Trinity(65)

“Yeah,” he agrees, melancholy. “Dev, I need you to promise me something. I know we’ve had a bit of a bumpy ride the last few months, but if anything happens . . . Today, or in the future. Promise me you’ll take care of them.”

“Hey. Nothing’s going to happen. You’re Reese fucking Dane. You’re a legend. Legends don’t talk like that.”

“Sick ones do.” He bounces his leg agitatedly.

“We’re gonna fix you up, bro.”

“Do you think it’s too late? Too late to fix the damage?”

I choose my next words wisely. “No, I don’t.”

He blows out some hot hair, scratching his scalp tensely with all ten fingers.

“Hey, I’m telling you now. These hands are medical weapons. And they’re going to do a number on you.” That gets a grin out of him.

“Just say it. It will put me at ease.”

“I promise I’ll pick up your slack.” I try to keep it light. The last thing anyone needs is Reese getting in his own head.

“Knock, knock.” Kayla walks into the trailer. “Everyone decent?”

“Unfortunately,” Reese jests as she comes to stand beside him. She’s wearing a sunny yellow dress, her long dark hair a stark and beautiful contrast to the vibrant color.

“How’s the patient?”

“Ready to roll.” I stand up. I may be here to support Reese, but seeing them together still kills me. Like, suffocates, stabs, and poisons me all at once. “I’ll be outside.”

“Hey!” Reese steals my scope. “Think we can hear the heartbeat?” He sticks in the earpieces.

This is where I take my expedited leave. Kayla laughs as Reese moves the resonator around her stomach.

“It’s way too early,” she informs him, her happiness arresting. I die a little more inside as the two of them bask in their joy. I can’t stop myself from wondering if I wasn’t such an idiot, if I didn’t let my selfishness get in the way, would I be part of their bliss? Would it be the three of us preparing for a new life? Resentment, remorse, and dejection hover above me like a threatening storm cloud.

“When the regret sets in, remember you did it to yourself.”

I remember, brother. I’ll never fucking forget.

I scan the area for the nearest pub. I’m in desperate need of a pint.





On the road before me, there’s no thinner line between victory and death.

I tighten my hands around the grips as I wait for the go sign. The Senior TT is a solo start, which means all eyes are on me. Including the most important of all.

Kayla’s last kiss lingers on my lips as I rev my engine like a purring cat, visualizing as much of the course as I can. I’ve tried to memorize every dip and curve and corner, but thirty-seven miles is a lot of ground to remember. Fear settles me as I crouch, becoming one with the machine. This is it. My last ride. One book ending so another can begin. My last competitive six laps. Two hundred and thirty miles of record-breaking speed.

I get the go sign, release the brake, and take off furiously, my front tyre lifting slightly off the ground. It’s the beginning of the end.

I keep a steady pace, timing my markers. I need to be the fastest, but I also need to be the smartest.

I cocoon myself in concentration watching the needle tick on the speedometer, fluctuating anywhere between one hundred and thirty and one hundred and fifty miles per hour. The adrenaline stream constant as I lean and turn continuously through the small narrow streets of the country towns, hugging high rock walls and shooting through canopies of trees. The laps blur together as the high speeds and challenging terrain pushes every physical and mental limit. The tendons in my fingers start to tighten after the fourth lap, and my thighs and lower back burn after the fifth. The sweat is pouring and my heart is pounding as I kick jet streams of air at the spectators on the sidewalks. The houses fly by so fast, it feels as if I’m in a video game. It’s stress upon stress upon stress; hair-raising, fantastical terror bouncing on the bike at breakneck speeds.

I watch a rider wipe out on a mountain pass right in front of me, losing a front end at one hundred fifty miles per hour, skidding off the treacherous hillside. My heart jolts and I wobble, the crash spooking the shit out of me. I realign my focus, putting the horrific image of the cartwheeling rider behind me. I have less than fifteen miles left to victory, but first place isn’t a sure thing. I’ve been battling it out with a veteran Irishman the whole race, our times nearly identical. But I’m not one to back down from a challenge, the brutal competition only fueling my thirst to win.

