The kart screamed around the final corner, tires scraping the cracked asphalt with a shriek that matched the pounding in Jaxon's chest. The sun was already high, baking the track in merciless heat, sweat seeping down beneath his helmet. His six-year-old legs strained to keep the throttle steady as he blasted past the finish line.
A man stood at the edge of the pit lane, arms crossed, eyes cold and hard as granite. He held a stopwatch like a weapon, and as the kart roared past, he slammed the button without a hint of hesitation.
Jaxon killed the engine, breathing ragged and shallow, helmet fogging with heat. The sun hammered down, relentless and unforgiving.
"I said the fucking time to beat was 1:06. You got 1:07.371," the man spat, voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You're a disgrace to this track, to these karts, to me." His eyes drilled into Jaxon like bullets.
The boy's gaze dropped to the cracked concrete beneath his boots, unwilling to meet the fury blazing down at him.
"Grab that kart. Now. Let's fucking move," the man barked.
Jaxon climbed out, the metal frame burning hot beneath his fingers as he shoved the kart toward the battered pickup truck waiting just yards away. The air was thick with dust and sweat, the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber hanging heavy.
The man didn't offer a word of comfort. No praise. No mercy.
Together, they hoisted the kart into the truck bed, the sound of metal scraping against metal echoing like a punishment.
The man glanced over his shoulder one last time. "You want to be a racer? Your whore of a mother could've beat that score on her first try while on her meth and coke she does."
"Sorry." Jaxon said as he held back tears.
The man's eyes narrowed, lips curling into a cruel sneer. "Sorry? Sorry ain't gonna cut it, you little fuck. Sorry's for pussies who don't have the balls to get shit done."
He slammed his fist against the side of the truck, making the metal shudder. "I don't give a damn about your sorry, I give a damn about results. You're either breaking records or you're breaking my fucking patience. And right now? You're breaking everything I thought you were."
He leaned in close, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You think this world's gonna hand you shit? Your mom's a junkie, your old man's an asshole, and you're sitting here, crying like a bitch because you can't shave a second off your time."
He spat on the ground between them. "You wanna be a racer? Then start acting like one, or get the fuck out of my sight."
Jaxon didn't move. Didn't cry. Didn't even flinch.
He just stood there, fists clenched at his sides, helmet still on, visor cracked open enough to show the glassy shimmer in his eyes. Not enough to cry — he knew better than to cry. Not in front of him.
His father stared at him for a long, quiet second, jaw twitching. He hated silence. It meant defiance. Or worse — weakness.
"You deaf now too?" he snapped. "Get your ass in the truck."
Jaxon nodded once, stiff and mechanical, then climbed into the cab without a word. The vinyl seat scorched the back of his thighs, but he didn't dare complain. Not now. Not after that.
The door slammed behind him, and a moment later the engine coughed to life. The truck rumbled down the gravel lot, trailing a cloud of dust behind it as the kart rattled in the bed.
They drove in silence. Fifteen minutes of nothing but the creak of old suspension, the rattle of tools, and the hum of the road.
Then his father spoke again — quiet, but laced with venom.
"You know what that kart costs me? Gas. Tires. Chain. Carb work. And your fuckin' time's going backward?" He glanced at the boy. "I could've left you in that trailer with your mama. Let some dealer raise you. You think I wanted this?"
Jaxon didn't answer. He just stared out the window, watching the cornfields blur by like ghosts.
"Don't get it twisted," his dad said, one hand tightening on the wheel. "This ain't for you. This is for me. You fuck this up, you fuck me up. I'm not lettin' another goddamn Rose die broke and forgotten."
Silence again. He reached over and turned the radio on. Static.
"You'll beat that time tomorrow," he muttered. "Or I'll drag you around the fuckin' track myself."
The truck rolled to a stop in front of a modest two-story house just off County Road J — less than five minutes from the main gate of Road America. The kind of place where the roar of engines on race weekends was louder than the birds. Clean siding. Cracked driveway. Lawn half-mowed. Basketball hoop with no net. Middle America, but with the smell of rubber and gasoline always hanging in the air.
