It is on.

The wind gusts across the parking lot, flicking leaves into flight, tugging at the hair that peeks out from under Jermaine’s helmet.  He lets his breath out to join the wind, and closes his eyes.  He finds his centre, allows the energy to flow into every inch of him, shifts his mind through its eighteen gears.  His hands tremor and tighten on his bike’s frame.

Across the lot, Kev has his Schwinn held above his head, jōdan-no-kamae. His eyes lock into Jermaine’s.

There is a stillness.

Then, Kev’s war-scream.  He begins to charge, bike held high.


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