Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Aaron
The suspension ends quietly.
No apology. No redemption arc. Just time passing like it always does, slow and ugly and unforgiving.
Tyler came to pick up his bike three days after Dad finished fixing it.
I remember because the shop felt too small the second he stepped inside. Same stiff shoulders. Same bruises, fading yellow by then. Same look in his eyes like he was daring the world to touch him wrong.
Dad wasn't there. Of course he wasn't.
It was just me and Tyler and the bike between us like a loaded weapon.
"You fix it right?" he asked, not looking at me, eyes on the suspension.
I wiped my hands on a rag. "You wanna check, be my guest."
That got his attention. He looked at me then. Really looked. At the split skin that hadn't healed right on my knuckle. At the way I was holding my ribs like they still hurt.
For a second, I thought we were gonna do it again.
He stepped closer. I didn't move.
"You fuck this up," he said quietly, "I'll know."
I leaned in just enough that he could hear me breathe. "You always think everything's about you."
His jaw clenched. Mine too.
He rolled the bike out without another word.
Didn't say thanks. Didn't need to.
That was the closest thing to peace we managed during the suspension.
The rest of the time?
Hell.
Without races, the money dried up fast. No prize cuts. No side work. Just repairs that barely covered rent. Dad drank more. Slept less. When he did sleep, he snored like he was fighting something even in his dreams.
When he was drunk, everything set him off.
A dropped wrench. A wrong answer. The sound of Lexi coming home at three in the morning smelling like cheap cologne and regret. Sometimes it was yelling. Sometimes it was worse. Sometimes it was the quiet, tight kind of anger that made my skin crawl because I didn't know when it would snap.
Lexi stopped pretending to care. Either she wasn't home, or she locked herself in her room with music blasting, shutting the rest of us out. I didn't blame her. Someone had to survive this place.
That someone ended up being me.
I worked more. Slept less. Learned how to read Dad's moods the way I read engines. Learned when to stay quiet. When to move fast. When to get out of the way.
Racing was the only thing that ever kept him steady.
So when the suspension lifted, it felt like oxygen.
Now the season's almost over.
Last race.
Final points.
Everything riding on one gate drop.
I sit on my bike at the starting line, helmet resting against my thigh, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. The air smells like fuel and dirt and sweat. The crowd's louder than usual. Everyone knows what this race means.
I don't need to look to know Tyler's there.
I feel him.
Same lane. Same weight class. Same history breathing down my neck.
I glance sideways anyway.
He's already staring straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes sharp, face still carrying faint traces of fights that never really ended. He looks like someone who was built for this. Like the world makes sense when he's on a bike.
For a second, something ugly twists in my chest.
Then I crush it.
I don't have the luxury of distraction.
I have to win.
Not for pride. Not for rivalry. Not even for myself.
I need the money. Dad needs the money. I need to prove that I'm not just some screw-up kid who fights instead of thinking. I need to win so my father doesn't look at me like a disappointment again. So he doesn't drink himself into a rage and take it out on whatever's closest.
On me.
The official raises his hand.
Engines rev.
The world narrows.
I grip the handlebars tighter, knuckles screaming, pulse roaring in my ears.
Across from me, Tyler doesn't look at me.
Good.
Because if he did, he might see it.
The fear.
The desperation.
The truth.
That this race isn't just about beating him.
It's about surviving what waits for me if I don't.
The gate drops.
Everything explodes at once.
Engines scream, dirt sprays up like a damn wall, and I launch forward with the rest of them, body snapping into motion before my brain can catch up. The world narrows instantly. No crowd. No noise. Just the track, the bike, and the instinct drilled into my bones since I was a kid.
First corner. Tight. I take it clean, lean low, feel the back tire slide just enough to scare me. Someone clips a rut behind me. I don't look back.
I don't need to.
I know Tyler's there.
I can feel him like pressure at my side, like gravity pulling wrong. We're neck and neck almost immediately, bikes matched, movements mirrored. Every jump is a challenge. Every landing a dare.
Mason flashes past on my left for half a second, focused, clean, riding like someone who has nothing to prove and everything to lose. Cole's just ahead on the outside line, aggressive as hell, taking risks he probably shouldn't.
We're all in it. Together. Against each other.
The track is brutal. Deep ruts, loose dirt, corners that punish hesitation. My ribs scream every time I land too hard, but adrenaline smothers the pain. I push anyway. Harder. Faster.
This is it. This has to be it.
Halfway through, Tyler takes a jump just a fraction cleaner than me. Not better. Just... cleaner. He lands smoother, gets on the throttle faster. I chase him down the straight, engine screaming, teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches.
