The plane scraped through a thick, steel-gray sky and touched down hard at Heathrow. Outside the window, rain hammered the runway like a relentless drum. Curtis didn't flinch. He sat stiff as a board, eyes cold slits locked on the ground below. Jaxon's fingers dug into the armrest until his nails bit skin. The silence was suffocating.
The moment they stepped outside, the chill hit them full force. The British drizzle soaked through Jaxon's jacket, biting at his skin. Curtis's jaw clenched as he scanned the bustling airport lot, then marched toward a rumbling semi parked just off the tarmac. The beast of a truck growled low, its trailer packed tight with every scrap of Jaxon's karting gear—engines, chassis, tires, tools—stacked like weapons in a warzone.
"Get your ass moving," Curtis barked, yanking the door open. The cab smelled of grease, sweat, and gasoline—a far cry from anything warm or safe. Jaxon climbed in after him, heart hammering like a piston.
Curtis slammed the door, the noise cracking through the cold air. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the floor and into Jaxon's bones as the semi lurched forward, crawling through the slick lot and onto the gray streets.
The rain streaked in sideways across the windshield. Curtis's voice cut through the drone of the engine, sharp and merciless.
"Europe's no fucking playground. You fuck this up, you're done. You think this is like home? Think again. They don't give a shit who you are."
Jaxon swallowed hard, jaw tight. He barely dared breathe, the weight of Curtis's stare burning into him like acid.
The truck crawled through the dripping city streets, neon signs and shuttered storefronts blurring past. Curtis didn't say much more, but his every glance was a promise: no mercy, no second chances.
Eventually, they pulled up outside a grim hotel tucked between gray brick buildings. The rain hadn't eased. Curtis killed the engine and killed the warmth inside the cab with it.
"Get your shit. We're sleeping here," Curtis growled. "Tomorrow you hit the track at dawn. No fucking excuses."
Jaxon nodded, numb. Curtis didn't wait for anything but action. He threw open the trailer door. The gear gleamed cold under the dull streetlight, waiting for the brutal work ahead.
Inside the cramped hotel room, the stale air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and damp. Curtis paced like a predator, eyes cold and sharp.
"You rest. Because tomorrow, I don't want to see a single fuck-up. You run laps until you puke or pass out. Learn this track or get left behind. You ready to bleed?"
Jaxon's throat tightened, but he didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Curtis was already on him — no forgiveness, no softness, just the hard truth.
Curtis's voice dropped lower, almost a growl. "Europe's gonna rip you apart if you're soft. You think this is a game? You're fighting for your life."
Jaxon swallowed the lump, feeling the fire ignite inside. This was the crucible, and he had no choice but to burn.
Curtis scoffed and shook his head like he was already disgusted by what tomorrow would bring. "Don't fuckin' oversleep. I'm not dragging your ass outta bed while the Euros are out there lapping you into the dirt. You come out slow, you come out scared—you're a waste of fuel."
The door slammed shut behind Curtis, leaving Jaxon alone in the cold, the rain pounding against the window like a relentless heartbeat.
—
Jaxon climbed into the trailer like a monk entering a chapel. His hands moved automatically—unlatching the kart, checking the bolts, cradling the seat like it was a living thing. The cold metal was sacred. Everything about it mattered. The chain tension. The wear on the inside edge of the right front tire. The slight scuff on the rear bumper from loading it too fast back home. He felt it all.
Curtis barked from outside, but it was background noise now. Jaxon's brain had tuned it out. He was hearing something else—the subtle click of the sprocket teeth locking in, the friction coefficient of rain on rubber, the half-second gap he needed to find in every sector. That's all he could think about.
Curtis's voice broke through the fog. "You better've checked those tire pressures last night. If they're soft, you run 'em soft. You fuck up, you live in it."
Jaxon didn't answer. He didn't need to. The pressures were right. He'd checked them twice, then dreamed about them. He'd dreamed about the track layout too. He'd studied the onboard footage all night, frame by frame, until the apexes started bleeding into his eyelids.
By the time he wheeled the kart into the paddock, the rest of the world had fallen away. There was only him and the machine. The number taped on the table was spelled wrong, but Jaxon barely saw it. Curtis pointed it out and hissed something bitter, but Jaxon's focus was somewhere else—calculating weight balance, imagining corner entry speeds, hearing engine notes that hadn't even happened yet.
