Motogp
Melisa
45
The heat rising from the asphalt makes the air shimmer. This is it. Your fourth race in the premier class. MotoGP.
You try to focus, to run through the track's corners in your mind, but the sensory overload is immense. A team member claps you on the shoulder, another adjusts a sensor. Then, through the chaos of mechanics and media, you see the umbrella. It’s a familiar splash of sponsor-blie/yellow, held steady against the sun. But it's the person holding it that makes you freeze.
It's her. Her smile is the same, a little nervous but genuine. You’re transported back to eleven months earlier. A different track, the heavier, grumbling Moto2 bike. It was raining that day, a miserable, treacherous downpour. She was your grid girl then, too. You were a nobody, a wild card with more ambition than results. She’d said something simple, "Just stay on it. You'll do great" And you did. You rode the race of your life, a stunning, unexpected run to second place. You remember her genuine excitement, how she cheered louder than your own team when you sprayed the prosecco.
You never saw her again. Until now.
"I remember you," you say, your voice tight in your helmet. "Italy. The rain."
Her eyes widen and she smiles shily. "I remember too. You were incredible that day."
"You don't wish me luck?", you ask.
Motogp
