Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Everything is fictional!!
Aaron
I wake up to noise. Not the gentle kind. The kind that drills straight into your skull and makes you regret being alive.
Music blasts through the thin walls of the trailer, bass so loud it rattles the cupboards. My sister's room. Of course it is. Some trashy playlist shaking the whole damn place like she's trying to announce her existence to the entire park.
"TURN THAT SHIT DOWN!" my dad yells from the kitchen.
The music gets louder.
I groan and roll onto my side, immediately regretting it. Every muscle screams. My ribs feel like someone took a hammer to them. My jaw aches. My knuckles are swollen and stiff, dried blood cracking when I move my fingers.
Right.
Yesterday.
Tyler fucking whatever-his-last-name-is. The crash. The fight. The way everything spiraled in about five seconds flat.
I sit up slowly, head pounding, and grab my phone from the nightstand. One new message. Mason.
Mason:
Officials met this morning. You and Tyler are both suspended from the next two races. Probation after that. One more incident and you're out for the season.
I stare at the screen longer than I should.
Suspended. Great. Dad's gonna love that.
I drop the phone back onto the bed and drag myself up. My reflection in the cracked mirror looks like hell. Bruises blooming across my shoulder and ribs. A split lip. Dark shadows under my eyes. I look tired. Older than I should.
I take a shower, mostly because hot water is the only thing that makes my body feel remotely functional. The water stings every scrape and bruise, but I let it. Pain is familiar. Easier than thinking.
When I finally step out, the music is still blasting. Dad's voice echoes again, angrier this time.
"I swear to God—"
I pull on a hoodie and head to the kitchen. The place smells like oil, old coffee, and whatever my sister burned last night. I grab the cereal box from the cupboard and tilt it.
Nothing.
I shake it. A few sad crumbs fall out.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," I mutter.
"Relax," my sister's voice calls from her room, smug as hell. "I ate it."
"All of it?"
"Yeah. Buy more."
I close my eyes and count to five. Prison rules. Don't react. It's not worth it.
I grab a mug instead and pour coffee that tastes like regret. My dad steps in from the back door, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag. Grease up to his elbows, baseball cap low over his eyes.
He looks at me once and pauses.
"You look like shit," he says flatly.
"Morning to you too."
His eyes linger on my bruises. He doesn't comment right away, which somehow makes it worse.
"So," he says finally, leaning against the counter. "That race."
I tense. "What about it?"
"Heard about the fight." He studies me like he's assessing damage on a busted engine. "Suspended?"
I nod. "Two races."
He exhales slowly through his nose. Not yelling. Not yet. "You can't keep doing this, Aaron."
"I know."
"You say that every time."
Silence stretches between us. The music finally cuts off, followed by my sister slamming her door. Dad glances toward the hallway, jaw tightening.
"Before I lose my temper," he says, voice low, "come help me in the back. Bikes won't fix themselves."
I nod again, grabbing my boots. My body protests with every step, but I follow him outside anyway. Because this is how things work around here. You fight. You hurt. You get up. You fix what's broken.
Even when you're not sure you can.
We step out back and the morning air hits me like a slap. Cold, dry, smelling like dirt, gasoline, and rust. Home.
The workshop sits behind the trailer like it's been stitched onto the land rather than built. Corrugated metal walls, one side permanently dented from when Dad misjudged a trailer turn years ago. Oil stains darken the ground in places no rain ever fully cleans. The garage door is half open, as always, like it's too tired to commit to being closed.
This place raised me as much as the trailer did.
Dad flips on the lights and the shop hums to life. Fluorescent bulbs flicker before settling, revealing bikes lined up in various states of disassembly. Frames hanging from hooks. Tires stacked like they might collapse if someone breathes wrong. Tools everywhere, but not messy. There's a system here. Dad's system.
Racing isn't just something we do. It's how we pay rent. It's how Dad keeps his hands busy so his head doesn't go places it shouldn't. It's how I learned early that quitting isn't an option.
Motocross seasons run from spring to late summer. Regional circuits. Points-based. You fuck up one race, you feel it for weeks. You fuck up twice, you're scrambling to catch up. You get suspended?
You watch from the sidelines and pretend it doesn't eat you alive.
Every season starts the same way. New bikes. New rivalries. Same grudges carried over like scars that never quite fade. Tylor's been part of that equation longer than I want to admit. Same age. Same weight class. Same fucking problem every time we're on the track together.
Dad tosses me a rag. "Start on the green Kawasaki. Carb's acting up."
