The track hissed under light drizzle, like water on a skillet. Slick and alive. Cold wind pushed across the paddock, rattling banners on the high-dollar tents like empty threats.
Jaxon sat alone on a folding chair inside their tent, legs pulled in, hunched over the single sheet of paper in his hands.
The driver lineup.
He scanned the names again.
Oliver Templeton – 2008
Reece Donnelly – 2009
Leo Petrov – 2009
Kacper Zielinski – 2008
Thomas Bearman – 2009
Row after row. Thirty-one drivers.
Every. Single. One. Born in 2008 or 2009.
He looked at the bottom. Line 32. His own name.
Jaxon Rose – 2010
They were all older.
Jaxon stared at the paper until the letters started to bleed together.
A hand snatched it from him.
Curtis stood above him, grease on his palms and a storm brewing behind his eyes.
"What's this?" he barked. "You suddenly turned into a fuckin' librarian?"
He glanced at the sheet, reading faster than he needed to.
Curtis's jaw twitched. A grin started to spread — but not the kind that meant happiness.
"Oh," he said, voice coated in mock concern. "Oh no. Poor baby's surrounded by teenagers. What a tragedy."
Jaxon didn't respond.
Curtis crouched down, holding the paper between two fingers like it was soaked in garbage.
"You see their years? Good. You should tape this to your steering wheel. 'Cause every single one of them's already dumber than you if they think being older means being better."
He stood, crumpling the page and tossing it behind him.
"You think Dale Earnhardt Jr. gave a shit about birthdates when he put someone in the wall? Think Tony Stewart ever asked a guy's age before he ran him off track? No. They drove. They fought. Like it was life or death."
Curtis turned away, back toward the kart.
"Now stop staring at numbers and start thinking about lines. You're here to fuck up their egos, not count candles on their cake."
Jaxon pulled on his gloves in silence.
UK – Final Race Weekend
The wind howled across the flat, open paddock like it wanted to carry the tents away. The last weekend of the season, and the air was already sharp with winter. Most teams had thick jackets on, radios clipped to sleeves, generators humming. Mechanics checked tire temps. Drivers talked quietly, the way kids did when they knew the whole year came down to one result.
Jaxon was alone at the rear axle of the kart, a wrench in his hand and cold grease under his fingernails.
Curtis stood beside him, boots planted wide, arms folded. He hadn't said a word since the van parked that morning. Just watched. Judged. Smoked.
Every time Jaxon had rolled the kart out this season, something had been different. A seat bolt missing. A brake bias off. Front toe jacked. Ride height changed. Springs swapped.
Never enough to kill a session. Just enough to throw everything off. To force Jaxon to feel it. To adapt.
At first, Jaxon thought he was going insane. Thought maybe the kart was falling apart. Then he caught Curtis twisting a camber nut at the edge of the tent one morning. No explanation. No apology. Just a grunt: "You want to drive? Then drive what you've got."
He hadn't complained since.
Now it was the last race, and he was already champion. Clinched last round. But Curtis made damn sure he never mentioned it.
"You ain't won shit 'til the flag drops," he'd snapped in the van that morning.
Pre-Race Grid – Final Round
The engines made the ground shake. Rows of karts lined up behind the starting boxes. Jaxon sat in his kart, helmet on his lap, chin tucked low, eyes fixed on the black-and-white grid paint ahead of him.
He could feel his heart thumping in his gloves.
A small shadow moved beside him.
It was Thomas Bearman.
They'd sorta become friends over the course of the season — mostly because they were the only two kids from completely different places thrown into this tight, cutthroat grid.
Thomas came from a small town halfway across the UK, while Jaxon was the American kid trying to find his place in a foreign world.
At first, they barely spoke. Just polite nods during practice, cautious glances at the track, and shared frustration when Curtis pushed Jaxon harder than anyone else.
But over time, those small moments grew.
A quick smile here when one nailed a tricky corner.
A whispered joke there when Curtis's shouting got too loud.
