Poles Apart

Rory flicked the TV on and we both sat there watching.

“Here they come now. They’re just pulling in to the pits and then we’ll be able to have a quick word with them,” a grey-haired guy said as he practically ran toward the pit lane. The huge bikes roared past, making the microphone feedback for a second because of the vibrations from the engine. “There’s Stuart McCoulis,” the guy shouted over the noise as a driver dismounted his bike. He waved him over. “Stuart, can we have a word?”

The guy called Stuart nodded and answered a few questions as he walked to the pits, his Scottish accent making it hard to understand over the roar of the bikes. The camera flicked to a light blue bike going around the track on its own, a guy in a blue jumpsuit and helmet was pumping his fist in the air as the crowd cheered for him.

“There’s Carson Matthews. Another victory lap for the youngster. Can no one knock his winning streak? That’s a record-breaking eleven wins in a row. He just seems unstoppable at the moment. They really have their work cut out to catch him up!” the voiceover guy announced.

As if he knew he was on camera, Carson raised both arms in celebration, seeming to completely forget he was driving. My heart took off in overdrive as my eyes widened. “Hold the bloody handlebars, you idiot!” I screamed at the TV, jumping out of my seat and gripping fistfuls of my hair. Sasha jumped, dropped the toy she was playing with and stared at me in shock, and Rory burst into hysterical laughter. My eyes were glued on the screen until both of Carson’s hands were firmly on the handlebars again, but I knew what was coming next. This was his thing lately, the damn show-off. He gunned the engine loudly and sped off, his front wheel lifting from the tarmac, doing a wheelie along the straight track, while the crowd just screamed and clapped louder and louder for him.

Stupid flipping idiot!

The camera angle changed and he was now driving toward the screen, into the pit lanes. The same interviewer was standing there with a smile on his face, waiting to talk to him for a couple of minutes before he went to be presented with his trophy and champagne. The bike pulled up and Carson climbed off, letting a couple members of his team push it off to where it needed to be.

My breath caught in my throat. That really was one hot little jumpsuit.

“Carson, got a couple of minutes?” the interviewer asked.

Carson gave him the thumbs-up and fiddled with the strap under his chin, pulling off the helmet to reveal a sort of white balaclava he was wearing underneath. He pulled it off as well as he walked toward the camera, seeming to breathe a sigh of relief as he ruffled a hand in his sweaty hair, making it stick out everywhere.

So. Damn. Hot!

I mentally swooned, as did probably half the female population.

“Win number eleven, Carson. How does it feel?” the guy asked him, shoving the microphone in his direction.

Carson smiled his sexy little smile. “It feels great. You know like in that Disney movie with the guy who has the bluebird on his shoulder… yeah, that’s pretty much how I feel right now. Zip-a-dee-do-dah, what a wonderful day,” Carson answered, laughing quietly to himself as he looked down the camera lens. My cheeks flamed because it felt like he was looking directly at me.

The interviewer laughed and regarded him as if he’d lost his mind. “Okay, that’s a weird analogy,” he jibed. “We’re over halfway through the season now, and you’re firmly at the top of the leader board. Your win today takes you twenty-one points clear of second place.”

The guy shoved the microphone back to Carson, who smiled and nodded. “Yeah, that’s awesome, but I can’t let it drop now. There’s still plenty of time for someone to come in and steal the championship. I can’t get complacent.”

“So, what are you doing tonight then? Plans for celebrating? Going out on the town?”

Carson shrugged. “Not sure what I’m doing yet. We’ll probably go for a couple of celebration drinks. The only thing I want to do is get some fried chicken. You know anywhere that does good fried chicken?” Carson asked, grinning his secret little smile.

I giggled in my seat, chewing on the knuckle of my index finger, trying to contain my excitement that Carson Matthews just gave me a little shout-out on TV like he promised he would do. I felt so special it actually made me want to cry.

The interviewer laughed and shook his head, looking at him like he’d inhaled too many bike fumes. “Er, no, I don’t. Hopefully you’ll find somewhere.”

Carson nodded. “Yeah, they don’t have fried chicken over here like they do back home. English fried chicken is the best; I miss it when I’m away…” He trailed off, laughing as one of his team grabbed him into a headlock, rubbing their knuckles in his sweaty hair. He dragged him away, Carson shouting bye at the camera as he play-fought with the guy who was holding him.

The interviewer turned back to the camera, a bemused smile on his lips. “Well, there you have it. Carson Matthews’ eleventh straight win. I think he’s now going to get some lunch. Back to you, Steve,” he said laughing, and then they cut back to the studio.

I miss it when I’m away… oh, God, that was so freaking sweet! Was he really missing me? I sure as hell knew I was missing him, and he always told me that he missed me, but did he really?

I bit my lip as the happiness built even more. That was so incredible. He’d remembered to say those things, just for me. I sighed contentedly and sat back in my seat, ignoring the way Rory looked at me – one eyebrow raised, a quizzical-yet-knowing smile pulling at his lips.