His father didn't cut the engine. He just stared straight ahead, eyes dark and unreadable, the bottle wedged between his thigh and the driver's door already half-drained.
"Inside. Now. Don't touch the fuckin' TV. You got drills."
Jaxon didn't ask where he was going. He didn't need to. The liquor, the Camels, the silence — they were a map straight to Sully's Tavern off Route 67.
He climbed out, backpack slung over his shoulder, and shut the door softly. Never slam it. Slamming meant shouting. Shouting meant fists.
His dad peeled away without another word, red tail lights vanishing over the hill like a warning shot.
Jaxon stood on the porch a moment, soaking in the fading warmth of the summer concrete. In the distance, faint and familiar, an engine screamed down the Moraine Sweep. A shiver ran through him.
He turned the key and went inside.
The house wasn't broken. But it wasn't whole, either. The living room had all the right parts — couch, flat screen, dusty bookshelf, clean-enough kitchen. But everything felt paused. Static. Like it was waiting for something that wasn't ever going to show up.
He dropped his backpack and headed straight to the basement — his sanctuary.
Downstairs, the air cooled. Rubber mats cushioned his steps. Posters lined the walls, curling at the edges: Dale Earnhardt, eyes like steel behind that open-face helmet. Richard Petty, arms crossed over the hood of the STP car. Tony Stewart mid-burnout, smoke coiled behind him like a dragon's tail. And right in the center — a faded, sun-bleached photo of his father. Tall, lean, fire in his eyes. Winston Cup jumpsuit. Car #97. Back before everything soured.
Against the far wall sat the rig. Polished aluminum frame. Triple wraparound monitors. Racing seat bolted down tight. Load cell pedals. Direct drive wheel. No toy. This was a fucking machine. Built piece by piece. Paid for in blood and screaming matches.
Jaxon climbed in. Buckled up like he was strapping into the real thing.
The system hummed awake. Fans whirred. The screens flickered to life.
Track loaded: Road America Karting Circuit
Conditions: Dry. Sunny. 74 degrees.
Target lap: 1:06.000
His fingers wrapped around the wheel.
The sun hadn't risen all the way when the first lap started. It was cool then — light mist hanging over the trees, dew on the fencing, the kind of Wisconsin summer morning that tricks you into thinking the day might be kind.
It wasn't.
By noon, the heat was brutal. By mid-afternoon, it was a fucking furnace. The pavement shimmered, the rubber melted, and Jaxon was still out there — head bobbing with every corner, body cooking inside the fireproof suit.
No breaks. No food. Barely any water.
His father didn't believe in "hydration." He believed in toughness.
"Champions don't drink Gatorade. They sweat blood," he said around the filter of his cigarette.
Jaxon had done 113 laps before he spoke a single word. And even then, it was just, "How many more?"
His father didn't answer. Just clicked the stopwatch and scrawled the time. 1:06.249.
Still not good enough.
The laps piled on like bricks on his chest.
His palms went from sweaty to raw to bloody. The inside of his gloves rubbed the skin open. His knees ached from bracing into the turns, and his neck god, his neck it felt like someone had tied a rope to his helmet and dragged him through every corner.
He started hearing things. Like the engine pitch was talking to him. Like the curbs were whispering.
The track wasn't a track anymore it was a beast. A thing he had to tame over and over again, and it hated him every time.
Lap 138.
He locked up the rear again. Skidded wide. Corrected. Got back on throttle. Didn't even look toward his dad — didn't want to see the disappointment.
But the voice still came, sharp and slicing.
"That mistake? That one? That's why you're not gonna make it."
Lap 169.
He finally asked to stop. Voice small. Chest heaving. "Can I—can I take a break?"
His father didn't even look up from the notebook.
"Sure. When Petty did. When Earnhardt did."
Jaxon didn't know if that meant never or just not now. It didn't matter. He put his visor back down and kept going.
By Lap 200, the world was a blur. His arms weren't connected to his body anymore. His eyes were shaking in their sockets. Every bump felt like a hammer blow.
He'd stopped breathing rhythmically. It was short, shallow gasps now.
The kart jerked in Turn 5 and nearly spat him off again.
"Drive like that in a race and you're gonna fucking die."
His father's voice hit him harder than the track did.
