Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Tyler
The shop door slams harder than it needs to.
I don't look back. If I do, I'll go right back in there and finish what we started yesterday. My shoulder aches when I move, my ribs complain every time I breathe too deep, and my eye feels like it's got its own heartbeat. Still worth it. Almost.
Aaron's face flashes in my head anyway. Split lip. Cut eyebrow. The way he shifted his weight like his ribs were fucked, trying not to show it. He always does that. Pretends pain is optional. Pretends he's fine when he's clearly not.
I saw it. Every second of it.
That's the thing that pisses me off the most. I know exactly what I did to him.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and start walking, boots crunching against gravel. The air outside feels colder than it should. Or maybe I'm just wound too tight to notice anything else.
Stupid Aaron.
Always staring at engines like they'll save him. Always clenching his jaw like that fixes anything. Always acting like I'm the problem, like I just showed up one day and decided to ruin his life.
As if we weren't built for the same track. As if we don't ride the same way. As if he doesn't push just as hard as I do.
I kick a rock across the lot and watch it skid to a stop.
Then there's Lexi.
Jesus.
She's trouble in the loud, obvious way. The kind that doesn't pretend to be anything else. Short shorts, sharp smile, zero shame. The whole park knows her reputation, and she wears it like a crown. Half the guys here think they're special. They're not.
I wasn't either.
It just... happened.
One night, too much noise, too much heat, her leaning too close, saying Aaron's name like it tasted bad in her mouth. I should've walked away. I didn't. We both knew exactly what we were doing, and yeah, I slept with her.
Aaron found out two days later.
Didn't even hear it from her. Heard it from someone else, because of course he did. He came at me like a missile, fists first, words later. Didn't ask. Didn't listen. Just swung.
We both bled. We both lost.
Ever since then, everything's been sharpened. Every look heavier. Every race personal.
Lexi flirting with me back there was nothing new. She does it to get under his skin. She always has. What was new was how little I cared. My eyes wouldn't leave him. Bent over the bike, shoulders tense, back turned like I wasn't even worth looking at.
That hurt more than it should've.
I stop by my truck and lean against it, closing my eyes for a second. The image of him grabbing my shirt flashes through my head. The heat of it. The way neither of us finished what we started.
We're both still bruised. Still swollen. Still stupid enough to keep pushing.
I straighten up and unlock the door. I've got time before I come back for the bike. Time to cool off. Time to remind myself why I do this.
I need to ride.
I need to win.
I need to stop thinking about Aaron fucking Carter like he's anything other than a rival.
I start the engine and pull out, tires spitting gravel behind me.
I start the engine and pull out, tires spitting gravel behind me.
I don't even make it two minutes before my phone buzzes against the console.
I consider ignoring it.
I don't.
"Yeah," I answer, already annoyed.
"Tell me you're not brooding alone in your truck like a dramatic asshole," Cole says. I can hear voices behind him, laughter, the distant crackle of an engine. "We're at the old track."
I tighten my grip on the wheel. "Bike's fucked. I'm not riding."
"Then don't ride," he says easily. "Come hang. Smoke. Breathe. Or take mine."
I scoff. "I'm suspended."
"So?" Cole laughs. "Since when has that ever stopped you?"
Silence stretches. The road blurs ahead of me, familiar and empty.
"I said I'm not riding," I repeat, more to myself than to him.
"Cool," he says. "Then come not-ride with us. You can sit there and look angry. You're really good at that."
I exhale through my nose.
"Cole—"
"Ty," he cuts in, voice dropping just enough to matter. "You sound like you're about to punch a wall. Come out here before you do something dumber."
I glance at the passenger seat. Empty. The smell of oil still clinging to my clothes. Aaron's face flashes in my head. Split lip. Swollen eye. The way his jaw clenched like he was holding himself together with teeth and spite.
"Fine," I mutter. "I'll come by."
"Attaboy," Cole says. "Bring your helmet."
"I'm not riding."
"Sure you're not," he replies, already hanging up.
I toss the phone onto the seat and take the next turn without thinking.
The abandoned track sits miles off the main road, hidden behind trees and bad decisions. No signs. No fences that actually stop anyone. Just dirt, ruts, and jumps carved by people who don't care enough to ask permission.
When I pull up, there are already three trucks parked crookedly along the edge. Music thumps from someone's speakers. Cole's bike is leaned against a tree, spotless compared to mine. He grins when he sees me.
"Look who showed up," he says. "You alive?"
"Barely."
He hands me a beer. I don't take it.
"Suit yourself," he shrugs, popping it open and taking a swig. "We're just chilling. Few runs. Nothing serious."
I look at his bike.
He follows my gaze and smirks. "Don't even start."
"I said I wasn't riding."
"And you said the same thing last time you were here with a broken rib," he shoots back. "You rode anyway."
I don't answer.
Because he's right. Because I always do.
Eventually, I grab my helmet.
Cole doesn't say anything. Just tosses me his keys.
