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1408 Words
STELLA'S POV
My eyes burned from a lack of sleep as I walked into the Iron Blade MC garage at seven in the morning. My chest still felt heavy from the night before. Every time I blinked, I could hear Cole’s voice repeating those painful words in the dark hallway: She is family. It's my job to protect her.
I grabbed a clean rag and wiped down my tool cart, determined to bury those hurt feelings under a mountain of hard work. I couldn't change how he saw me, but I could definitely make sure our bikes didn't break down on the track.
"You look like you fought a freight train and lost," a deep voice said.
I looked up and saw the club President standing by the main office door. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a graying beard and a heavy leather vest. He watched me with sharp, observant eyes. I tried to pull my mouth into a cheerful smile, but my face felt frozen.
"I am fine, Prez," I lied, turning back to my wrenches. "Just got up a little early today. There is a lot to do before the qualifier."
The President watched me for a long moment. He noticed my forced smile, but he didn't pry into my personal business. That was one of the things I respected most about him. Instead, he walked over and tapped his knuckles against my metal cart.
"The senior mechanics are completely overwhelmed," the President said quietly. "Hank is running behind on the engine rebuilds, and Mike is stuck fixing the backup trailers. I need someone with sharp eyes to inspect every single motorcycle that will touch the track for the upcoming qualifier."
I blinked, surprised by his words. "Every single bike? By myself?"
"Yes," he said, nodding once. "I want you to do the safety and performance checks. Don't let a single machine leave this shop unless you sign off on it."
A sudden wave of pride pushed away my morning tiredness. Even though he didn't call it an official promotion, handing me control over the race bikes proved that the President trusted my judgment more than anyone else's in the garage.
"You can count on me," I said seriously. "Nothing gets past me."
"I know it won't," he replied, turning back toward the office. "Start with the cruisers on the south wall."
I spent the rest of the day moving from bike to bike with a clipboard and a flashlight. It was a hard, thankless job. Riders are protective of their machines, and none of them liked a teenager telling them what to do. My small size made it way too easy for these rough biker guys to underestimate me.
"What do you mean I have to replace my rear clutch plate?" a rider named Dex complained loudly around noon. He crossed his arms, glaring down at me while I wiped hydraulic fluid off my hands. "Do you know how expensive a brand new race clutch is? That will cost me three hundred bucks!"
"It doesn't matter how much it costs, Dex," I argued right back, refusing to shrink away from his angry look. "Your plates are burnt out. If you try to shift hard during the second lap, your gears are going to slip, and you will lose the race."
"You're just guessing!" Dex yelled, waving his hand at the bike. "You're just trying to spend my prize money before I even win it! I've been riding since before you were born!"
"She isn't guessing, Dex. Shut your mouth and listen to her," Old Hank called out from across the aisle. Hank walked over, wiping his greasy hands on a towel, and took a quick look inside Dex's open primary case. He whistled slowly. "Man, she is dead right. These plates are toasted. Replace them, or you're walking across the finish line."
Dex grumbled under his breath, kicking the concrete floor, but he finally walked away to order the new parts.
Big Mike laughed from the other side of the shop. "Man, listen to you! You are the youngest person in this entire garage, but you act like a strict seventy-year-old shop boss!"
"Someone has to keep you boys from killing yourselves!" I shouted back, shaking my wrench at him while the other mechanics chuckled.
Despite the teasing, the workload was heavy, and my body ached. Around two in the afternoon, my stomach growled loudly. I had completely forgotten to eat breakfast. As I reached down to try and lift a fifty-pound crate of steel brake rotors, a large hand reached over my shoulder and grabbed the heavy wooden handle first.
"Let go," Cole said easily, lifting the heavy crate with one arm like it weighed nothing at all. He set it down right next to my toolbox. "You are going to hurt your back trying to move that by yourself."
"I had it," I muttered, looking down at my boots because I was afraid he would see the sadness in my eyes.
"Sure you did," he said. He reached into his leather jacket pocket and pulled out a foil-wrapped turkey sandwich and a cold bottle of juice, dropping them directly onto my clipboard. "Eat your lunch. I saw you skip breakfast this morning, and you didn't stop for noon either."
"Thanks," I whispered, opening the foil wrap.
While I ate my sandwich in three quick bites, Cole stayed close by. He didn't make a big deal out of helping me. When another rider started complaining about my instructions to change his tire pressure, Cole just stepped in smoothly.
"Hey," Cole said, his voice dropping into that low, serious tone he used as road captain. "If she says your tires are five pounds too low, then you pump them up. Stop wasting her time."
The rider shut up immediately and went to grab the air hose.
I watched Cole walk over to his own bike to check his oil levels. My heart felt a dull, familiar ache. None of his help felt romantic. He wasn't doing this because he was falling in love with me; he was doing it because this was simply how we had always treated each other. He took care of the heavy lifting and made sure nobody bullied me, just like an older brother looking after his kid sister. It hurt, but I forced myself to swallow the pain along with the last bite of my sandwich.
By the time the sun started going down, my hands were raw and my clothes were covered in fresh black sweat and dirt. I had inspected twenty-two motorcycles, and my clipboard was filled with notes and sign-offs.
The loud blast of an air horn echoed through the shop.
"Alright, everybody listen up!" the President shouted, standing on a wooden shipping crate near the center bays. The noisy garage went completely silent as all the riders and mechanics gathered around him. Even Cole stepped up to the front of the crowd, folding his arms.
"The qualifier is just around the corner," the President announced, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet room. "I know some of you think you already have a spot guaranteed on our racing roster. You are wrong. This race means everything to the Iron Blade MC. We are only sending the absolute best."
He looked around the room, making eye contact with the veterans, the rookies, and finally, with me.
"Over the coming weeks, every single rider and every mechanic candidate will have to prove themselves on the track and in the shop," the President said firmly. "Nobody gets a free pass. Nobody rides on their past reputation. You will earn your spot on the final Iron Run team, or you will stay home in the bleachers. Meeting adjourned! Get back to work!"
The crowd broke apart into excited murmurs and nervous discussions. I stood still by my tool cart, looking down at my greasy hands and my filled clipboard.
Being the club's favorite little mechanic wasn't enough anymore. If I wanted to stand beside the riders as a real, respected member of the race team, I would have to fight for the position myself.
I looked down at the clipboard full of names, my own name missing from every single one of them.
What would it actually take for these men to stop seeing me as the shop girl and finally look at me as one of them?
- Writer