I close the gap.
Last lap.
The crowd's a blur now, noise rising, people on their feet. I can hear Mason somewhere behind me, Cole somewhere ahead, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters except the bike in front of me.
Tyler.
Final corner.
I take the inside line. It's risky. Too tight. My tire slips, just for a heartbeat, and that's all it takes.
Tyler rockets out of the turn, hits the straight like he was shot out of a gun.
I'm right there. Right fucking there.
The finish line comes up fast.
Too fast.
He crosses it first.
By seconds.
Barely.
I slow down after the line, chest heaving, vision swimming. For a moment, I don't move. Just sit there, hands locked on the bars, heart trying to punch its way out of my ribs.
Second place.
I take my helmet off when we line up for the podium. The sun's too bright. The applause too loud. Tyler steps up onto the first spot, lifting his helmet, that stupid confident smirk tugging at his mouth like he knew all along.
I step onto the second.
The crowd cheers anyway. For both of us. Like we're equals. Like this doesn't matter.
I scan the faces without meaning to. People clapping. Whistling. Shouting our names. For a second, I almost believe it. Almost believe that second place is enough.
It's not.
Mason finds me as soon as we step down.
"Hey," he says, gripping my shoulder. "You were insane out there. You almost had him."
Almost.
I nod. "Doesn't count."
"It does," he insists. "You rode clean. You rode smart."
I force a breath in. Out. "Yeah."
My eyes drift back to Tyler without my permission. He's laughing now, Cole clapping him hard on the back, saying something in his ear that makes him grin wider. He looks untouchable. Like he just proved something.
Like he always does.
Cole peels away from him and heads toward me, offering a crooked smile. "Hell of a race, man. Seriously."
I nod stiffly. "Yeah."
Cole keeps talking with a big smile. "Tyler dominated!"
Behind him, Tyler meets my eyes.
That smirk.
Not cruel. Not outright mocking.
Just... satisfied. "Feels good being in first place."
Something in my chest snaps.
I step forward before I can stop myself. "Don't look at me like that."
Tyler's smile sharpens. "Like what?"
"Like you're better."
Cole swears under his breath, already reaching for Tyler's arm. "Okay, okay—"
"We were seconds apart," I snap. "You didn't dominate shit."
Tyler leans in, voice low. "Winning's winning, Aaron."
I see red.
I take a step closer.
Then I stop.
I see my dad's face in my head. The way his jaw tightens. The way his hands shake when he's angry. The way second place won't mean a damn thing tonight.
I turn away.
Cole drags Tyler back, still talking, still laughing like this is nothing. Like this isn't everything.
I don't stay.
I don't celebrate. I don't wait around.
I leave the track with my helmet under my arm and dread in my stomach, already bracing myself for the door I'm about to walk through.
Second place doesn't protect you.
Second place just makes the fall hurt more.
I don't go home.
I ride.
I ride until the engine hum becomes background noise and the wind is the only thing loud enough to drown my thoughts. Around the park, past the trailers, down dirt paths that don't lead anywhere except away. I take corners too fast. I jump things I shouldn't. I let the bike rattle my bones because pain is easier than thinking.
Second place.
I replay the race over and over. The slip. The corner. The half second where everything went wrong. Tyler's back tire pulling ahead. That stupid, calm confidence like he knew.
I tell myself I hate him.
I tell myself I don't care.
Neither of those things stick.
The sun starts sinking, bleeding orange into the sky, and reality creeps back in. I can't stay out forever. Eventually, the tank runs low. Eventually, night comes. Eventually, I have to go back.
I slow as I cut through the park, engine idling low. That's when I see her.
Lexi.
Walking fast, like she knows exactly where she's going. Shorts too short. Hoodie slipping off one shoulder. She doesn't look back, doesn't check if anyone's watching.
She turns down the row I know too well.
Tyler's.
My hands tighten on the handlebars until my knuckles ache.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
I don't stop her. Don't call out. Don't follow. I just sit there for a second, jaw locked, stomach twisting with something ugly and familiar. Anger. Disgust. Helplessness. All tangled together.
I ride the rest of the way home slower than before.
The trailer's dark when I pull up. I cut the engine carefully, roll the bike instead of revving it, trying to make myself small. Quiet. Invisible.
Doesn't matter.
The door's already open.
Dad's inside, sitting at the table, bottle in his hand. Empty one on the floor. Another tipped on its side like it fell over and never got back up. The air smells like alcohol and old grease and something sour underneath.
He looks up when I step in.
"Second place," he says flatly.
I don't answer.
"You had one job," he continues. "One."
