he break gives me time to recharge. The first thing I do is head over to Tyler, who leads me over to a secluded spot behind the gym before throwing his arms around me. I hug him back, glad that there's not an ounce of resistance in my grip. I thought the tiniest part of me wouldn't be happy for him, but there isn't. His wins are my wins, mine his, the way it's supposed to be.

Tyler tenses as he lowers his head and presses his lips to my ear. In a low voice, he says. "Sirenita–" but I shake my head to stop him. I know he's about to apologize for winning – an apology I don't need or want.

"You did amazing," I say, but he still feels tense and wooden in my arms. "Don't think for even a moment that I'm not happy for you, but–" I pull back a little to give him a devious look, "–just know I'm planning to annihilate you this round."

He softens a little as he looks down at me with a lopsided grin. Leaning closer, he whispers in my ear, "Why do I like the sound of that?"

"Because you're a masochist?"

He laughs now, and the remaining worry in his eyes dissipates. He knows whatever happens next changes nothing between us. And now, I know it too. Heart fluttery, I lean up to kiss him, gently at first, but then something takes over, a heat deep inside the pit of my stomach, mixed with adrenaline from the race. He must feel it too because he grabs my arms and pushes me back until I'm up against the wall.

I stare up at him, trapped between his chest and the wall. The lopsided grin I'm so used to is gone, replaced by seriousness. My heart pounds harder – even more so than it did in the race – but then he's always had this effect on me. For some reason, when he looks at me, it's like nothing else matters.

Not even racing.

Eyes dark, Tyler pulls back just enough to trail my face before he kisses me again. I hold him tighter, hooking my arms around his neck before drawing him closer. And yet somehow, nothing I do seems to work. I'm pulling and pulling, desperate to feel every inch of his body, but it's never enough; I need more.

I glance behind him, checking we're still blissfully alone before I run my hands down his back. He lets out a hot, slow, breath in my neck and lifts up my thigh, wrapping it around him. "Forget the race," he says to my neck, "stay here with me."

And god, do I want to. Right now, the race feels like nothing compared to the way I feel when I'm with him, so much so that a part of me just wants today to be over so I can focus on us. I'm about to say something along the lines of don't tempt me, but his mouth crashes back onto mine. His lips feel like fire, teasing and burning and setting me alight, but for once, I don't care if I burn.

I want to.

By the time we pull apart again, there's not much time left. Tyler takes my hand and leads me back toward the track, where we pause to scan the crowd. Over in the corner, Tyler's dad is waving furiously with the biggest grin on his face. While I'm glad that he's so excited for Tyler, I can't help but feel sad too. If Tyler had lost that first round, what would his reaction have been? Pride that his son gave it all he's got or disappointment that he just wasn't good enough? Somehow, I have a feeling it's the latter.

Tyler glances down at me and shakes his head. I squeeze his hand, giving him a light peck on the cheek before saying, "You should go over to him. I'm going to go and find my family."

He nods and pulls me closer like he hates the thought of having to let go. "I'll see you just before the second round, alright?"

"Okay, I love you."

"I love you, sirenita."

We break apart before heading in different directions. There is nervousness in my step as I bound through the crowd because now the pressure is on. If I don't win this next race, I'll have lost the championship; it's a hard pill to swallow. Still, I try not to think about it as I head toward my parents, eager for a few minutes of normalcy before the pressure is on me again.

As soon as they see me, my mother throws her arms around me and pulls me closer. "Oh, honey," she says, "you were so amazing."

I flinch a little. A tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers not amazing enough, but then I scold myself. Some racers would kill to come second in the championship; I need to remember that. "Thanks, Mom," I say before crouching to Dad, who gives me an even harder hug.

"Your mother is right," Dad says, and when I pull back, I see his eyes have started to water. "Seeing you ride–" he stops to shake his head a little, overcome with emotion, "–it takes me back, Roxy. Not to my racing days, but to use riding up and down the streets on our bikes every Sunday. I knew even then that you were made for racing, and I was right."

A familiar tightness in my throat appears. I squeeze his hand, knowing that if I speak, the tears I'm desperately trying to suppress will start flowing. Knowing he's this proud of me, even though I lost that first round, means everything.

Breath held, I glance to where Tyler is talking to his dad, who seems pleased about the first round. He keeps patting Tyler's back and grinning at his friends as if he couldn't be prouder. And it's taken until now for me to truly appreciate just how lucky I am to have my parents. Win or lose, I know their support for me will never waiver. Can Tyler say the same about his dad? I'm not so sure.

The next ten minutes are spent unwinding and finishing off Mom's snacks. My nervousness is growing, pulsating in my stomach like an entity of its own, but this time, it's the good kind. That first round had shaken off some of my doubts, and even though I'd only come second, it's close enough to first that I know I can do this; I just have to focus.

"Just remember to do your best," Dad says as I finish off my bottle of water. "Be careful too, okay? I know it's easy in the final round to try and be reckless, but know your strengths, Roxy, and with them, your limits."

"I know," I say, "I will."

"And just please," Mom says, stroking my hair, "come back to me."

My eyes soften. "I will, I promise."

She nods, but it's not with relief. My mother knows as well as I do that a promise like this means nothing in racing. For all my good intent, safety can never be guaranteed nor promised – a lesson Dad learnt the hard way.

By the time I'm finished with my family, there's no time to meet up properly with Tyler. We manage a quick hug before grabbing our bikes, and with a last-second squeeze of my hand, Tyler helps me slip on my helmet, and we make our way back to the starting gate.

This time, I feel more prepared than in the first round. My hands clench the handlebars with a strange sense of ownership, committing the rubber to memory. No longer do I feel like I'm not ready to ride this bike; now, it feels like my own.

Besides, knowing Tyler will be waiting for me once we cross that finish line is enough to ease my doubts. And maybe, despite everything, I'll lose this final race and with it, my dreams, but a part of me doesn't care. If there is one thing I've learned since starting all of this, it's that winning doesn't mean you're a champion, and losing doesn't mean that you aren't.

My father taught me that.

❤️