The trophy sat beside Jaxon in the passenger seat. Buckled in like a person.
It was heavy — real metal with a brushed silver finish, wide handles on both sides, and a polished wood base with a gold plate that read:
CADET NATIONAL CHAMPION – 2018
He hadn't touched it since they handed it to him.
They didn't stick around for podium photos. Curtis grabbed the fuel jug out of his hand before the champagne even popped. He'd already unbolted the kart by the time Jaxon got out of parc fermé. No congratulations. No comment.
Now they were two hours into the drive home. The sun was low, and the highway was empty. Curtis hadn't spoken since they merged onto the interstate.
The phone buzzed in Jaxon's lap. He glanced at the screen.
Thomas Bearman 🇬🇧 – Incoming Call
He hesitated before answering.
"Hello?"
"Dude!" Thomas's voice crackled through the speaker. "Did you win?"
Jaxon kept his eyes on the windshield. "Yeah."
"Like—just the race? Or the whole thing?"
"Whole thing."
"No way," Thomas said. "Did you have to make up spots?"
"No." Jaxon shifted slightly in his seat. "I was on pole. Won all the heats. Led the final from the start."
"Wait, like… the whole race?"
"Every lap."
There was a pause on the line. Then Thomas said, "Jeez. You smoked them."
"Yeah."
"You don't sound happy."
Jaxon looked at the trophy beside him, seatbelt tight across its body like someone was trying to protect it.
"I dunno," he said. "Felt easy. Not like… good. Just done."
"Was your kart better this time?"
Jaxon paused.
"No," he said. "Still felt weird. Like it wanted to slide left on the exits. I just… fixed it in my head."
"Wait, what?"
"I didn't change anything. Just drove around it. Moved my hands different. Used the brake to point it. It stuck."
Thomas didn't answer right away.
"Man," he said finally, "you're way better than you were last year."
"I had to be."
"Curtis say anything?"
Jaxon didn't speak.
That was answer enough.
"Well…" Thomas cleared his throat. "That's still huge. Like, properly massive. You're champion of the whole country."
Jaxon nodded, even though Thomas couldn't see him.
"I saw a clip on Instagram a while back," Thomas added. "You coming out of Turn 4 — you looked so fast. Someone commented 'future F1.'"
Jaxon didn't say anything.
Curtis grunted from the driver's seat. "Hang up the phone."
Jaxon held it tighter to his ear, voice quieter. "We're driving."
"You gonna race again next year?"
"I don't know," Jaxon said. "He said we're moving up a class. Bigger engines. Maybe new chassis. Depends."
"Hope you don't quit."
"I won't."
Curtis reached across and slapped the phone out of Jaxon's hand. It landed face down on the floor mat.
"I said hang it up," Curtis snapped. "You think anyone gives a shit about how many friends you've got? You're not in school. You're a driver."
Jaxon bent down, picked up the phone, and ended the call. The screen was smudged with dust from the floor.
The cab went silent again, engine humming under them, highway stretching ahead in a dull orange blur.
Curtis didn't look over. "Enjoy the damn trophy while you can," he muttered. "Next year, no one's gonna hand you anything."
Jaxon didn't reply. He leaned against the window, eyes unfocused, one hand still resting on the base of the trophy.
He wasn't thinking about the win. Or the championship. Or the plaque with his name on it.
He was thinking about how much harder it would be next time.
Snow clung to the corners of the cracked shop windows, the kind that turned black as soon as it touched the ground. The air inside smelled like cold oil, old rubber, and stale cigarettes. The small heater in the corner clicked and sputtered, barely keeping the concrete floor above freezing.
Jaxon sat on a milk crate, hands red from scrubbing brake dust off a spare rotor. He hadn't said a word in over an hour.
Curtis was across the room, hunched over the bench vise, hammering at a bent tie rod like it owed him money. The sound echoed sharp off the walls — clang, clang, clang — until he finally stopped to light a cigarette and glare at the frame on the stand in front of him.
The new chassis.
Bright red, fresh welds, no stickers yet. No seat either. That was Jaxon's job today.
"You aligned that seat yet or are you waiting for Santa?" Curtis barked without turning around.