I nod and move on autopilot, rolling the bike onto the stand. My hands know what to do even if my brain feels bruised. Wrench. Loosen. Adjust. Tighten. Repeat.
This is the part I love. The quiet focus. The way engines make sense when people don't.
Racing matters because it's the only place I feel sharp. Clean. Everything else in my life is noise. Family. Money. Expectations. On the track, it's just throttle control and instinct. You don't overthink. You don't hesitate. You go.
Dad leans against the workbench, watching me work. He's built like old wood. Strong, worn, stubborn as hell. Hands permanently stained with grease, knuckles thick from decades of busted bolts and bad luck.
"You ride angry," he says suddenly.
I don't look up. "You say that every season."
"Because it keeps being true."
I tighten a bolt harder than necessary. "It's not anger. It's focus."
He snorts. "Anger burns fast. Focus lasts."
I don't answer. Because if I start, I won't stop. And because part of me knows he's right, and that makes it worse.
Tylor rides like a problem. Fast. Aggressive. Always pushing the edge like he wants someone to challenge him. And I do. Every time. I hate how he looks at me on the starting line, like I'm something he needs to beat, not just race.
Hate is easier than admitting anything else.
The shop door creaks.
I don't look up at first. Just hear footsteps. Boots scraping concrete. A familiar weight in the air, like static before a storm.
Then Dad stiffens.
"Help you?" he asks, voice neutral but sharp underneath.
I glance up.
And there he is.
Tylor.
Bruised. Cut up. One eye swollen, purple already settling in like it plans to stay. His bike looks worse. Scratched fairings. Bent lever. Mud still caked where it shouldn't be.
For half a second, something ugly and satisfied sparks in my chest.
Then it twists.
He stands there like he owns the place, jaw tight, gaze flicking briefly to me before snapping back to my dad.
"Need a repair," he says. "Front suspension's fucked."
The shop feels smaller suddenly. Hotter. Like the walls are leaning in to listen.
Dad looks between us, then sighs. "Roll it in."
Tylor hesitates, just a beat. Then he does.
I turn back to the bike in front of me, grip tightening around the wrench. My knuckles still ache from yesterday. From him.
Great. Just fucking great.
Dad's gaze lingers on Tylor for a moment before he jerks his chin toward the far side of the workshop.
"Come here, help me get some tools" he mutters.
I follow him between two workbenches, far enough that the sound of tools and the radio swallow our voices. Tylor stays by the door, eyes down on his bike, clearly not listening. Or pretending not to.
"What the hell were you thinking? Look what you did to that boy." Dad asks under his breath.
"I was thinking about winning," I snap back just as quietly.
"No, you were thinking about him," he says. "And that's the problem."
My jaw tightens. "He started it."
"You finished it," Dad fires back. "And you finished it by throwing away points. You know how tight this season is."
"I know exactly how tight it is," I hiss. "That's why it matters."
"Then act like it matters," he says. "You can't afford suspensions, Aaron. Neither of us can. Racing is what keeps this place running. It's what keeps food on the table. You don't get suspended because you 'lost your temper.' You get suspended because you forgot what matters."
My chest tightens. "You think I don't know that?"
"I think you let that kid get under your skin," he says, glancing toward Tylor again. "And you let it cost you."
"That kid," I say through my teeth, "is a problem."
Dad steps closer, lowering his voice. "So are you, when you race angry."
The air between us crackles. I can feel it building, that familiar pressure, like we're both one wrong word away from saying shit we can't take back.
I clench my fists. "You think I don't get that? You think I don't feel it every time I line up on that gate?"
His eyes soften for half a second. Then harden again. "I think you let rivalry turn into obsession."
"He's not better than me," I say sharply.
Dad exhales through his nose. "I didn't say he was."
"You didn't have to," I shoot back. "You talk about him like—"
"Like what?" he interrupts.
"Like he's the standard," I say. "Like I'm the one always chasing."
Silence stretches between us. Heavy. Loaded.
Dad looks away first. "You're good," he says finally. "You know that."
Not better. Just good.
Before I can respond, footsteps scrape against concrete.
"So Tyler," Dad says, turning back toward the front of the shop, his voice shifting instantly. Neutral. Professional. "Last season treated you rough, huh?"
Tylor straightens a little. "Could've been better."
Dad nods, crouching beside the bike, inspecting the damage. "Still pulled solid points, though. Consistent. That matters in a season like this."
I look away, jaw tight.
"Front suspension took a hit," Dad continues. "But nothing we can't fix."
Tylor glances briefly in my direction. Just long enough for something unreadable to pass between us.
Great. This just got worse.