Friday, October 11 – Sachsenring, Germany

Balancing two take-away food boxes in one hand, I knock on Lauren's trailer door with the other. While waiting for her to open up, I glance at the sky. The same thick clouds hang above as those that had been blocking out the sun ever since we arrived in Germany two days ago. Overcast conditions would actually be ideal if they remain for race day, but the forecast for Sunday threatens rain.

Some guys enjoy and even excel at riding on a wet track, but I'm not one of them. Still, with a disappointing fourth place finish in Barcelona, I have to suck it up no matter what the weather gods throw at me. I've caught up with Diego in total points—we're tied for third overall with two hundred and two each—with just three more races left, but it's still any man's game and every position counts. I can't be overconfident. Not after I let the podium slip away by just three-tenths of a second.

The door opens a crack and Lauren peeks through, the end of her hair—up in a high ponytail—wet from a recent shower. Recognizing me, she steps out in baggy sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. "Hey. What's up?"

"Nigel tells me to help you practice the track layout. You have Raceway Pro, right?" When she nods, I lift the boxes. "Good because I have lunch."

She steps aside. "You should have started with that. Come on in."

I go straight for the couch while Lauren grabs utensils from the kitchenette. Her open laptop is on the seat and while I'm no snoop, I catch a glimpse of the screen before shutting and moving it aside. At the top of the purple and yellow page, it definitely read: San Jose Community College.

"Do you think of returning to school?" I ask as she turns on the game console across the room. Studying and racing aren't mutually exclusive, and getting a degree is a good back-up after your riding career eventually ends. But I wouldn't have expected Lauren to be considering anything outside her current commitments, unless she's afraid that she won't be doing this for much longer.

Joining me, she picks up a remote. "I was just checking out what kind of classes they offer. You know, maybe something over the winter semester," she says while powering on the TV. "I play this by myself all the time. Why did Nigel want us to do it together?" she asks expertly changing the subject.

Her plans outside of racing aren't my business, so I drop the topic. Although I expected her question about why I'm here, I'm hesitant to answer. It wasn't exactly our team manager's idea, but admitting that would lead to more questions. And I don't want to reveal that she's been on my mind more than I'd like to admit since Barcelona.

"He wants me to stay out of trouble," I say as she hands me a cordless controller.

"Trouble?" she asks with a grin.

I clear my throat. This isn't a lie, but maybe I should have gone with that first thing. Using Nigel's reasoning actually feels even more awkward. Oh, fuck. Now I have no choice, but to continue. "Nigel hear Nando ask local people about good places to go out drinking."

Lauren clicks through the screens to load the motorcycle racing simulator game. "And what? Nigel thinks you two will sneak off for a pint?"

"Maßkrug," I say to correct her.

She glances at me. "What?"

"They do not call them pints here. There are different glasses for the different beers like Pilstulpe for pilsner, Wizen for wheat beer, or the Maßkrug." I make the shape of an oversized mug with my hands. "Big."

She laughs. "Whatever. But why would Nigel think that?"

I grab the top box from between us and open the lid. Although I'm definitely hungry, my timing is mostly to avoid her eyes. They're large, brown, and can probably see right through me. "Maybe because of what happened during the race weekend in Holland?"

She gasps theatrically, her plump lips forming an oval. "You didn't!"

Holding back a smile—at least she's cool with the revelation—I stab the mound of penne with my fork. "Nando make me."

"Sure." She draws out the syllable while squinting suspiciously. "Wait! Is that when you only came in twelfth?"

"Thirteen." I take a bite. The char-roasted red pepper is dressed with olive oil and still warm from the pan.

"Ouch. Well, it's clear that your boy is a bad influence on you." She leans forward to sneak a glance into my box. "That smells good."

"He is Italian," I say after swallowing. When Lauren picks up her fork and aims it for my lunch, I pull away. "Hey! This is mine."

I'm not fast enough, and she manages to skewer a chunk of grilled chicken. "I know." She smiles and pops the prize into her mouth. "Yum. So, are you saying that all of you Italians are troublemakers?"