He walked over from his row, suit a bit dirty already, helmet under his arm. He stopped beside Jaxon's kart and leaned in close.
"You're starting second, right?" Thomas asked.
Jaxon didn't answer right away.
"Yeah," he finally said. "You?"
"Fourth. But I'm getting you by Turn 3," Thomas said with a grin, like it was a secret he was proud to tell.
Jaxon looked at him sideways. "No, you're not."
Thomas shrugged, still smiling. "We'll see."
He glanced over at Curtis, standing far back by the fence, arms crossed like always.
"Your dad's still kinda scary," Thomas said. "I saw him yelling at that tire guy yesterday."
Jaxon didn't smile. "He yells at everyone."
Thomas hesitated. "He, uh… he mess with your kart? Like change stuff?"
Jaxon looked at him for a long second. "Why would you say that?"
Thomas kicked at a pebble with his boot. "Because your kart looks weird sometimes when you go out. It wiggles. Then you fix it. Every time. I dunno… I just noticed."
Jaxon looked down at the floor pan of his kart. Quiet.
"My dad doesn't let me fix my kart," Thomas said.
"I have to fix mine," Jaxon mumbled. "Even when I don't know what's wrong."
"That's kinda cool."
Jaxon didn't say anything.
Thomas leaned a little closer. "You're really fast, you know. But sometimes… it looks like you're fighting it."
"I am."
The two boys stood in silence for a moment, the noise of idling engines filling the air around them.
Then Thomas smiled again. "Well, I hope you don't spin. But I still wanna beat you."
Jaxon finally looked at him. "Good luck."
Thomas turned to go, but paused. "Hey… if I win, I'm not gonna be a jerk about it."
Jaxon looked back at the track. "Don't worry. You're not gonna win."
Thomas laughed and ran back to his row.
Jaxon pulled his helmet on and buckled it tight.
Post race
Jaxon crossed the finish line first, the roar of the crowd barely cutting through the pounding in his chest. Thomas was right behind him, sliding across the line in second place. They coasted into parc fermé, engines cooling, tires steaming against the damp asphalt.
Jaxon sat frozen for a moment, chest heaving, sweat mixing with the drizzle that clung to his helmet visor. The race had pushed him harder than any before the kart fought him the whole time, refusing to turn no matter how much he wrestled the wheel. Every corner was a battle of wills, every turn a war against a machine that seemed determined to throw him off.
Thomas approached, wiping dirt off his racing suit, and without hesitation, reached out a steady hand. "Here," he said quietly, pulling Jaxon to his feet.
Jaxon grabbed the hand and let himself be hauled upright, muscles aching but pride burning under the fatigue.
Jaxon took Thomas's hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. The cold air bit at his skin beneath the suit, but it was the burn in his arms and shoulders that made him grit his teeth. That damn kart had felt like a stubborn mule the entire race, refusing to obey, fighting him at every turn.
Thomas clapped him on the shoulder, grinning wide despite the grime smudged on his cheeks. "You made it look easy, though."
Jaxon managed a tired nod, still trying to catch his breath. His chest rose and fell like he'd been fighting underwater.
"Didn't think you'd push it that hard in the last laps," Thomas said, eyes gleaming with respect. "You were practically wrestling with the kart."
"Yeah," Jaxon muttered, voice rough. "That's how Dad wants it."
Thomas's smile faltered a little, like the words brought back some memory he didn't want to dig up. "That guy is something else."
Jaxon's jaw clenched. Curtis had been silent since the morning, watching like a hawk from the sidelines. Waiting to see if Jaxon would crack.
The smell of burnt rubber and cold metal hung heavy in the parc fermé, where the mechanics already began the ritual of checking tires and engines, the noise muted now like a war just ended.
"Think he'll say anything?" Thomas asked quietly.
Jaxon shook his head. "Nah. He doesn't need to. I know he's mad I made it look this easy."
