good, and there's something bittersweet in that.

"Thank you," I say, but my voice is so thick with emotion."I won't let you down."

He smiles and pulls me into his side as we take a final look at the bike. "You never could."

My heart swells with hope as we head into the house. It will be a difficult next few days getting used to this bike, but I can't bring myself to care. I've come too far just to give up now, and I'm determined to be ready.

I will be.