But he didn't stop.
Lap 232.
Something cracked — maybe in the chassis. Maybe in his ribs. He didn't care.
Lap 247.
He crossed the line. The kart sputtered. Fuel low. Hands trembling. Time: 1:06.014
He pulled in and stopped. Just sat there.
Helmet still on. Eyes burning.
He didn't say anything. He couldn't.
His dad strolled over slow, chewing on a goddamn toothpick like some old, bitter cowboy. Hungover eyes barely open, face carved from granite — cold, hard, unforgiving.
He stood over Jaxon, who sat hunched in the kart, soaked in sweat, gloves shredded, chest heaving like he'd just fought for air after nearly drowning. Every breath was a struggle — sharp, shallow, like the first gasp of a kid thrown into the deep end.
"Jaxon Rose," he spat, voice low and venomous, "if you're not dead from some overdose by eighteen, you'll be out on the street, no home, no friends, no goddamn future."
He leaned in closer, eyes burning holes into Jaxon's skull.
"All you do is fuck up. Turning like a scared kid, throttle control like you're drivin' a goddamn lawn mower, apex? You don't even know what that means. You're not just making mistakes — you are the mistake. The fuckin' accident no one wanted. Even your birth was a fuck-up."
The words hit Jaxon like a punch to the gut, but he didn't flinch.
Inside, something cracked. Not a fire. Not a scream. Just a slow, dead snap — like a branch breaking under a frozen sky.
No fight left in him. No spark. Just cold, hollow nothing.
Jaxon's eyes stayed on the cracked asphalt, the sweat dripping off his chin, mixing with the dirt and blood on his hands.
He didn't have the energy to look at his father anymore. Not the man who spat on him like he was dirt. Not the man who'd already decided he was a failure before the first lap even started.
The silence between them was heavier than any insult.
His chest heaved, lungs burning. The kart idled beneath him like a beast waiting to chew him up and spit him out.
His father's voice cut through the quiet, dragging the air with it like a whip:
"You're not good enough. Never will be. This whole track, this whole goddamn sport — it's for men, not fucking mistakes like you."
Jaxon said nothing.
"Start the timer." Jaxon said to his dad.
His dad froze for a split second like he didn't expect the kid to have that much goddamn nerve. Then the corner of his mouth twisted into a sneer.
"Fuckin' finally," he spat. "Thought you'd never stop sitting there like a dumb fuck. Fine. Start your little timer. But don't think for one second that'll change shit. You're still the biggest fuckup this side of Elkhart Lake."
Jaxon gripped the wheel tighter, the kart humming beneath him like a wild animal barely tamed. His eyes locked on the road ahead the sweeping curves, the slick apexes, the unforgiving straights of Road America's karting circuit.
His dad's hand hovered over the stopwatch, fingers twitching, ready to snap it shut the moment he crossed the line.
Lap after lap, Jaxon pushed harder. His muscles screamed, sweat stung his eyes, but the throttle was an extension of his own will—precise, brutal, relentless.
Then, as he tore through the final corner, the kart kissed the apex perfectly, the engine roaring as he slammed the pedal down, crossing the finish line in a blur.
Then, as he tore through the final corner, the kart kissed the apex perfectly, engine screaming, tires screaming, every inch demanding more than what Jaxon could give.
He slammed the pedal down, crossing the line in a blur, and killed the engine.
Chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes.
But relief didn't come.
His dad stormed over, his boot smashing into the side of the kart, sending Jaxon sprawling onto the gravel—hands scraping against the rough ground.
Jaxon didn't move. Didn't speak. His visor hid his eyes, shielding him from the cold, hard gaze of the man who held his blood and his judgment.
"1:05.994," his dad said, voice low, sharp. "Hundreds—maybe thousands of laps, and you couldn't even break that barrier. You're a fucking joke. A mistake. A waste of air."
The heat of the sun might as well have frozen over, because inside, something inside Jaxon cracked and shattered.
Jaxon's breath ripped in ragged gasps as he pulled the kart to a stop. The stopwatch in his dad's hand clicked, the numbers flashing back like a slap.
"1:05.994." Dad said, voice flat, almost bored.