The engine roars to life beneath me, familiar but not mine. The first lap is cautious. The second is faster. By the third, my body remembers before my brain does.
Throttle. Shift. Lean.
The dirt kicks up behind me, the world narrowing to curves and timing and instinct. My suspension's different, throws me off just enough to make it interesting. Dangerous.
Perfect.
Every jump pulls something loose in my chest. Every landing rattles my ribs and reminds me I'm still bruised, still swollen, still fucked up from yesterday.
And every straightaway brings Aaron back.
The way he rides. Clean. Precise. Like the bike is an extension of his spine. The way we've traded wins by tenths of a second, seasons decided by a single bad start or a late overtake.
I hate him for that.
I hate that he knows exactly how to push me. I hate that I let him.
I take a jump too fast and land hard, the impact shooting pain up my arm. I laugh breathlessly inside my helmet.
I don't know how to stop.
That's the problem.
I cut the engine and coast to a stop, dust settling around me. My hands are shaking. Adrenaline buzzing under my skin, loud and restless.
Cole jogs over. "You good?"
"Yeah," I say. "Yeah."
I'm not.
I stare out at the track, at the lines carved deep into the dirt from years of use. From us. From rivals who come and go, but somehow we're still here.
Still chasing.
Still colliding.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, uninvited and persistent, I wonder if Aaron feels it too. That pull. That itch. That need to ride even when he shouldn't.
I shake my head and pull my helmet off.
Doesn't matter.
He's just a rival.
I tell myself that like it's enough.
I drop down onto the tailgate of Cole's truck, helmet abandoned at my feet. My lungs still burn, heart thudding like it's pissed at me for stopping. Dirt clings to my boots, my jeans, my hands. I don't bother brushing it off.
Cole flops down beside me and presses something into my palm before I can react.
A joint.
"Doctor's orders," he says. "You're a menace sober."
I snort, then take it anyway. The first pull scratches my throat. The second one settles something loose inside my chest.
"Suspension's official," Cole says casually, like he's talking about the weather. "Two races."
"I know," I mutter. "Whole fucking town knows by now."
"Could be worse," someone from the group says. "Could've gotten banned."
I lean back against the truck, eyes on the sky. "Don't jinx it."
Cole bumps his shoulder into mine. "You'll be fine. You always are."
That's the thing. I'm not sure that's true anymore.
The joint makes its way around. Laughter breaks out somewhere to my left. Someone starts talking about a bad landing last season, another guy interrupts with a story that gets more exaggerated by the second. Normal shit. Familiar shit.
Safe shit.
"So," Cole says, quieter now. "You and Aaron, huh."
I stiffen. Just a fraction. Enough that he notices.
"Don't start," I say.
"I'm not," he replies. "Just saying. You two really went for it."
I exhale smoke through my nose. "He crashed into me."
"Uh-huh."
"And he deserved it."
Cole grins but doesn't push. He never does. That's why he's still here. Why he's always been here.
I met Cole when we were twelve. Same local track. Same shitty bikes barely holding together. He had a busted helmet and a dad who didn't show up half the time. I had a temper and nowhere else to put it. We kept lining up next to each other, racing like idiots, until it stopped being competition and turned into survival.
Cole races because it's the only thing that shuts his brain up. Because when he's in the air, he doesn't have to think about his mom disappearing for days or his stepdad's fists. He races because stopping feels like dying.
I get that.
I race because I don't know who I am when I'm not moving. Because when the engine cuts, everything else gets too loud. Because winning feels like proof that all the shit I crawled through meant something.
I don't say any of that out loud.
Instead, I flick ash into the dirt and shrug. "He's just another rider."
Cole gives me a look that says he knows that's bullshit, but lets it go.
"Still," he says, lighter again. "Guy's got talent."
My jaw tightens before I can stop it. "So do I."
"I didn't say you didn't."
"Sounded like it."
Cole sighs. "Jesus, Ty. It's not a ranking."
I turn my head away, stare out at the track again. The grooves. The jumps. The places where I almost wiped out today.
Aaron would've taken that last corner tighter.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, sharp and unwanted.
I crush it immediately.
"Drop it," I say.
Cole lifts his hands in surrender. "Dropped."
We sit there for a while, passing the joint, not talking much. The high creeps in slow, softening the edges of my thoughts without shutting them up completely. My body still aches. My face feels tight where it's swollen. I can almost feel Aaron's grip on my shirt again, the heat of him, the fury.
I hate that my brain won't let it go.
I hate that part of me doesn't want to.
I take one last drag and hand the joint back. "I'm heading out."
Cole looks at me. "You good?"
I nod. It's a lie, but it's a practiced one.
As I stand, the track stretches out in front of me, quiet now. Empty.
I don't know why the thought hits me then, clear as hell.
If Aaron were here, he wouldn't sit still either.
I shove my hands into my pockets and walk back to the my truck, pretending that doesn't matter.
It does.
Enough for today, I'm going to get my bike back tomorrow.