"Easy?" Thomas raised an eyebrow. "That looked like tough."
"Because it was."
They stood there for a moment, the tension from the race still settling in their bones.
Then Curtis appeared, his silhouette sharp against the gray sky, eyes burning like coals.
Curtis stood there, eyes like ice. "Don't think for a second that crossing that line first means shit. You ain't off the hook."
Jaxon swallowed, nodding without meeting his eyes.
"Championship? Yeah, you got that. Doesn't mean anything. Especially here."
Curtis turned and walked off without another word, disappearing into the paddock smoke and shouting.
Jaxon stood there, jaw tight, helmet still in his hand like it weighed fifty pounds.
Thomas stepped closer, brows drawn. "What was that about?"
Jaxon didn't answer right away. He watched Dad's back get smaller in the distance, the crunch of his boots lost in the noise of the grid being cleared.
Thomas glanced after him. "I mean… you just won the championship. And he talks to you like you came in last."
Jaxon let out a breath through his nose. "That's just how he is."
Thomas blinked, confused and a little shaken. "Yeah, but… that was brutal. My dad would've been jumping the fence if I pulled off a win like that."
Jaxon shrugged. "Mine doesn't jump. He waits."
"For what?"
Jaxon looked back at the kart, mud crusted on the tires, steering column still bent just enough to make every corner a fight.
"For me to screw up. So he can say he was right."
Thomas was quiet.
Then, after a beat, he said, "Well… for what it's worth, you didn't screw up. You were flying."
Jaxon gave the smallest nod. "Thanks."
Post-Race – Podium Ceremony
By the time Jaxon stepped up onto the top step of the podium, the drizzle had settled into a fine mist that clung to every surface like sweat. His race suit was soaked at the shoulders, and his arms still ached from wrestling the kart through every turn, but none of that showed on his face. He stood tall. Still. Eyes forward.
To his right, Thomas climbed onto the second step. Third place went to Leo Petrov, who gave them both a curt nod and stared off at the track like the result offended him personally.
The small crowd of team members and family gathered around the makeshift podium, phones up, a few flashes going off. But it was quiet for a win. No champagne. No medals. Just small trophies and tighter jaws.
Jaxon took his without a word.
Thomas leaned toward him slightly, voice low. "Y'know, they could've at least put up a tent. We're gonna look like wet dogs in every photo."
Jaxon's mouth didn't move, but a corner of it might've twitched.
The steward called for applause. It came, half-hearted and thin. Mostly parents. A few younger siblings. No cheering. No anthem. Just a line of soaked boys with mud on their boots and sweat in their eyes.
When it ended, Jaxon stepped off the podium and walked toward the back of the paddock, the trophy tucked under his arm like a wrench he didn't ask for. He wasn't looking for anyone. He didn't expect anyone to be looking for him.
But Thomas caught up quick, his own trophy swinging loosely in his hand. "Hey," he said. "You alright?"
Jaxon didn't answer.
Thomas walked beside him anyway.
"I meant what I said earlier," Thomas said. "You were fast. Even with the kart fighting you. Like… properly fast. You had to be muscling that thing every lap."
"I was," Jaxon muttered, eyes still on the pavement.
"That's not normal, you know. Most people would've spun halfway through. Or quit."
"I don't get to quit."
Thomas slowed a little, uncertain. "Right."
There was a pause. Then another voice broke it.
"Thomas!"
They both turned. A tall man in a navy windbreaker was striding across the paddock, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes soft. His pace wasn't angry. Just urgent.
Jaxon recognized him vaguely as David Bearman, Thomas's dad. He'd seen him a few times around the paddock: always watching from a respectful distance, always talking calmly to Thomas when things went wrong, always keeping a thermos in his hand like it was a shield against the chaos.
David stopped beside them, eyes flicking from his son to Jaxon.
"You didn't come find me after the podium," he said to Thomas, gently.
Thomas scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry, Dad. We were just… talking."
David nodded, then turned to Jaxon.