We race neck and neck down the straight, our fairings bumping and our times fluctuating by a fraction of a second. I see my conquest a quarter of a mile away. I abuse the throttle, topping out at two hundred miles per hour, it becoming nearly impossible to keep the machine on the ground. I ride a rocket toward the finish line, the Irishman unrelenting. I mold my body as tightly to the bike as I can, eradicating as much headwind as possible. I jump into first place centimeters before the white line, a checkered flag waving in my peripheral vision. I zoom past the grandstand where I know Kayla and Dev are sitting. My emotions explode and my nervous system erupts as a feeling of euphoria spreads through my limbs like a contact high. I. WIN!

I pull the battered bike over to the designated area and just for shits and giggles, burnout; kicking up a huge cloud of smoke, creating one big fucking spectacle.

It feels like I hit a grand slam in the World Series, sunk a hole in one at the Masters, and knocked out Mike Tyson all in one shot. I’m standing on top of the world, and the view is fucking spectacular.

I dismount my R1, on a mission. People are congratulating me left and right as I search for my wife. She and our unborn child are the only things that can elevate this monumental moment.

I see her running toward me, smiling and jumping, as excited as I am. But as hard as I try to get to her, it suddenly feels like I’m trudging through sand. My limbs become heavy, my lungs deflate, and my chest tears open. I clutch my hand over my heart as my knees give out.

I hear Kayla’s blood-curdling scream as I hit the ground. I see the panic on her face and the terror in her eyes as she hovers over me.

“Reese!” Her distressed voice is the last thing I hear before the world goes completely and utterly black.





18 years later

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Cici, happy birthday to you.”

I flutter my eyes open to my mother holding a pink cupcake with a lit candle. She’s woken me up every birthday the exact same way. I push myself up, my long dark hair falling to the side in a mess of bedhead.

“Dad’s going to be mad you serenaded me without him.” I take a deep breath and blow out the candle.

“He’ll be up.” My mom smiles at me. “I wanted a few minutes alone with you anyway. I won’t get to do this next year.”

“Over the phone?” I offer an alternative as I steal some sugary frosting with my index finger.

“It won’t be the same.” She sadly mimics my movements, taking some frosting for herself. “I don’t know how eighteen years went by so fast.”

“Mom, don’t depress me on my birthday.” I roll my eyes, sucking the frosting off my finger. Parents.

“I don’t mean to.” She livens up. My mother, although loving and nurturing, is not usually the melodramatic type. It’s clear this birthday is affecting her. “I have . . .” She’s interrupted by a rap on the door. “Knock, knock.” My father walks in. “Morning, birthday girl.” He beams as he strides across the room to kiss both my mother and me.

“Morning.” I return his sentiment, enjoying the sugar rush from the homemade cupcake.

“I came to see what my girls want for breakfast.”

“Waffles with strawberries and whipped cream!” Per tradition.

“Why did I even bother to ask?” He chuckles.

“I don’t know. Maybe you just wanted an excuse to see me,” I offer up haughtily.

My parents share a sideways glance—one they often exchange in my presence.

“I don’t need an excuse. I’m your father, if I want to see you, I’ll see you.” He drops a stern kiss on my head.

“Where are the boys?” I ask. Usually, by now, my younger brothers, Kyle and Kennedy, are bouncing on the bed, causing a ruckus like the little pests they are.

“The chuckleheads? They’re still sleeping. They stayed up all night playing Xbox. I’m sure we won’t see them until lunch.” He pretends to sound annoyed, but he isn’t fooling anyone. The bags under his eyes are telling. I guarantee he was right there with them, racing virtual superbikes until midnight. It may be snowy and the middle of January, but those three will always find a way to ride. Simulated or not.

“I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.” He delivers one more lingering kiss before my mother and I watch him strut out of the room.

“Dad! Extra whipped cream!” I yell as his dark head disappears down the stairs. “Extra, got it!” He throws his hand up in acknowledgment before he’s gone.

I love that man. Even though he’s not my biological father, he’s the only paternal figure I’ve ever known. My birth father was a motorcycle racing legend who died before I was born. From what my mother tells me, he was an amazing human being. And every birthday, I wish the same thing—that I could’ve known him. I’ve often wondered how my mom ended up marrying my uncle, and every time I ask, all she’ll say is that their relationship was complicated, and one day, when I’m older, she’ll tell me the whole story. I’m eighteen now. How much older do I have to be?