"Yes." I smirk, glad I decided to stop by. Whether because of Diego's advances on her (and if I want to be completely honest with myself, Shane's too) or just because I finally feel comfortable having her for a teammate, she's occupied my thoughts more over this recent break than any time before. It isn't a stretch to accept it. I don't have many close friends nearby and she isn't wrong: Nando is a rascal. A calming presence in my life would be welcome. Then again, giving in to jealousy or even loneliness has gotten me in trouble before so I have to keep my head on straight, especially when it comes to her.

"Good to know." She accepts my confirmation and finishes chewing before taking two more pieces of my Parmesan-dusted pasta. This time, I don't fight her for it. "So, are you ready to get your butt handed to you?" she asks between chews.

I frown at another unfamiliar idiom. "What does this mean?"

Lauren puts her fork down and picks up the controller. "It means I'm going to win."

"Ha-ha. You are a funny girl." I close the box as she selects the Sachsenring from the available options. Lunch can wait. I'm not just a real life champion, but a virtual one too, and I have no problems with showing off.

In all honesty, the real three and a half kilometer long circuit just a few hundred meters from where we sit now is one of my least favorites. The construction and safety aspects are top notch, but with a short straightaway, many left turns, and tight corners, it's one of the slower venues on the racing calendar. A battle with Milan Mraz had also nearly cost me last year's third-place finish, leaving not-so-fond memories.

When the course loads and we select out players—it's always a bit odd to be riding in the digital skin of an actual guy from the MotoPrix class—the game switches to a split-screen view of the starting grid. In a few seconds, the countdown begins and the race is on.

Most people play this game to imagine what it's like to be in our shoes, but pros like us use it to practice the layout and try out different maneuvers—overtaking strategies, different race lines, or brake timing—without risk. With the difficulty level set on "High" we start from the back, but gradually advance up the field, picking off the competition one-by-one.

I had planned on holding back so I wouldn't hurt Lauren's feelings for beating her by too much, but she's better than I expected. Actually, she's really sneaky. The game allows for physical contact between bikes that we'd never intentionally use in a real race, and she's taking advantage of it. But just like on that first morning in Melbourne, the close interaction lets me watch her decision-making and methods. When she bumps into another rider causing him to fall and take out a second bike, it reminds me of something.

"How is your friend?" I blurt out as I advance another spot on the screen.

"Who?" Lauren asks without taking her eyes off the game.

The question was so random; of course she has no idea what I'm talking about. "The one who crashed in Laguna Seca last weekend."

"Tanner?" She makes the connection while virtually overtaking two bikes from the inside. "I talked to him again yesterday, and he's doing well. I mean, he's out for the rest of the season with a broken collarbone, but he'll be fine. Thank you for asking. But how did you know he's my friend?"

Other than Internet stalking? Yeah, I've got nothing.

Knowing the race would be held while she was at home, I had a good feeling she might show up. A quick search of her usual #Dimas83 tag found a picture of her from the start with one of the riders who later wiped out in the Corkscrew.

"The crash was in the news. It was your former federation, so I guessed you know him?" I sidestep the answer.

"Yeah, we used to compete against each other." She doesn't go into details, which either means there's nothing else to it or she doesn't think it's my business.

I stew on those options for a few more minutes, and my game suffers for it. I'm totally wound up, in spite of just starting the third lap. Scooting forward to the edge of the couch, I press the buttons and tilt the controller harder and harder. Two corners in, I crash. Without thinking, I fling the controller across the room.

"Whoa, there," Lauren says, turning her head toward me. "You okay?"

"Yes. You keep going," I urge, leaning back and running my fingers through my hair. What the hell am I doing? I usually have more self-control.

"Are you sure? I can turn it off . . .."

I shake my head. At least now I have an uninterrupted look at her style. "No, you play. I want to see something."

She chuckles. "All right."

Lauren finishes the lap and starts the next one.

"You need to be more aggressive there." I nod at the screen after she comes out of turn ten.

Lauren pauses the game and shifts in her seat to face me. "What do you mean?"

"You are holding back." I point to the on-screen track map. "As soon as you come out of eight, you need to push harder. It is easy to want to let up for the blind corner in nine, but you need more momentum if you want to have a bigger advantage going into the last parts."