"You're Jaxon, right?"
Jaxon hesitated. "Yeah."
David offered a hand. "David Bearman. I've seen you race all season. You're damn impressive, kid."
Jaxon looked at the hand for a moment before shaking it. His grip was light. Guarded. Like he wasn't sure if the compliment had teeth.
"Thanks," he said stiffly.
David gave a warm smile. "Thomas talks about you more than he'll admit."
"Dad," Thomas muttered, eyes wide.
"I'm just saying," David said. "You two have been going back and forth all year. It's been good for him. You push each other. That's what makes racers better."
Thomas looked at Jaxon awkwardly. "Yeah. Well… he pushes me more."
"Then maybe you should buy him lunch sometime," David said. Then, softer, "You told me earlier you didn't think anyone here took you seriously. But look who beat almost every kid in the country. And look who you've been chasing all season."
Thomas gave Jaxon a small, sheepish smile. "He's right."
Jaxon didn't smile back. Not fully. But his shoulders eased just slightly.
David looked back at him. "And you—" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "—you drive like it means everything. I don't know what pushes you."
Jaxon didn't answer. Just looked down at the damp ground, trophy still gripped tight like it might vanish if he loosened his hold.
"I should go help pack up," David said. "Thomas—don't disappear on me again."
He patted his son on the back and walked off, boots splashing in shallow puddles, leaving the boys in silence.
After a beat, Thomas said, "He means well. He just… talks a lot."
Jaxon finally looked at him. "Your dad's… different."
"Yeah," Thomas said. "I know."
They stood there for a long moment, the end of the season settling over them like the mist — quiet, cold, but not heavy. Not yet.
"Hey," Thomas said, nudging Jaxon lightly. "Next year?"
"What about it?"
"I'm coming for you."
Jaxon stared ahead at the now-empty track, the white line still slick from rain. He hesitated, his fingers tightening around the trophy just slightly.
"You probably won't have to," he said quietly. "I'm going back to America."
Thomas blinked. "Wait… seriously?"
Jaxon gave a slow nod. "This was just for the year. Dad said it was a one-time thing. 'Get in, make 'em notice, get out.'"
Thomas was quiet for a second, the grin fading from his face.
"Oh," he said. "Well… that sucks."
Jaxon didn't say anything. The silence felt heavier now, like the season wasn't just ending — something else was closing too.
Thomas kicked at a stone near his boot. "You sure?"
"I don't get to argue," Jaxon muttered. "If he says we're leaving, we're leaving."
Thomas looked down, then back up at him. "Well… then I guess I'll come find you."
Jaxon finally looked over. "You gonna swim across the Atlantic or something?"
Thomas shrugged. "Maybe. Or I'll wait until you're in F3. Then I'll catch up and kick your ass there."
Jaxon didn't smile. "I'm not going to F3."
Thomas blinked. "What?"
"I'm aiming for NASCAR."
Thomas looked confused for a second. "Wait… really?"
Jaxon nodded. "That's what Dad wants. Says it's the only real racing left. 'Where men drive like it's war, not ballet.' His words."
Thomas frowned slightly. "But you'd be insane in open-wheel. You've got the control for it. You could—"
Jaxon cut him off with a quiet voice. "Doesn't matter. I don't get to choose."
A pause. The mist was thicker now, fogging the edges of the paddock.
Thomas reached out and gave his shoulder a quick tap. "I meant what I said. You're fast. Just don't let him make you forget it."
Jaxon didn't reply, but the silence between them felt heavier — not awkward, just full.
Thomas glanced back toward where his dad was packing gear into the hatchback. He hesitated, chewing on something in his head. Then:
"You wanna come over?" he asked suddenly.
Jaxon blinked. "What?"
"Tonight. Or this weekend or something. Sleep over. My mum's cooking again now, and we've got that old karting game on Xbox. You can pick whatever track you want."
Jaxon stared at him like he'd just spoken another language.
"I've never had a sleepover."
