I pulled a sweatshirt of his from underneath and brought it up to my nose. The smell of him was gone. Replaced by the stale scent of cardboard from years of being stashed away. I felt a tear fall down my cheek. I didn’t feel sad the way I used to. It wasn’t the sadness of longing for him that I used to feel. It was more a sadness that everything had happened the way it did. The what-ifs and the shouldn’t-have-happened’s.
I kept the photo album and the few small items of his I had. The clothing all went in the donate pile, except for the fatigues that I would give back to his mother. She would want them. She would want to see his name on the patch.
I let out a cleansing breath as I boxed up all of my items for Goodwill. The sun was setting so I knew I’d have to drive them to the depository the next day. Just as I closed up my freshly organized closet, my phone chimed again. I fell onto the bed, exhausted from living in the past, and opened my phone screen. A video message from Brett was waiting. Except it wasn’t his face I saw when I pressed play. It was Hoyt, grinning like a fool.
“Your boy is back on it,” he said proudly before turning the camera to a huge mound of dirt. The roar of a dirt bike could be heard off screen—growing louder and louder as it approached. Within seconds I saw Brett and his bike fly up the hill and through the air as it hit the crest. The way he twisted his body and released his grip on the bike only to pull it back underneath of him moments later had me holding my breath.
The video ended with him safely landing on two wheels, but I was gasping for air imagining what could have happened. It was terrifying. Knowing that he’d been filmed that day was not helping. When I’d watched the videos of Brett from the past it wasn’t as nerve-wracking, especially considering I knew when and where he was when I was doing so. He was sitting next to me or at physical therapy. He wasn’t spending every waking moment trying to one up himself like he’d just done in that video.
The stunt was flawless.
He’s a professional, I reminded myself. Over and over again.
Me: That’s awesome.
I wanted to be supportive. I wanted to cheer him on, but the idea of having a box in my closet with his name on it, full of reminders of him being alive, was weighing on me. As I lay in bed that night, I tried not to think the worst. I’d already been through the worst once, the odds of that happening to me again had to be small.
What kind of universe would actually have me go through losing the man I loved twice in one lifetime? I tossed and turned that night and prayed I’d never have to find out.
“I plan on being back in top shape,” I told one of the reporters from MX Magazine after I had a pretty kick ass run on the track. He was a frail little thing, looking like he definitely spent more time behind a computer than on a bike. I had to give him credit though, he knew his motocross. He’d pretty much retold me my entire career in a matter of ten minutes. The excitement as he told me about last year’s rise to the top had me anxious to get this interview over with and back on the track. “I’m actually feeling better than I’ve felt in a long time.”
I was pleased that I was able to get right back into it. I worried that I might have to ease back in, but my physical therapy had paid off. It was literally like riding a bike. I hadn’t missed a beat as far as what I was capable of doing. Hoyt and I had been working on a new run for me to try out at the exhibition next month. The addition of the quarter pipe ramp to the layout was giving me all kinds of ideas—bigger, better, higher tricks were always my end goal. I hadn’t talked about it yet—didn’t want to jinx it—but I was pretty close to nailing a triple with added flair. It was one thing to turn the bike, but if I could turn my body and the bike at the same time I would floor the judges for sure.
“It’s pretty unprecedented that you’ve gotten back on a bike so quickly after a full knee replacement,” he said. “Are you worried that you didn’t give your body enough time to heal?”
“If I was worried, I wouldn’t be here,” I said confidently. Riding was more therapeutic than anything else I did. Each time I sat on my bike I felt stronger. I felt more than ready to get my name on the top of the leader board again. “I did everything I was supposed to do to make sure I’d come back stronger than ever.”
“What can we expect from your runs this season?” he asked. “Are you planning on putting any new tricks in?”
“You think I’m going to give away my set list that easily?” I joked. “I’m always down for trying new things,” I told him. “That’s what I love so much about this sport. Hell, I remember a time when everyone thought a back flip was the end all be all, and now people are doing doubles like it’s nothing. I’m just glad that I’m able to be a part of it all.”
“I know I’m excited to see what you bust out this year,” he said, letting his inner fanboy show a little. It was nice to see that people supported me. Lately, I’d been a little discouraged with Georgia’s lack of excitement about me being back. She was short with the awesome’s and great job’s whenever I told her about my progress. I hoped that when she actually was able to come to an event and see me do what I did up close and personal she’d get it. “I know your female fans are equally as excited to see you back on the track.”
“Yeah, they’re great,” I tried to look grateful. Pilsner had suggested, to Reid and I both, that we keep the comments about not being single to ourselves. He didn’t think we should hide it, but bragging about being in love was frowned upon.
“You don’t want to isolate those fans that think they have a chance with you,” he’d said. “We need to do whatever we have to do to sell tickets.” I empathized with boy banders for a split second.
Reid and I both thought that our excellent skills on our bikes were enough. Motocross was about dirt and metal and pushing yourself harder and faster than you thought you could. Pilsner’s focus on image was a little much at times, but he paid the bills so we played along.
“Is it true that they say you’re off the market?” Fanboy asked.
“You asking for you?” I teased, trying to change the subject. His smile faded and he looked a little embarrassed. “I’m just joking around, kid,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m happy, if that answers your question.”
“Sure,” he said, flipping the recorder off on his phone. “I didn’t want to ask that question,” he told me. “Our editor thought it would go over well with female readers.”
“I get it,” I said with a nod. “No harm, no foul.” My phone rang. Georgia’s name and photo of her making a kissy face flashed on the screen. Fanboy’s eyes fell on it the same as mine did.
“That pretty much answers that,” he said under his breath, tucking his phone and notepad into his bag. “Thanks again. Any chance you can tell me where I can find Chayse McCade?”
“Over there,” I said, pointing toward the shed where she kept her bike. Poor kid thought I was hard on him. Depending on what kind of mood Chayse was in, there was good chance she’d be eating him for lunch. “Good luck,” I said with a chuckle as he wandered off. “Hey baby,” I said, answering my phone. I was anxious to hear her voice. I knew Hoyt sent her a video of my latest trick today and her response was, once again, not very enthusiastic.
“Hey,” she said. “What are you doing?”