Jaxon stood up quietly. His fingers were stiff from the cold, but he picked up the drill and went to work.
The floor was covered in little silver shavings and last year's grime. No music. No celebration. Just the two of them, locked in silence, like a punishment no one had earned.
Jaxon drilled the mounting holes slow and careful. The last time he rushed, Curtis yanked the seat back out and made him redo the entire job from scratch.
"This next class ain't Cadets," Curtis said after a while, flicking ash into a coffee can. "These kids aren't learning. They've already been taught. You get eaten alive if you show up soft."
Jaxon just nodded.
Curtis walked over and nudged the seat with the toe of his boot. "Too far right. Fix it."
Jaxon moved it two millimeters left.
"Now tighten the damn thing. We've got weight to add."
Jaxon didn't ask why.
He already knew what was coming.
—
By the time the seat was in, the weight blocks were bolted, and the chain was remeasured, it was past dark. Jaxon had grease up to his sleeves and a deep ache in his shoulders. His fingers stung when he tried to flex them.
Curtis zipped up his jacket and grabbed the keys.
"Trailer's hitched. Put the kart in. We're testing tomorrow."
Jaxon blinked. "It's snowing."
"There's dry patches at the south lot," Curtis said. "I talked to the grounds guy. We'll get five or six laps in before the tires ice up."
"But—"
Curtis turned slowly.
"What?"
Jaxon looked down. "Nothing."
He picked up the kart stand.
—
That night, the heater in the trailer barely worked. Jaxon slept in his clothes, under two blankets, curled up in the corner bunk. Curtis snored in the other bed, half a beer still open on the counter.
The trophy was back at the shop. Curtis hadn't even let Jaxon bring it home.
"Not dragging that thing around like a damn beauty pageant crown," he'd said.
Jaxon stared at the ceiling. He could still hear the hammer echoing in his ears. Still feel the drill shudder in his frozen hands.
It was winter break.
But there was no break.
Just more.
—
The next morning, the track was half-frozen. A few cones marked out a dry path on the lower lot, the rest hidden under snow. Jaxon climbed into the kart with a double layer of gloves and a fogged-up visor. The tires were rock hard. The steering felt like pushing a brick.
Curtis stood with his arms crossed at the edge of the tarmac.
"Go," he shouted. "Short shifts. Brake early. If you spin, we load up and go home."
Jaxon didn't spin.
He didn't even lock a wheel.
He just drove lap after lap, burning through the cold, punishing setup like he was being chased. The kart tugged right. He adjusted. The grip faded. He compensated. The engine stuttered once. He downshifted, managed it.
Curtis never moved.
Just stood there. Watching.
When Jaxon finally pulled in, shivering, gloves soaked, Curtis didn't say a word. He just walked to the van and slammed the door behind him.
Jaxon sat in the kart for a while, breath fogging the inside of his visor.
He didn't feel like a champion.
He felt like a machine.
When Jaxon finally coasted back into the paddock, he was shaking so hard he could barely keep the kart straight. His hands had gone numb ten laps ago. His feet were soaked, boots stiff with half-frozen water from the edge of the lot. The steering wheel felt like it was made of ice.
He hit the brakes and shut the engine off. The sudden silence made the cold even louder.
Curtis walked over slowly, hands still in his jacket pockets. He didn't lean down. Didn't ask anything.
Jaxon pulled his gloves off and dropped them in the seat. His fingers were white.
Curtis stared. "You're shivering."
Jaxon didn't answer.
"You cold?" Curtis asked flatly, like it was a joke.
Jaxon's teeth were chattering now. "I—I can't feel—my hands."
"Oh no," Curtis said, voice suddenly thick with sarcasm. "You can't feel your hands? What a disaster. Somebody call a fucking doctor."
Jaxon looked down. He couldn't even close his fists.
Curtis stepped closer, crouched down to eye level, voice low and sharp. "It's karting. It's winter. You want a space heater in your seat next? Maybe a cup of cocoa during pit stops?"
Jaxon swallowed hard. His cheeks were pale, lips starting to go bluish.