"I tried," I say. My voice sounds wrong. Thin.
He laughs. Not funny. Not warm. "Tried doesn't pay rent."
I drop my helmet by the door. "I was seconds behind."
"Behind," he snaps. "That's the problem. Always fucking behind."
Something in me cracks. "I rode my ass off."
"And what do we have to show for it?" He stands, unsteady. "Nothing. While you play racer, I'm bleeding money."
"I work," I say. "I help. I'm there every day—"
"Not enough," he cuts in. "Never enough. You think your mom left because of me?"
The words hit like a slap.
I see red. "She left because you drink. Because you hit walls. Because you scare people."
His face hardens. "She left because of you. Because you were another mouth to feed."
Silence crashes down between us.
My chest feels hollow. "That's bullshit."
"You're a burden," he says. "Always have been."
I laugh, sharp and broken. "I do everything for this family."
"You race instead of thinking," he snarls. "You cost me money. You cost me respect."
"I cost you?" I step closer without meaning to. "You drink it away."
That's when he grabs me.
His hand clamps around my arm, fingers digging in hard enough that something inside cracks. Pain shoots up my shoulder, white-hot.
"Don't talk to me like that," he growls.
I shove back instinctively, but he's stronger. Drunker, but stronger. He slams me into the wall. My face hits first.
Stars explode behind my eyes.
Something warm runs down my nose.
Blood.
I taste iron.
He's shouting now. I don't even know what he's saying. My head's ringing. My arm throbs where he's gripping it, fingers numb, useless.
"Where's your sister?" he demands suddenly, breath hot with alcohol.
I blink, trying to focus. "She's not home."
His grip tightens. I gasp.
"Then go get her," he snaps. "Wherever the hell she ran off to."
I swallow, voice shaking. "She's probably at Tyler's."
The name hangs in the air.
Dad lets go like I burned him. "Then go."
I stand there for a second, dizzy, blood dripping onto the floor, body screaming in protest.
"Now," he barks.
With shaking hands I stumble back outside, lungs burning, vision blurred.
I don't know what hurts more.
My face.
My arm.
Or the fact that I'm walking straight toward the one place I never wanted to go tonight.
Tyler's.
The air outside feels colder than it should, like it's pressing straight into my bones. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and it comes away red. Great. Blood keeps dripping anyway, warm and sticky, sliding over my lip. My arm throbs where he grabbed me, already swelling, already turning ugly under the skin.
I walk. Not ride. I don't trust myself on the bike right now.
Every step hurts. Every breath feels too sharp.
My head keeps drifting backward, whether I want it to or not.
My mom.
Two years ago. Standing in the doorway with a bag that wasn't big enough to hold a life. She kept saying she'd call. That she just needed space. That she loved us. Her eyes were red but steady, like she'd already cried all the tears she had.
I remember when things were good. When she laughed in the kitchen. When Dad didn't drink so much. When the trailer felt small but safe. When my biggest worry was getting mud out of my boots before she yelled at me.
Then Dad started getting louder. Meaner. The yelling turned sharp. Plates slammed. Doors shook. I remember the night he shoved her and she didn't even cry. She just looked tired. Empty.
That was when I knew she was going to leave.
I don't blame her.
I never have.
That doesn't make it hurt less.
I sniff hard, smear the blood again. My nose aches like hell. My arm feels stiff, like it doesn't quite belong to me anymore. Tomorrow it'll be purple and green and yellow, a whole damn spectrum of excuses I'll have to make.
I keep walking.
Tyler's place comes into view sooner than I'm ready for. His trailer sits like all the others, except it feels heavier somehow. Like it knows I don't belong here. Like it's waiting to spit me back out.
I glance around before I can stop myself.
No bike.
No familiar scratched frame leaned carelessly against the steps. No helmet tossed on the ground. Nothing that screams Lexi was here. The space beside the trailer is empty, quiet, normal.
My stomach tightens anyway.
She could be inside. She could've walked. She could've left already and I just missed her. My brain spins useless possibilities, none of them comforting.
I swallow hard and step closer. The porch creaks under my weight. The smell here is different than home. Less oil. More dust. Faint traces of gasoline and something sharper underneath. Tyler.
I wipe my nose again. The bleeding's slowed, but my face feels swollen, tight. My arm pulses in time with my heartbeat. I roll my shoulder slightly and hiss under my breath.
Get it together.
I raise my hand and knock.
The sound feels too loud in the quiet evening.
Nothing happens.
I knock again, harder this time. My knuckles sting, but I welcome it. It keeps me grounded.
Footsteps shift inside.
My pulse spikes.
The door opens.