Curtis spat on the pavement. "You listening? You better be twice as sharp as these spoiled little Euro pricks. They got teams. You got me. That means you don't get to be average, you little shit. You don't get to blink."
Jaxon didn't blink. He was already calculating his first three laps. He'd push hard on Lap 2, scrub the tires in fast, then back off into Turn 6 to check for grip loss. His throttle inputs would be exact. He'd chase perfection like it owed him something.
The obsession had its claws in him now. Curtis didn't need to scream anymore. Jaxon was screaming on the inside. Not for approval. Not even for escape.
He just needed to be faster.
Every bolt, every tenth, every line through a wet hairpin — it had to be perfect. Not for Curtis. Not for some podium. For himself. Because without that, nothing made sense. The world didn't work unless he was at the edge of it, engine screaming, tires slipping, heart trying to punch through his chest.
—
Curtis threw the semi into park so hard the cab jolted. The air brakes hissed like a warning. Rain pelted the windshield in steady waves, but he didn't pause. Didn't even look at Jaxon.
"You gonna stare out the window all fuckin' day or start unloading like someone who gives a shit?"
Jaxon swung the door open and hit the pavement hard, cold water splashing against his boots. The air was thick with fuel fumes and wet concrete. Every breath tasted like competition.
Curtis yanked the trailer open and started tossing gear with zero ceremony. "Start with tire pressures. If I see you checking the same one twice like a goldfish with brain damage, I'm pulling you out of the seat and throwing your little ass in the stands."
Jaxon climbed inside. The kart was there, flawless and waiting. He touched it like it might vanish if he wasn't careful. His heart wasn't racing from nerves—it was hunger. He needed to feel the track under him. He needed to get the rhythm right, the grip right, the body lean perfect through the corners.
Curtis kicked a toolbox toward him. "Get the sprocket tight and check the rear ride height. You run too low in this shit and you'll bottom out like a clown on a lawn chair."
Jaxon didn't respond. He was already gone, mentally walking the lap—Sector 1 wide and wet, braking markers half-washed out by the rain, Turn 3 deceptive with that long exit that could trick you into throttle too early. He could feel the grip loss before it happened. He could see the lap time bleeding away if he missed by even a few centimeters.
This wasn't stress. This was calculation. This was worship.
Curtis watched him, chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes scanning every move like he was waiting for a mistake.
"You better be perfect," he muttered. "Because if one goddamn nut comes loose mid-session, don't bother climbing back in the truck. You can jog behind it all the way to Dover."
Jaxon crouched lower, tightening the final nut on the rear axle, jaw locked, hands steady. The rest of the world had gone quiet.
The paddock tent was finally up. Kart under cover, gear stowed, tires bagged. The rain had slowed to a mist, just enough to stick to everything without ever going away. Jaxon stood by the kart wiping down the seat again even though it was already dry.
Curtis's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, jaw tightening.
"Stay here. Don't touch anything unless you have to." He stepped off behind the trailer, phone to his ear. "Yeah. Yeah, I told you already—no. I'm in the middle of something."
Jaxon waited until Curtis's voice disappeared around the corner. Then he stepped out.
Not far — just to the fence line near the run into Turn 2. He didn't care about the rain. The track was alive now. Older drivers were out on full wets, the engines screaming through the straights, carving the corners like they were wired to the apex.
He leaned forward, studying every movement. Who lifted. Who didn't. Where the rear stepped out. Where they coasted too long. His eyes darted like a machine scanning for weakness. It wasn't racing anymore. It was math. Rhythm. The only thing that made sense.
The paddock tent was neat and ready, kart resting under its cover. Curtis had vanished behind the trailer, phone glued to his ear. Jaxon barely noticed. His eyes were locked on the track beyond the fence, watching slick tires slice through puddles and engines roar.
"Hey, slowpoke."
Jaxon turned to see Thomas, hood up, grinning like he'd just caught Jaxon stealing snacks again. His hands shoved deep in his pockets, wet hair sticking out in messy tufts.
"Thomas."
"Long time, no see."
"Yeah, two years, right? You haven't gotten any taller."
Thomas laughed. "And you still look like you're trying to figure out which way the kart goes."
Jaxon shot back, "Better than following you off the track."
Thomas smirked. "By the way, Ollie's out there now, tearing up the older class. Didn't think you'd notice."
Jaxon glanced toward the circuit just in time to see a red-and-white kart slide a little through a corner before snapping back.
"Looks like he's having fun."