Curtis stood up straight. "You think the kids in Europe get to sit around and cry about weather? You think the next Petty was sitting in a heated tent sipping tea when he was your age?"
Jaxon didn't respond. He just hugged his arms tighter to his body.
Curtis scoffed. "You want to be fast? Then get over it. Cold, wet, tired — I don't give a damn. Winners don't care. They drive."
He turned and walked back toward the van.
Jaxon sat there in the kart for a long time, breathing shallow. The cold hurt now not just uncomfortable, but deep, in his bones.
The shop was silent except for the soft ticking of the space heater in the corner. It clicked every few seconds, trying to keep the small storage room from freezing. It wasn't doing a very good job.
Jaxon sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled into his chest. His race suit was still on, half unzipped and bunched around his waist. A pair of oversized gray sweatpants covered his legs. His gloves were gone. So were his boots. His socks were damp.
His hands had finally turned pink again. Not normal. Just… better.
He stared across the dark room. At nothing in particular. Just the way the shadows moved when the heater's light flickered.
Curtis had gone upstairs to make a call. Something about an axle shipment. He hadn't said another word since the track.
Jaxon hadn't either.
The trophy — the Cadet one — still sat on the top shelf behind a dusty stack of tires. Curtis had tossed it there the night they got back. "It's in the way," he'd muttered. "Find somewhere for it or I'll bin it."
Jaxon hadn't moved it.
It didn't look like a trophy anymore. Just another shape in the dark. Cold metal. Pointless weight.
His stomach growled softly. They hadn't eaten since morning. There were peanut butter crackers in the glove box, but he didn't feel like going to get them. He didn't feel like doing anything.
He tucked his fingers under his arms and shut his eyes.
There was a long pause in his head, the kind that stretches out like fog. Not sleep. Not thoughts. Just... quiet.
He liked it.
He liked it better than hearing his name yelled from across the track. Better than the sound of wrenches thrown at the ground. Better than Curtis lighting another cigarette and saying, "You're cold because you're soft."
He opened his eyes again.
The heater ticked.
There was a calendar tacked to the wall above him — grease-stained, bent corners, a photo of a sprint car pinned high in the air with dirt spraying behind it. December was circled in red marker. A note next to it: "Test, 8 AM."
Even now. Even after a championship. It was always the next thing. Never a break.
Jaxon moved slowly through the dim garage, fingers trailing over dusty shelves and scattered tools. The old trophies were there — some dented, others tarnished — trophies from every small race, every heat, every scrape he'd fought through since he was six.
He gathered them one by one, stacking, arranging on the workbench.
A tiny plastic cup with a crooked gold driver. A heavy metal plaque from a regional race. The 2018 Cadet National Championship trophy, still cold and heavy, taking the center spot.
He lined them all up, in no order but the order that felt right. Like soldiers standing at attention.
He stepped back and looked at them.
The trophies glinted under the flickering overhead light, casting long shadows on the cracked concrete floor.
He should feel proud. Happy. Victorious.
But instead, something sat heavy in his chest — a strange knot he couldn't name.
Was it pride? Relief? Sadness? He wasn't sure.
The silence around him swallowed the noise of cheering crowds and congratulatory words he'd never heard.
He pressed his palms flat against the cold workbench, breathing shallow.
For a moment, he let himself hope.
Then the door creaked open.
Curtis stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes cold.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Jaxon swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper.
"Just... looking."
Curtis stepped inside, barely glancing at the trophies.
"Don't get soft. Those things don't mean shit."
Jaxon looked down.
Curtis's voice dropped, rough and low.
"If you want to be a real racer, stop wasting time staring at plastic."
He turned and left, footsteps heavy on the concrete.
Jaxon stared at the trophies again.
The ache in his chest settled, colder than the winter night outside.
He didn't know what to feel.
But he knew one thing for sure:
The trophies were the only proof he had.
—
The knock was steady but not urgent. Jaxon sat alone at the kitchen table, the dim light cutting shadows across the scattered tools and papers he'd been half-looking at. Outside, the evening air was cold, just on the edge of biting.
He wiped grease from his hands on his jeans and got up, the house feeling too quiet without Dad around.