Thomas tilted his head. "Seriously?"
"Yeah." Jaxon looked down. "Never been invited."
Thomas didn't joke. Didn't laugh. Just nodded slowly.
"Well," Thomas said, already turning toward his dad, "maybe it's time to change that."
But Jaxon was already walking away.
He didn't know why. Maybe it was the offer. Maybe it was the look in Thomas's eyes — like he believed things could be simple, or better. Or maybe it was just easier to walk than to stand still and hope for something that wasn't coming.
He crossed the paddock fast, boots slapping wet asphalt, weaving between cables and crates and bits of torn-down gear. Their trailer was half-open, the kart already loaded. Dad stood just outside the tent flap, phone pressed hard to his ear, his free hand clawing through his thinning hair.
"What do you mean it's closed!" he barked into the phone. "No, listen to me, if I can't leave this shithole country by Tuesday, I 'll come down there and fly myself."
Jaxon slowed his steps. He didn't want to be in the blast radius.
But then his boot caught a loose ratchet lying half-hidden under a tangle of fuel line.
He stumbled forward, arms swinging out to catch himself.
Clang.
His shoulder knocked over the stacked tire trolley. Two slicks bounced out and rolled lopsided across the ground.
The phone call stopped.
Dead silence.
Curtis turned, phone still against his ear, eyes wide — not with concern.
With rage.
He pulled the phone away slowly, like it was melting in his hand.
"The fuck was that?"
Jaxon scrambled to his feet. "I—I didn't see the—"
"You didn't see?" Curtis took two steps toward him. "You didn't see the giant pile of gear you were supposed to help pack an hour ago?"
Jaxon backed up half a step, eyes darting to the side. "It was an accident, I swear—"
Curtis slapped the phone against his palm and threw it into the tent. "Jesus Christ, you embarrass me every time you open your goddamn mouth."
Jaxon's breath caught in his throat.
"I bust my ass," Curtis growled, voice low now — worse than shouting. "I bend over backward to get you on this grid with these rich fucks and their perfect little toys, and you can't walk five goddamn feet without knocking shit over like a drunk toddler."
"I didn't mean—"
Curtis grabbed him by the arm — then, without warning, struck him across the side of the head with an open palm. The sound cracked through the tent louder than anything had all day. Not a slap meant to scare. A hit meant to sting. To punish.
Jaxon reeled sideways, stumbling into the edge of a toolbox. His hand flew up to his ear, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob he didn't let out.
"You pull that shit in front of scouts next year, and you're not just off the grid — you're out. Understand? Back to nothing. Back to Elkhart fucking Lake with your whore mom's name and nothing else."
Jaxon nodded fast, eyes on the ground. His hands shook.
A few feet away, Thomas and David Bearman stood frozen, halfway between their van and the tent. Thomas's trophy dangled awkwardly in his hand. David's face had gone stiff — not surprised, not confused. Just quiet. Focused.
"Hey there," David said, stepping forward, voice calm but firm. "Everything alright?"
Curtis turned, eyes flashing. "What?"
David raised both palms slightly. "Just looked like he tripped. We saw—figured we'd check if he was okay."
Curtis gave a thin smile, the kind with no warmth behind it. "He's fine. My boy's just got two left feet sometimes. Doesn't know how to walk unless it's on a racing line."
Thomas opened his mouth, then closed it.
David didn't smile back. He looked at Jaxon — really looked. Then back to Curtis.
"Well," he said slowly, "if you need a hand loading anything, we're around."
Curtis snorted. "Don't need charity."
David nodded once. "Didn't say it was."
David looked at Jaxon again — his posture, the way he stood like a kicked dog pretending he hadn't been kicked — and then said, quiet but steady, "If you ever need a night away… Thomas asked if you'd want to come stay. Just one night. You're always welcome."
Curtis snorted, not even looking up. "Sure. Take him. I don't give a shit."