Thomas rolled his eyes. "He acts like he owns the place, but don't tell him I said that."
Jaxon grinned. "Yeah, well, none of you're faster than me."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Big words."
"Just facts."
Thomas nudged him. "Alright, scientist. Let's see what you've got."
They laughed, the old friendship and rivalry slipping comfortably back into place as the engines screamed again.
—
The morning fog clung to the paddock as Jaxon settled into third on the grid. Engines fired around him, the sound a relentless hum that vibrated through his bones. Curtis's words echoed faintly in his memory, sharp and uncompromising, but Jaxon wasn't thinking about his dad. His hands gripped the steering wheel, muscles taut, eyes scanning every inch of the track ahead.
When the flag dropped, Jaxon exploded off the line, clutching the perfect racing line through the first corner. His kart bit into the wet asphalt, the rear sliding slightly but holding, muscles tightening with every turn. He was close behind the front two, watching their every move — their braking points, their throttle release, the slight twitch in their karts' tails.
Lap after lap, Jaxon pressed harder. He was too close to the leaders to just watch; he needed to be first, not third. Each corner was a puzzle, every straight a chance to gain or lose everything. He breathed in the wet air, counted the gear changes, memorized the subtle dips in grip.
The first and second place karts were locked in a fierce duel. They rubbed wheels, elbows out, neither giving ground. Jaxon followed, waiting for a mistake, tightening his line, pushing the limits of traction. His fingers tightened on the wheel when the leaders' tires kissed in a chicane, sending sparks of plastic and grit into the spray.
On lap seven, chaos erupted.
The second place kart clipped the rear bumper of the leader coming into the final corner. The impact sent the front kart into a brief skid, bits of plastic flying like shrapnel.
Jaxon saw the debris too late.
A jagged piece smashed into his front wing and then struck the steering column. The sudden snap sent his front wheels locking hard, jerking the kart sideways.
The engine coughed, then died.
Jaxon fought the wheel, but the kart slid off the track and into the grass, the wet blades whipping against the tires. It came to a slow, humiliating crawl, the engine coughing once, then dying with a final sputter.
He sat there, breathing hard, hands trembling against the wheel. Rain sheeted down over the visor, streaking the view in blurry gray lines. The cold started to bite through his suit. The wet earth beneath the chassis sucked it lower, like it wanted to bury him.
The field thundered past without mercy — a blur of color and fury. The scream of engines. The hiss of rain on asphalt. They didn't even see him.
He slammed his fist down on the steering wheel, gripping it tight as a scream tore from his throat.
"FUCK!"
His voice cracked through the storm like lightning. He slammed the wheel against the side pod, once, twice, again, the plastic rattling like brittle bone. He yanked off his gloves and hurled them into the mud, then grabbed his helmet strap and tore it open, ripping it off and slamming it into the wet grass.
"FUCK! I had it! I FUCKING HAD IT!"
Mud sprayed as he kicked the side of the kart. The whole thing shifted a few inches but didn't budge. He stood over it, chest heaving, rain running down his face like sweat. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw felt like it would snap.
No one came.
No marshal, no mechanic, no Curtis.
Just the track groaning under the weight of karts that didn't screw up. That didn't let the moment slip through their fingers.
He stood frozen for a few seconds more, soaked to the bone, staring down at the crooked nose cone and grass-choked tires. Then he turned, fists still clenched, and started the long, cold walk back to the paddock.
Behind him, the engine of another kart shrieked past, flawless through the final turn.
The rain hadn't let up. It came sideways now, cutting across the circuit like tiny blades. Jaxon marched through it, soaked to the bone, eyes locked on the ground as the thunder of engines faded behind him.
Curtis was already there, waiting by the edge of the paddock, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The second he saw Jaxon walking back without the kart, he erupted.
"The fuck was that?! You sleeping out there, or just blind?! Jesus Christ, you give 'em all that effort for seven goddamn laps just to park it like a tourist?"
Jaxon didn't respond. His boots slapped the pavement, step after step, water splashing up against his legs. His fists were tight at his sides, nails digging deep, but his head stayed low. Not a glance. Not a word.
Curtis stepped after him, voice rising above the rain. "Don't you walk past me like you did a good fucking job! You threw that race away! You were in position and you pissed it down the drain!"
Still nothing.
Jaxon's jaw was clenched so tight it felt fused shut. He kept walking. Past the tool benches. Past the row of silent trailers. Straight into their paddock tent. The flap slapped closed behind him.