When he cracked the door, a man stood there—mid-thirties, clean but casual, with a calm seriousness in his eyes.
"Jaxon Rose?" the man said, voice even, polite but not soft.
"Yeah," Jaxon said, voice small.
"I'm Ian Walters. I work with a few teams in motorsports. I was hoping to speak with your dad."
Jaxon's throat tightened. "He's not here."
Ian's face didn't change. "That's alright. I can talk with you."
Jaxon swallowed, stepped aside, and motioned for him to come in.
Ian walked through the cramped kitchen, then paused at the back door.
"Your dad was recently granted extra track time at Road America's karting circuit," Ian said quietly. "It's a rare thing. Shows he's still got respect."
Jaxon blinked, the words feeling like they landed heavier than expected. "I didn't know."
Ian nodded, looking around the modest kitchen. "And they're watching you, too."
Jaxson looked up cautiously. "…Who is?"
"Couple teams. Couple people at the track. You've got eyes on you whether you know it or not." Ian said looking at an old Nascar poster.
"Why?" Jaxson asked.
Ian shrugged. "Because you win. And not just that — you win clean, with broken gear, on your own wrenching. That doesn't go unnoticed for long."
Jaxson didn't answer.
Ian nodded slowly, sensing the shift in the room, the discomfort tightening in the kid's shoulders. "Didn't mean to freak you out," he said, his voice softer now. "Just figured someone should tell you. You're not invisible anymore."
Jaxon kept his eyes low. "Feels like I still am."
Ian gave a quiet nod. "Maybe to some. But not to the ones who matter."
He drifted a step closer to the back door, eyes shifting toward the dark window above the sink. The late afternoon light was starting to fade, casting the backyard in gray.
"You do most of your own work, right?" Ian asked, casually. "Setup, repairs?"
Jaxon nodded once. "If I don't, it won't get done."
Ian let out a low exhale — not pity, just understanding. "Hell of a way to grow up in this sport."
The words hung between them for a second. Ian stood near the door, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, watching the quiet kid try to keep still in his own kitchen like it didn't belong to him.
"I've seen a lot of kids come through," he said, more to himself than to Jaxon. "Most of 'em are fast because someone spent a lot of money making them fast. But you? You've had to figure it out."
Jaxon shrugged lightly, tugging at the edge of his shirt. "I just… drive what I've got."
Ian turned to him, a faint smile flickering across his face. "That's exactly what people are noticing."
Jaxon didn't answer. He didn't know how to. The compliment didn't feel real yet. He glanced toward the back door like he wanted to vanish through it.
Ian followed his eyes. "That where the workshop is?"
"Yeah."
There was a pause. Then Ian asked, "Mind if I take a look? I'm one of those guys who still gets nerdy over busted chassis and weird camber setups."
Jaxon hesitated — not because he didn't want to, but because no one had ever asked.
"…Sure," he said. "It's out back."
He moved toward the door, grabbing the handle with one hand and pushing it open to the cold outside air. Gravel crunched under their feet as they stepped into the backyard, heading toward the squat garage tucked up against the old chain-link fence.
Inside, under a single yellow bulb, sat shelves and workbenches cluttered with tools, worn parts, and scattered bolts. The concrete floor was stained with oil and streaked with rubber. And along the back wall — not dusted, not arranged, not shown off — stood rows of trophies and medals. Jaxon's trophies. His medals. They looked almost like they'd been forgotten.
Ian didn't speak right away. He moved quietly, scanning the room, eyes catching on the chaos and the care packed into the corners. His gaze landed on the trophies last.
He stepped closer, running a hand along one shelf, fingers brushing a cracked plastic base.
"Jesus," he said under his breath. "You've been busy."
Jaxon stood near the doorway, arms crossed tight.
Ian looked back at him. "These are all yours?"
Jaxon nodded.
Ian looked again at the hardware. "You know, most kids have parents who brag about half a podium. This... this is a career already."
Jaxon didn't say anything.
