The event was held late at night, past the time any sensible person should be awake. But how could they help themselves? Excitement buzzed throughout the stadium, everyone at the edge of the bleachers with their throats dry from shouting just moments before. 

Each and every spectator was silent now. An accident had occurred on the track with a large dust cloud obscuring the damage done. Nobody knew how it happened, or rather they weren’t paying enough attention to know what had happened. One minute, the competitors on their dirt bikes were racing along the dusty path. And the next was blurred in confusion and chaos. Bikes collided with one another sharply with mechanical parts flying in every direction.

Not a single breath was taken. They waited, and waited, and waited for the slightest hint that everything was fine. That there was no catastrophic disaster to end the race before anybody won.

And suddenly, from the depths of that ominous dust cloud, a yellow and blue dirt bike emerged swiftly and raced down the rest of the track. Deafening yelps, whistles, and screams soon returned to the stadium at the sight of the surviving competitor.

That unscathed yellow and blue dirt bike was the first to complete the race out of all the other 30 competitors.

The victor’s name was none other than the well-known Gabbie Waltzman.

Many would call Gabbie a unique individual. With her wide grey eyes as big as washers and her charismatic attitude, she soon became the new face of competitive motocross. The media was as quick to surround her as she was to bathe in the attention. People from around the nation loved Gabbie for who she was: Arrogant, talented, and couldn’t care less about what others thought of her. Some thought she was too full of herself, and that one day her carelessness would come back to haunt her.

Gabbie threw a grand party after her victory at the largest avenue near the stadium. She remained in her white race suit, her own way to stick out from the crowd and inform newcomers who she was. There was live music, gleeful chatter, performances, and enough champagne to fill an empty lake. Everyone who attended her parties left at least slightly impaired, even the employees at the venue. The racer herself was swaying somewhat when she spotted a familiar face.

“Mister Eimod,” Gabbie called out. “I was wondering when you’d show up!” She linked her arm around the taller man’s neck and hugged an almost empty champagne bottle to her chest.

“So, whatcha here for? Sponsors? Interviews? Oh, a new offer?”

Eimod sighed and peeled the woman’s arm from his neck. “No, no. We need to have a serious talk about your race today.”

Gabbie scrunched her nose. “What about it? I won, and I’m celebrating cuz of that. There ain’t nothing to talk seriously about.” She finished her statement with one last sip of her bottle.

“Yes, you won,” the man began, “but you did so carelessly and put yourself at risk.”

“At risk of what?”

“Of getting hurt! You drove through a collision blindly with bikes littering everywhere, you’re lucky you didn’t hit anything.” Eimod pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sniffle.

“Anything could have happened, anything. You need to start thinking things through, this whole carelessness has to stop! What if you got injured? You’d be out of commission for who knows how long. Accidents like those are how racers lose their career!” Eimod paused, continuing when Gabbie also kept silent.

“Waltzman, you are amazing at what you do. Easily the most talent I’ve ever seen in somebody. If you want to stay here and keep racing, then you need to be more cautious.” 

Gabbie kept silent, her clouded gaze seemed to stare right through the man. Eimod huffed.

“God- Gabbie just say something-”

“Can’t do that,” she replied and looked up at Eimod.

The man shook his head. “You can’t do what?” Gabbie looked down at her empty champagne bottle.

“I know that. I know things like this are gonna get me in trouble. I just… I can’t find myself to care all that much. You know?” The racer sat her bottle on a nearby tray and picked up a fresh glass of alcohol. “You’re right. If I keep this up, it’s probably gonna kill me. But when was it ever so bad to die doing something you love?” She chugged down the whole glass and set it atop the tray.

Eimod threw his hands up. “So that’s it, you just don’t care?”

Gabbie shrugged. “I guess not. I probably should, but I don’t.” She then broke out into a wide grin. “Anyways, great chat! Go try out the mustard sandwiches, they’re great. Imma go talk to those ladies over there.” Gabbie patted the man on his shoulder and walked past him. Eimod was about to leave before the racer called to him once more. 

“Oh! And do me a favor, will you? Don’t bring this up to me again. I’m lucky enough to forget talks like these overnight. See ya later!”

When Eimod reached the main entrance, he looked back to see Gabbie sipping from another champagne bottle in one hand and pouring somebody’s glass in the other. He internally groaned. The woman should at least be mindful of her germs.