Curtis stopped just outside. He exhaled hard, his breath fogging in the cold air. Then slowly, he followed.
Inside the tent, the air was stale and damp, heavy with oil and wet rubber. The second Curtis stepped in, he froze.
Jaxon was raging.
The boy tore off his gloves and hurled them across the floor. His soaked racing suit clung to him like a second skin, his hair plastered to his forehead. His helmet sat on the table where he'd slammed it down — now wobbling from the force of the impact.
"FUCK!" he screamed, voice ragged, echoing inside the tight canvas walls.
He kicked a folded chair and sent it crashing into the tire rack. The tools on the table rattled. Jaxon grabbed the front of his race suit and yanked at the zipper like it was choking him, ripping it halfway down before slamming both palms against the tabletop. His breath came in sharp, rapid bursts, like he'd just run a marathon at full tilt.
Curtis didn't say a word.
He stood just inside the flap, shoulders square, rain dripping from the sleeves of his jacket. His eyes locked on Jaxon, unreadable. Not angry. Not impressed. Just still.
Jaxon didn't even know he was there.
"Fuck! I had it—I fucking had it!" he roared, pacing now, one hand in his hair, tugging at the roots so hard it stung. "I timed it right, I backed off into six, I left the gap—he clipped the fuckin' leader, and then the debris—godDAMN it!"
He kicked the folding chair again—harder this time—and it crashed against the tire rack, knocking one of the tires loose. It bounced, rolled, and hit the side of the tent with a dull thud. Jaxon didn't care. He spun and grabbed the table by the edge, arms shaking, and flipped it. Tools and zip ties flew off in all directions, clattering to the concrete floor. A wrench hit the wall of the tent and nearly ripped the canvas.
"I did everything right!" he screamed, voice hoarse, raw like it'd been sanded down from the inside. "I held the line, I watched the fuckin' runoff, I was clean—and it still fell apart!"
He grabbed the front of his race suit and yanked at it, tearing the zipper down, almost like he needed to escape his own skin. His chest heaved. Sweat mixed with rain ran down his neck, and he ripped off his soaked balaclava and threw it against the wall.
Then he turned to the kart. His sacred machine. And punched the side pod—full fist, no hesitation. The clack of knuckles on hard plastic echoed, pain shooting up through his wrist. He didn't care.
"I didn't fuck up," he whispered through clenched teeth. "They did. They did. And I'm the one sitting in the goddamn grass while they drive past like I'm nothing."
He was breathing like a boxer between rounds now—fast, shallow, furious. He staggered backward, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he was still in the race.
Then came the quiet—the sudden, hollow absence of his voice. Just the soft patter of rain on canvas. Just the wheeze of his breath.
He crouched down beside the kart again, head in his hands, arms trembling, soaked strands of hair clinging to his forehead.
"...I was perfect," he whispered. "I did everything. I did it all."
Curtis stood just inside the tent, motionless.
Didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Didn't walk closer.
He watched his son rage alone in the fallout of a battle only he had fought.
Then, with nothing but a quiet breath through his nose, Curtis stepped back through the flap and left.
No words. No insults. No comfort.
Just silence.
The rain hadn't stopped. It just got quieter — the kind of drizzle that soaked everything without sound. The kind that clung to your skin like guilt.
Jaxon zipped his suit back up with shaking hands. Pulled the balaclava over his damp hair. Slid the helmet down over his face and clipped it shut.
Full gear. No session. No kart. But he needed to move. To breathe. To feel like he hadn't drowned inside that tent.
He stepped out slowly, pushing through the flapping canvas, the cold air biting at the exposed skin on his neck. He walked toward the edge of the paddock, not fast, just steady — like a ghost in racewear. His boots splashed through shallow puddles. The tent zipped closed behind him.
He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't sit still.
The track buzzed in the distance — not loud like before, but steady, mechanical. Somewhere on the other side of the chain-link fence, the next heat had begun. He stood near the runoff from Turn 2, watching distant headlights flicker in the mist.
Then—
"Dude… you're still in your gear?"
Jaxon turned, slow.
Ollie Bearman stood a few feet away, hoodie pulled tight over his head, hands shoved into his pockets. He was taller now — sharper around the edges, but still with that same half-grin like the world never quite rattled him.
Ollie raised a brow. "You good, or just testing out how waterproof that suit is?"
Jaxon didn't answer right away. His visor stayed down, voice muffled but flat.