He stood still in the doorway of the workshop, arms crossed, the smell of oil and old rubber soaking into his hoodie. The trophies sat in uneven rows along the back shelves. Some were crooked, a few missing pieces. Stickers peeled, plaques faded, bases cracked — none of them polished, none displayed with pride. They looked like they'd been dumped there just to get them out of the way.
Ian didn't speak either. He moved slow, hands in his jacket pockets, studying everything without touching. The kind of guy who didn't need to ask questions to understand a room.
"You work in here by yourself?" he finally asked.
Jaxon nodded once. "Mostly."
Ian gave a low whistle and looked around. "Reminds me of my uncle's shop growing up. Same smell. Same busted-ass vice on the bench."
Jaxon glanced at the vice like he hadn't even noticed it until now. The jaws were rusted halfway open, a rag caught in the grip like someone had forgotten it weeks ago. Probably had.
"I used to sit on the floor while he rebuilt engines," Ian said, stepping over to a dusty set of tire trolleys. "Didn't understand half of it, but I liked being around it."
He looked over. "You like being around it?"
Jaxon didn't answer right away.
"I mean the smell, the noise, the junk," Ian continued. "Most kids hate it. They like race day, maybe, but not this."
Jaxon shrugged. "I like working on it. I guess."
Ian tilted his head, catching something in the tone. "You guess?"
Jaxon looked away, then muttered, "I don't know. It's not like I think about it."
"You don't have to," Ian said. "But you're still out here."
He walked over to the far corner, where a kart sat propped up on a stand, chain half-off, seat scuffed, front fairing taped from the last crash. Ian crouched beside it, ran a hand over the steering shaft.
"You set this up for the last round?" he asked.
Jaxon nodded. "Changed gearing and rear width. Track was colder than practice."
Ian grunted, impressed. "How'd it feel?"
"Loose early. Then it came in."
Ian stood. "You made it come in."
Jaxon didn't respond.
"You've got a good feel for the chassis," Ian said. "I've seen kids with factory backing who can't explain a balance shift to save their lives. You're doing it with one set of tools and a busted toe plate."
He paused.
"I'm not trying to gas you up, kid. I just call it like I see it."
Jaxon shifted his weight. "Doesn't matter if I like it or not. It's what I do."
Ian turned to face him directly now. "Sure. But if you hated it, really hated it, you wouldn't be winning. You wouldn't be doing the late nights, fixing things that shouldn't need fixing. You wouldn't be standing in this cold garage talking shop with me right now."
Jaxon opened his mouth like he might say something — then didn't.
Ian let that sit for a second.
"I don't know anything about your situation," he said carefully. "Not gonna pretend to. But what I do know is that the only drivers who last in this sport are the ones who want it. Not for the trophies. Not for their dads. For themselves."
Jaxon looked at the trophies again. He didn't walk over. Just stared at them from a distance. They'd always just been there. Clutter. Plastic. Noise. Now they looked different. Not expensive. Not shiny. But real. Fought for.
"I guess…" he said slowly. "I used to think winning would fix everything."
Ian stayed quiet.
"I thought if I got good enough, maybe he'd back off. Or say I did good. Or stop messing with the kart."
He swallowed hard.
"But that didn't happen. I still win. He still…" Jaxon didn't finish.
Ian didn't need him to.
"So why're you still doing it?" Ian asked gently.
Jaxon didn't know. Not really. The answer had never been clear, not even to himself. But now, with the trophies in the corner, the kart behind him, and the hum of fluorescent light buzzing above, the truth finally slipped out.
"…Because when I'm in the kart, it feels right," he said. "Like nothing else matters. Like it's the only place I don't feel wrong."
It hung in the air, raw and simple.
Ian didn't smile, didn't nod, didn't break the silence too fast.
"Then don't let anyone take that from you," he said quietly. "Not a team. Not a parent. Not anyone."
Jaxon blinked hard and looked away again, wiping at the back of his hand like there was something in his eye.
"I'm not here by accident," Ian said after a long pause. "Road America's working on a driver program. First of its kind. Small, local, but real cars. Real testing. We've got some scouts watching. And your name's already come up."
Jaxon's mouth opened slightly. "What kind of cars?"
"Starter prototypes. Low-power stuff for training. Like feeder series — but local. And with the right support, it could open doors."
