Chapter 2 Sparks on Dirt Tracks

The next morning, Savannah woke up to two things she didn't expect: Bianca singing loudly off-key to Taylor Swift, and fifty-seven new email notifications.

Half-asleep, she grabbed her phone and blinked at the flood of messages.

Subject: Your Jace Callahan piece is going viral.

Subject: RE: Incredible interview-can you cover the finals this weekend?

Subject: Loved the "control" quote. Where did you get that?

She sat up straight. Her fingers fumbled across the cracked screen as she pulled up The Hornet's front page.

There it was.

"Speed. Noise. Control." – Jace Callahan Like You've Never Seen Him Before

By Savannah Reed

It had gone live overnight, and now it was being reposted across student forums, shared by the official campus account, and most incredibly retweeted by Jace himself.

Bianca peeked over Savannah's shoulder. "Wait... you interviewed him?"

"Apparently."

Bianca clutched her heart. "Girl. You just became campus famous. Do you know how many girls have tried to talk to that man and walked away with nothing but a smirk and bruised pride?"

Savannah looked away. "He was tolerable for fifteen minutes. I doubt that counts for anything."

But her heart said otherwise.

---

By the time Savannah arrived at the student newsroom that afternoon, the air was electric. Interns zipped between desks, screens glowed with headlines, and the room buzzed with the low hum of voices and keyboards.

Her editor, Miriam Lewis, motioned her over with a sharp nod.

"You made quite the impression, Reed."

Savannah stood awkwardly near the edge of Miriam's desk. "Thanks. I didn't expect it to"

"To blow up?" Miriam chuckled, tapping her pen against the desk. "That quote was gold. You saw through the performance. No one's done that with Callahan."

"He let it slip."

"That's what makes it journalism." Miriam's eyes narrowed. "Which is why I want you to keep going."

Savannah blinked. "You mean another interview?"

"No. I mean follow the story. You got under his skin once you do it again?"

Savannah's mind raced. "There's not much to cover. He races. He parties. He-"

"Exactly. We know the image. I want what's underneath. You find the story, Reed, and you'll have your own column by the end of the semester."

Savannah left the newsroom with her head spinning. She hadn't come to college to chase boys, and she sure as hell hadn't planned on Jace Callahan being her ticket to a career. But the idea that there was more to him hooked her like a fish on a line.

---

The motocross finals were on Saturday.

Savannah hadn't planned on going.

She told herself she had research to do, essays to write, and laundry to fold. But at 5:47 p.m., she found herself walking across the dusty field toward the stadium with her camera and notebook in hand.

The sky burned orange and pink like it always did in Texas before it gave way to night. The crowd was louder tonight. More packed. The riders roared by in flashes of chrome and grit. Dirt flew in clouds. Engines screamed.

And then came Jace.

Helmet on. Sleeves rolled up. Arms tensed. Focused.

He didn't smile. Didn't wave.

He just drove like a man being chased by ghosts.

She watched from the edge of the bleachers, squinting against the blur. His movements were precise. Dangerous. Beautiful. Every turn was a risk. Every jump, a dare.

And then he flew.

It wasn't a backflip. Not some showy trick. Just a clean, massive leap that took him higher than anyone else dared. He landed perfectly and sped toward the finish like a wildfire in boots.

The crowd exploded.

Savannah couldn't breathe.

He won. Of course, he did.

But it wasn't the win that stuck in her mind.

It was the stillness in him afterward when he pulled off his helmet, shook out his sweat-damp hair, and scanned the crowd until his eyes found her.

They locked. Just for a second. But it was enough.

---

After the race, Savannah waited by the team tent, not entirely sure why. She told herself she was here for a quote. For context. For the story.

Jace found her before she could figure it out.

"Didn't think you'd show," he said, walking toward her with a towel slung around his neck and sweat glistening on his skin.

"I needed another interview."

He tilted his head. "Sure you did."

She ignored the heat rising in her cheeks. "You race differently than the others."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

"No. Just an observation."

He leaned against the pole beside her. "You write the way you talk. Like you're too smart for everyone's bullshit."

"I don't have time for bullshit."

"Exactly."

There was a beat of silence between them. The crowd roared again in the distance, but here in the shade of the tent, it was almost quiet.

"Why do you race like that?" she asked. "Like you're angry."

He turned to her slowly.

"Because when I'm up there, I don't have to think. Not about my dad. Not about the headlines.