"…She sent you."
"Huh?"
"Your mom. Terri." Jaxon's tone was dry, almost annoyed. "Figured I needed company or something."
Ollie kicked at a rock. "Yeah… she does that."
Jaxon said nothing. Just stared back out at the track, jaw clenched behind the helmet.
Ollie shifted, glancing down at the gravel, then back at Jaxon. His voice softened a little, but not in a pitying way — just real.
Jaxon let out the faintest breath, almost a laugh, but nothing in his face relaxed. His visor was still down. His fists still tight.
"Tell her I'm fine," he said. "I'm just… walking."
Ollie nodded. "Cool. Just don't walk into traffic."
Jaxon gave the smallest nod, then turned back toward the track. Ollie stayed for a second longer, watching him — helmet on, suit soaked, motionless against the fence like a soldier waiting for a war that had already ended.
Then Ollie turned and left, hoodie bobbing through the fog.
And Jaxon stood alone again.
The final lap flagged in silence.
Engines wound down. Wet tires hissed back into the paddock. Marshals walked like ghosts across the pit lane, waving stragglers toward parc fermé. Someone's kart backfired in the distance — a sharp crack in the fog — but no one reacted.
Jaxon didn't move.
He sat on a low concrete barrier at the far end of the runoff near Turn 2, visor still down, hands resting in his lap. His suit clung to him like a second skin — soaked, stiff, cold. His gloves were still on. His boots were caked in bits of gravel and grass.
Everything felt heavy.
He hadn't spoken since Ollie left. He hadn't tracked time. He just sat, listening to the distant scrape of wheels being rolled into tents, the muted voices of mechanics, the occasional whistle from a marshal herding karts like cattle.
Then—
"Hey."
Jaxon didn't move. But he recognized the voice.
Thomas.
Soft footfalls in the gravel, then a pause.
Jaxon didn't look up.
"You still out here?"
Nothing.
Thomas stepped closer, then sat beside him on the same barrier, keeping a respectful gap between them — just enough not to crowd.
He glanced over. Jaxon still hadn't lifted the visor. His reflection stared back, helmeted and hunched like a statue in the mist.
"I heard what happened," Thomas said. "Shit luck."
Jaxon didn't reply.
Thomas tapped the toe of his boot against the barrier edge. "You were flying, though. Before it."
Still nothing.
A few seconds passed.
"I'd be breaking stuff too," Thomas added. "If it were me."
Jaxon let out the softest breath — maybe a laugh, maybe a tremor.
Thomas didn't press.
A long pause settled between them. The kind where nothing needed to be said — and yet, something still pressed at the edge.
Jaxon finally shifted, just a small movement — a tilt of his head toward Thomas. His voice came quiet, flat, but steady through the helmet.
"…Where'd you end up?"
Thomas scratched at a bit of dried rubber stuck to his glove. "Tenth."
Jaxon nodded once, visor still down.
"You?"
Thomas glanced sideways, then immediately regretted it. The question was stupid. Jaxon was still in full gear. Still sitting in the runoff like a ghost that hadn't been let back into the world.
He muttered, "Sorry."
Jaxon didn't flinch. "Don't be."
Another silence. Rain misted between them. Off in the distance, someone revved a kart engine for a second before it cut off with a sputter.
Jaxon finally leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Tenth's not bad."
Thomas shrugged. "It's not great."
Jaxon let out a breath — a slow, tired exhale inside the helmet.
"Still better than grass."
That made Thomas smile, just barely.
"Yeah," he said. "Still better than grass."
The rain had eased into a fine mist, floating in the air like dust. The paddock was quieter now — distant engines still hummed, but most of the chaos had died down.
Thomas had left a few minutes earlier, after a quiet clap on Jaxon's shoulder and a low, "See you around."
Now Jaxon sat alone on the concrete barrier, visor finally up, suit still soaked, gloves dangling from one hand. He didn't want to move. Didn't want to think.
That's when he heard the footsteps.
Curtis.
Heavy. Direct. No warning.
He didn't sit down. Just stood there, dripping, jaw clenched, and said, "Get up."
Jaxon didn't move at first. Just turned slowly and looked at him.
Curtis's voice cut like wire. "Got a call. Emergency. I gotta fly back to the States."
Jaxon straightened. "What kind of emergency?"
Curtis's eyes narrowed. "Doesn't matter."
Jaxon swallowed. Waited.