He turned to David now, eyes sharp, voice colder than the wind. "Surprised anyone wants that mistake under their roof."
There was a pause.
Then, barely louder than the rain tapping the tent canvas, Jaxon spoke.
"…Yes."
Curtis slowly turned.
"What?"
Jaxon didn't look at him. Just stared straight ahead at the trailer wall. His voice came out again, soft but certain.
"I said yes. I want to go."
Curtis didn't say anything. Not at first. Just stared at him — like the word was a slap.
David didn't interfere. He stood still, watching carefully, but giving Jaxon room.
Curtis stepped closer, his boots scraping the wet gravel. "You think this is a fucking daycare?" he said low. "You think you get to run off and play house with some rich kid just because I let you race?"
Jaxon's jaw clenched, but he didn't back down.
"It's one night," he said, still quiet. "Just one."
Curtis's nostrils flared. For a second, it looked like he might explode.
But instead, he laughed. A dry, bitter thing.
"Fine," he said. "Go ahead. Run off. Let someone else deal with the mess I made."
He walked past them, toward the truck.
"Don't bother coming back unless you grow a spine."
Jaxon didn't move.
David stepped up beside him. "You okay?"
Jaxon nodded slowly.
David put a hand on his shoulder — not gripping, not pushing — just a steady weight. Then he looked toward Thomas, who was standing at the edge of the paddock, wide-eyed.
"Go grab your things," David said gently to Jaxon. "We'll wait."
Jaxon hoisted his duffel bag over his shoulder, muscles tight but moving on autopilot. The rain had stopped but left the paddock slick and cold. Thomas led the way toward his family's camp — a neat little setup with a big van and a tent flapping in the wind.
David Bearman was outside, busy tightening straps on the trailer. He looked up, gave Jaxon a nod like he was sizing him up but didn't spit judgment. "You good, kid?"
Jaxon shrugged. "Yeah."
Terri Bearman popped out from the tent, wiping her hands on a rag. "Jaxon, right? David's told us a bit about you."
Jaxon just nodded, eyes flicking away.
Thomas grinned. "Wait 'til you meet my big brother."
Jaxon's eyebrows shot up. "Yeah? What's he like?"
Thomas grinned. "Wait 'til you meet my big brother."
Jaxon raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What's he like?"
"Oliver?" Thomas laughed. "He's kind of a pain sometimes, but a good one. Funniest guy you'll meet at a track — even if he tries to act all serious about karting."
Oliver was leaning against the trailer door, phone in his hands
Oliver glanced up, from his phone
"So, you're the kid racing Thomas?"
Jaxon nodded quietly.
"Yeah."
Oliver gave a small smile.
"You're doing alright."
Jaxon looked down.
"Thanks."
Oliver nodded and went back to what he was doing.
Once everything was packed, they got in the Bearmans' car.
David clicked the boot open with a tired sigh and glanced back. "You got your stuff?"
Jaxon nodded, clutching the worn duffel tight to his chest. One strap was fraying. He didn't look at David, just moved silently to the backseat when the door unlocked.
Thomas slid in after him, then Oliver took the front. David got behind the wheel, Terri already in the passenger seat. She turned halfway in her seat, smiling gently at Jaxon.
"Seatbelt on, sweetheart."
He nodded without speaking, fumbled with the buckle. It clicked. That was the only sound in the car for the first minute.
David pulled out of the paddock road, the car rumbling low as they passed rows of half-packed tents and trailers. Engines still coughed in the distance. A few crews lingered, wrapping things up in the gray light.
Curtis was still back there somewhere, screaming into his phone about tires. Jaxon hadn't said goodbye. Curtis didn't notice him leave.
Thomas broke the silence first.
"You ever been in a hybrid before?"
Jaxon glanced at the dashboard lights, then shook his head.
"It's dead quiet, right?" Thomas grinned. "Feels like it's not even on."
Jaxon managed a barely-there nod. He stared out the window. Raindrops tracked sideways across the glass, smearing into tiny rivers.
