The sand race/ JJ Maybank and TN

The Routledg's fishing store had been empty for three weeks. After the hurricane took half the pier and the police shut them down because of Big John's debts, not a single dollar came in. John B was desperate. "There's a race tonight. On the south side of the island, on the sand. Motorcycles. The prize is 2,000," Pope said, checking his phone. "The Kooks bet, the tourists too." JJ didn't hesitate. "I'm racing." And there you were. You, Y/N. John B's younger sister. The one who hadn't been able to sleep well for two weeks, with morning sickness and a secret burning in your chest. Three days ago, after throwing up in the Chateau's bathroom, you tearfully confessed to your older brother, John B. "I'm pregnant. It's JJ's." John B was speechless. First he was angry, then he hugged you. "Does he know?" Not yet. You hadn't had the courage. You only left him a note in his Backpack that morning: "We need to talk after the race. It's important. Take care." It was now 6:45 pm. The sun beat down golden on the sand, kicking up dust. There were about 30 people around, noisy motorbikes, beers, bets. JJ was adjusting the black bandana he always wears. The same one from the photo. The one he used to keep sand out of his mouth, but you knew he also wore it when he was nervous. He saw you in the crowd. Your hands were on your stomach, though you couldn't see anything yet. You were scared. Very scared. He walked toward you and crouched down to your level. "Are you okay? You're pale," he whispered, trying to sound like his usual playful self. You grabbed his wrist. He was wearing the orange and black bracelets you made for him. "JJ, please don't run. If something happens to you..." He looked at you intently with those blue eyes. And he understood. Not from what you said, but from the way you placed your hand on his stomach and how John B, in the distance, watched you both with a look that said, "I know what's going on." JJ put his hand to his face, covering it with the headband