Curtis kept going. "You've got two choices. Either you come back with me, or you ask the Bearmans if they'll take you for the season."
Jaxon blinked. "What?"
"I'm not babysitting from across the fuckin' ocean," Curtis snapped. "You want to stay, you figure it out. If they say no, you're on the plane. I'm not dragging your gear through customs just so you can mope around with your thumb up your ass."
Jaxon stood still, helmet under one arm, suit sticking to his frame. He didn't say anything. Didn't ask for more time.
Curtis turned. "Ten minutes. You get an answer or you get in the truck."
Then he walked away.
Jaxon stood outside the Bearmans' paddock tent, water dripping from his sleeves. He hesitated, just a second, then pushed the flap aside and stepped in.
Adam Bearman was at the back, organizing tires into the trailer. Terri was nearby, wiping mud off the fuel tank. She looked up first.
"Jaxon?" she said gently. "Everything alright?"
He opened his mouth, but the words caught.
Adam turned, wiping his hands on a rag. "What's going on, mate?"
Jaxon finally spoke, quiet but steady. "Curtis said I can either go with him or ask if I can stay with you for the season."
There was a beat of silence.
Jaxon didn't look up. "I've got my own kart and gear. I won't be any trouble — I'll handle myself."
There was a beat of silence.
Jaxon didn't look up. "Just for the season. I can carry my own gear. I won't be a problem."
Terri stepped forward without hesitation. "Of course you can stay."
Adam glanced at Terri, then back at Jaxon. "It's not a decision we take lightly, but… you're welcome to stay with us while Curtis is away. We'll figure things out."
Terri nodded, her expression softening. "It's a lot to ask, but we'll do what we can."
Jaxon looked uncertain but nodded slowly.
Then he turned and walked back out into the rain.
Jaxon stepped out of the Bearman tent, the damp air wrapping around him like a weight. He walked back toward Curtis, who was pacing near the semi, phone pressed tight to his ear.
"Tell him," Curtis barked without looking up. "I don't have all day."
Jaxon's voice was low but steady. "They said yes. I can stay with them for the season."
Curtis finally looked at him, eyes cold, sharp as broken glass. "Good. Don't screw it up."
Jaxon nodded, words caught somewhere in his throat. Curtis didn't wait for more.
Jaxon turned and walked back, boots splashing through the puddles toward the Bearman paddock. The tent was open, warm light spilling onto wet concrete. Adam was loading tools into the trailer; Terri looked up as he approached.
"Got the word," Jaxon said, voice quieter now. "I'm staying."
Terri gave a small smile. "Good. You'll be safe here."
Adam nodded without fuss. "We'll sort everything."
Jaxon's kart sat covered and silent beside the trailer, rain dripping off the edges of the tarp. His gloves lay on the ground, forgotten for a moment. He crouched low, tightening the chain tension one last time, jaw clenched. The DNF still burned under his skin.
Footsteps echoed softly across the wet asphalt.
Thomas appeared first, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes sharp. "Hey. You packing up?"
Jaxon didn't look up. "Yeah."
Ollie followed behind, pulling his hood tighter against the drizzle. He gave a sideways grin. "So… you're really coming with us, huh?"
Jaxon's fingers paused on the chain. He finally glanced up, eyes cold but steady. "Curtis said if I want to stay, I gotta ask you guys."
Thomas nodded. "And we said yes."
Ollie smirked. "Guess that makes you one of us now."
Jaxon shrugged. "Guess so."
Thomas laughed softly. "Same thing."
They shared a quiet moment, the rain falling around them, soaking everything but not washing away the tension.
Jaxon hauled the last of his gear over to the Bearmans' trailer. It was massive—bigger than any he'd seen before—with racks for tires, shelves stacked with tools, and enough space to carry multiple karts without a squeeze.
He slid open the wide doors, the heavy metal scraping against the concrete.
Careful and methodical, Jaxon started loading his kart next, resting on the custom mounts Adam had installed, then bags of gear, boxes of spare parts, and tires stacked neatly along the walls.
Thomas and Ollie stood nearby, watching quietly.
Thomas nodded toward the trailer. "Dad's been backing us for years. The rig's built to carry whatever we need."
Ollie shrugged. "Don't sweat the gear. It's all covered."
Jaxon glanced around the trailer, the racks, the stacks of tires, the spotless tools—and couldn't help but think how rich Adam must be to afford all this.
He closed the trailer doors with a firm thud.