David cleared his throat. "You eat anything since the race?"
Jaxon hesitated. "No, sir."
"We'll stop at the Tesco up the road. Grab something hot." He glanced at Terri, who was already digging in her bag for a cereal bar. She turned and handed it back to Jaxon.
"Here," she said softly. "Just something for now."
He took it with both hands. "Thank you."
They kept driving. For once, nobody filled the silence with shouting. Or lectures. Or accusations. Just the hum of tires, the faint whine of regen braking, and the occasional swish of passing cars.
Jaxon peeled the wrapper slow, like he was afraid of the sound. He ate half of it, folded the rest back up, and tucked it in the side pocket of his duffel.
Oliver leaned over a little. "So… what was up with your kart in that race?"
Jaxon didn't answer right away.
"Didn't look like it wanted to turn," Oliver added, watching him.
Jaxon finally spoke, voice flat. "It didn't."
"Still won, though."
"Barely." Thomas grinned. "I was catching you."
Jaxon gave the faintest smirk, then looked away again.
Oliver twisted around in his seat. "Did your dad mess with it again?"
Jaxon blinked.
Thomas shot Oliver a look. "Oi. Don't—"
"No, it's fine," Jaxon muttered.
He stared at his hands. The fingernails were still black with grease. The blister on his palm had torn halfway through the final and leaked into the glove. He hadn't said anything. Just kept driving.
"Yeah," Jaxon said after a moment. "He messed with it."
Oliver nodded slowly. "I figured. You were fighting it hard."
Jaxon didn't reply. He felt the car turning, headlights bouncing off a green supermarket sign. The Tesco lot was half full, lit yellow and harsh in the drizzle.
Inside, it was warm and bright. The family moved like a unit — not stiff or tense, just… together. Terri picked up sandwiches. David found water bottles. Thomas grabbed two bags of crisps. Jaxon stood a step behind them the whole time, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to be there or not.
"You like chicken or ham?" Terri asked gently, holding up two triangles.
Jaxon shrugged. "Either's fine."
She gave him both.
They sat in the car after. Engine humming softly. Thomas popped open a soda and offered one to Jaxon.
"You sure it's okay I'm here?" Jaxon asked quietly.
David turned slightly in the driver's seat. "Of course it is."
The drive to the Bearmans' house took an hour. Long stretches of motorway. Quiet music from the radio. At some point, Jaxon's eyes drooped, but he didn't fall asleep. Couldn't. Not with Curtis's voice still echoing in his skull.
"What the hell is this setup?"
"You call that a line?"
"I should've left you in Elkhart."
He blinked and looked out the window again. Trees blurred past, hazy in the wet dark.
When they pulled into the driveway, the house lights were already on. Modest two-story. Red brick. No trailer, no half-crushed toolbox, no dented truck out front.
Just… a house.
Thomas jumped out first. "You want upstairs or downstairs?" he asked, opening the boot.
Jaxon climbed out slowly, duffel still clutched tight. "I don't care."
"Upstairs then," Thomas said. "It's warmer."
Jaxon followed him inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and whatever Terri had cooking earlier. A hallway of shoes. A TV on somewhere. Normal.
He stood awkwardly by the stairs, waiting.
Oliver passed him, pulling off his jacket. "You don't have to act like a guest, mate. Just don't leave socks on the floor or Dad'll yell."
Thomas snorted. "He doesn't yell."
Oliver grinned. "Yeah, he does. You're just used to Mum blocking for you."
They disappeared upstairs. Jaxon followed slowly, his legs sore. The adrenaline was gone now, and the weight was coming back. The ache. The fatigue. The quiet.
Thomas's room was small but not cramped. Posters. Trophies. Two sim seats crammed into one corner. Jaxon stood in the doorway until Thomas waved him in.
"You can have the bed. I'll take the floor."
"No, it's fine," Jaxon said quickly. "I can—"
"You won a championship. You get the bed. House rule."