We went in and he tossed me the keys from my backpack so I could unlock my pink dirt bike. I didn’t have my helmet, but I wasn’t terribly worried about it right now.
I’m not going to race him.
Not making myself into a fool again for him anytime soon.
“I’m not racing you, Eric.”
“That’s good.” He was pulling his bike out of a stall and bringing it around. “Because you’d lose.”
I sputtered obscenities and had to set my bike against a panel of wood to run ahead and kick him in the back of the calf.
He dropped dramatically to a knee. “Ouch. Oh My God! That’s my bad leg, Allie!”
He was wailing in such anguish that I immediately fell to my knees next to him.
“I’m sorry!” I cried. My hands fluttering around. “I didn’t even know you had a bad leg. What do I do?”
He was groaning and hissing through his teeth in clear pain.
I didn’t really mean to hurt him!
A bad leg? When did he hurt his leg?
Racing?