She looks puzzled. "Isn't that what I did?"

"No. Go around again and do it like before," I say.

Lauren continues the game and about a minute later, she's in turn eight again. Although I'm tempted to interrupt, I let her go at her own pace. At least it's helping to keep my mind off my growing headache.

"You're right," she admits when she's out of corner eleven. She hadn't gained even one position on the back end of the course. "Let me try your way now."

She goes around again, and I coach her through. "Okay, brake here. Now accelerate. More, more, okay slow again. Back on the throttle. Good. Now ease up a little, turn, and accelerate again. Do not go too wide. That's it. Now full speed until the finish."

"Wow. Maybe I should listen to you more often because that actually worked," she says after advancing two spots over the last section.

"Does that apply to shock settings, too?" I'm not fishing for an apology for what happened back in Melbourne, but as long as she brought it up . . ..

She laughs and glances at me. "I guess it does. Sorry about that. I should have respected your expertise and at least tried your suggestion."

"No worries. I am also sorry for being wrong," I say with true sincerity. Her style and methods may differ from mine, but I've realized that if they work for her, I shouldn't interfere.

"So we're even?" she asks, ending the penultimate lap.

"Sure." Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose. My head is throbbing. The added pressure relieves the pain, but only while I keep it up. "Do you have something to drink?" I ask.

"Of course. There's stuff in the fridge," she says, working through the first section of the course again.

To avoid blocking her view, I climb across the couch behind her. Grabbing an energy drink out of the mini refrigerator, I down half before returning. Lauren has just crossed the finish line at the end of the last lap in the gameplay. She has come in fourth overall.

Before sitting down, I rub my temple.

"Do you have a headache again?" she asks while the game resets and returns to the main menu.

I nod. "Yes."

"Here." Tossing the controller aside, she pulls her knees up under herself and taps the front of the couch. "Let me try something. Just sit here."

I considered the offer. It seems innocent enough, but I should probably refuse. Still, I get on the floor in front of her.

"Are you okay with me touching your head and neck?" she asks, leaning forward. Her breath grazes the side of my face, like during the piggyback ride back in Barcelona. That seems forever ago, not just a few weeks. Why do all our best times seem to slip away more easily than ones of hardship?

"Sure," I whisper.

"Great. Now close your eyes and relax," she instructs, shifting a little behind me.

I am anything, but relaxed. Even expecting her touch makes my pulse go up (that Max Rate soda probably isn't doing me any favors right now either), and I ball my fists in my lap. Ugh. What am I even doing?

I lean back. Lauren's fingers are cool against my skin as she places them at the base of my ears. Pressing gently, she strokes the muscles connecting my skull to my neck. Down and up. Down and up. Each pass is increasingly firm, and I shudder.

"How does that feel?" she asks.

Fucking amazing, I want to say as the tension melts away. "It is okay."

"Good. Just yell if I'm making it worse."

I am making it worse by being here, I think, but I seemed to have lost the ability to form words. When she asks me to bend my head down, I don't hesitate.

"Is this a regular thing for you?" She rakes her fingertips over the back of my skull, causing tingles from the top of my head down to the base of my spine.

Does she mean headaches or random massages from hot girls? It doesn't matter; the answer to both is the same. "No," I exhale the syllable as bright spots float in my vision behind closed eyelids.

"It's probably stress, then," she says, continuing with the sweet torture. After a few more passes of her fingers over my scalp, she tilts my chin and gently raises my head back up. "How was your time off?"

If she hadn't followed the question with pinching my earlobes between her fingers, I may have been able to tell her about my mini-holiday on Mallorca. She probably would have enjoyed hearing about the ancient ruins or crystal clear waters. But the move—totally tame, yet surprisingly arousing—does me in. Forget chills down my spine. Now my entire body feels like it's being pricked by a thousand pins. Jumping to my feet, I can't even look Lauren in the eyes before heading to the door.

"Sorry, I forget something. Thanks, uhm, for the game." I hurry out, now definitely needing that cold shower I'd skipped earlier.