Jaxon stared at him. "They want me?"
Ian smiled faintly. "They want to see more. Which means someone noticed what you're doing."
He glanced around the workshop again — the clutter, the grime, the shelves of forgotten effort.
"But just so you know… this thing at Road America? It's still a few years off. Not fully built. Still politics, money, board meetings — you know how this stuff goes. Or maybe you're lucky you don't."
Jaxon raised an eyebrow, not sure what he meant.
Ian gave a crooked half-smile. "You'll figure it out. But when it does come together… keep an eye on it. Could be something. Could be your something."
Jaxon didn't answer, but his eyes lingered now — not on Ian, not even on the kart behind him — but on the wall. On the old, faded calendar pinned up beside the pegboard. A reminder that time moved, whether anyone liked it or not.
Jaxon scratched at the corner of a callus on his thumb, then gave a tiny nod.
"…We'll see."
It was the safest thing he could say. Not disbelief, not excitement — just something in the middle. Something that didn't make him feel stupid for hoping.
Ian didn't push. He just started walking toward the door, brushing dust off his sleeves as he went.
At the threshold, he turned.
"Oh," he added casually, "when your dad gets back — let him know I stopped by."
Jaxon didn't move. Just nodded again.
Ian hesitated for half a second, like he wanted to say more. Then didn't.
He gave a faint two-finger wave, stepped out into the cold evening, and pulled the door shut behind him.
The hum of the overhead light filled the silence again.
Jaxon stood still.
The trophies were still there. The kart still half-apart. His hands still black with grease.
But something felt different now.
Not louder. Just… sharper. Like maybe this wasn't just about surviving weekends anymore.
Maybe it was the start of something else.
—
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and cheap coffee, the kind Curtis always made when he was too tired to care.
Jaxon sat at the table, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, fingers twitching from the grime he hadn't washed off yet. The quiet morning felt heavier than usual.
Curtis stomped in, boots scraping on the floor, eyes sharp as ever.
"We're heading back to Europe," he said without warning, voice flat like it was just another damn chore.
Jaxon blinked, mouth opening before closing again.
"Karting championship," Curtis continued, dumping a wrinkled flyer on the table. "Prize money. Real money. Not some kiddie crap."
Jaxon stared at the glossy photos of tracks and karts, the list of dates with British flags next to the first rounds.
"First couple races are in Britain," Curtis said, eyes locked on Jaxon's face. "You gonna be ready?"
Jaxon swallowed hard. "Yeah."
"No," Curtis snapped. "I'm not asking."
The cold in his voice froze the room.
"You're going. No arguing. We've got a chance to get you some real exposure. You screw this up, there's no next time."
Jaxon nodded again, tighter this time, his stomach twisting.
Curtis turned on his heel and walked toward the door.
"Start packing. We leave in two days."
Jaxon sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, fingers nervously tapping the worn case.
"Hey," Thomas answered, voice bright.
"Hey," Jaxon said, a little breathless. "We're going back to Britain."
There was a pause.
"For the European Karting Championship," Jaxon added, swallowing hard. "They said it's got some decent money, real serious racing."
Thomas whistled low. "Seriously? That's… awesome."
Jaxon shrugged, even though Thomas couldn't see it. "Yeah. I don't know if I'm even ready."
Thomas hesitated. "I'm gonna ask my dad if we can race too. See if he's okay with it."
"Okay," Jaxon said quietly.
A moment later, Thomas's voice was muffled, like he'd put the phone down and was talking to someone else.
"Dad," Thomas said, clear now. "There's this big karting thing — the European Karting Championship. They're saying it's good money, real serious. Can I race there?"
There was a warm, friendly reply. "If it's a good opportunity, then yeah. You know we'll support you."
Thomas smiled wide, voice back on the phone, "He said yes. We're going."
Jaxon's heart kicked up a notch. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious. What's the name of the thing again?"
"European Karting Championship. First rounds in Britain."
"Sounds huge."
"Yeah."
They both laughed, the kind of laugh that eased some of the nerves.
"Guess I better start packing."
"Me too."
"See you in Britain, then."
"Yeah."