Jaxon waited. For some kind of praise. A nod. A goddamn crumb of approval.
Nothing.
"Better than the 1:06 I told you to beat," his dad said, eyes cold as ice. "But don't think this means shit. You're still a fuck-up. Took you a thousand laps to scrape that time together."
The sun hammered down, sweat sliding in rivers down Jaxon's neck.
His dad dropped the stopwatch into his truck, shook his head, and spat on the cracked pavement.
"Pack it up. We're done here."
Jaxon's chest tightened but he didn't argue. He knew better.
They climbed into the truck, the engine rumbling to life. Outside, the Road America track gleamed in the afternoon light — a goddamn beast conquered, but never tamed.
And as the truck rolled away toward their house, Jaxon felt the weight settle back on his shoulders.
Because winning for his dad wasn't winning at all.
The next morning, the cold concrete of the garage bit into Jaxon's knees as he knelt by the kart, sweat from yesterday still crusted on his skin.
Sunlight spilled weakly through the cracked windows, dust motes swirling like ghosts in the stale air.
He ran a hand along the chassis, heart sinking with every touch. The kart felt… off.
He crawled under, fingers probing around the frame, the tires, the seat — then froze.
The weight was all wrong.
Front-heavy as hell.
No wonder the kart felt like it was fighting him every damn turn, why the throttle was twitchy, why the rear wouldn't stick like it should.
His hands trembled just a little as he grabbed the wrench, loosening bolts, shifting ballast, redistributing weight as best as he could.
It was simple but crucial — and it had been killing his lap times all along.
"This is why I'm slow." His voice was a cracked whisper.
No cheering, no "I told you so" from his dad. Just the cold realization that sometimes, the enemy isn't just the man standing over you — it's the machine you fight every day.
Jaxon was still hunched over the kart when the garage door slammed open.
His dad's boots hit the concrete with that heavy, unforgiving thud that made Jaxon flinch every damn time.
"You're signed up."
Jaxon blinked, wrench halfway to the bolt.
"For what?"
"A Midwest karting championship. You're racing. No excuses, no bullshit."
His dad's eyes drilled into him like a goddamn drill bit.
"You think this shit's a game? You think I'm just here to watch you fuck around in circles? You're gonna get your ass handed to you, sure. But maybe just maybe you'll learn something."
Jaxon swallowed hard, the weight of it sinking deep.
His dad didn't care if Jaxon wanted it or not.
He was in.
The days that followed blurred into a goddamn war zone.
Jaxon's world shrank down to the kart and the track, the sound of the engine the only soundtrack he knew.
His hands cracked open and bled, the wheel slipping beneath raw fingers that refused to quit.
Every morning, his dad's voice sliced through the silence like a razor:
"More. Faster. Cleaner. You're not here to be soft."
Jaxon ran drills until his legs shook and his neck burned from staring through the visor for hours on end.
Corner after corner, lap after lap, he chased a ghost — the perfect line, the flawless apex, the impossible throttle control that would shave tenths and hundredths from his time.
His dad never watched him race anymore.
He watched the numbers — the stopwatch, the telemetry — eyes like a hawk, always hungry for a mistake.
"You missed your braking point back there. Again. Fix it. Now."
No praise. No "good job."
One evening, after hours of grinding laps, Jaxon's legs finally gave out beneath him.
He collapsed against the kart, chest heaving like he'd just run through fire.
His vision blurred, sweat dripping into his eyes, mixing with the grit on his face.
That's when his dad stepped forward, stopwatch in hand, cold and exact.
"1:06.2," he said flatly. "Faster than yesterday, but still shit."
Jaxon clenched his fists so tight his nails bit into his palms.
"You think this shit's easy? You think I'm here to stroke your ego? Every fucking millisecond you waste breathing is a failure."
The words cut deeper than any punch ever could.
…
The truck roared down the interstate, the radio dead, the only sound the engine's growl and the ragged breathing of two men trapped in the same metal cage.
Jaxon sat stiff, clutching his helmet on his lap, staring out at the flat stretch of highway that never seemed to end. His dad's eyes were fixed on the road ahead, jaw tight, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The air smelled like stale beer and cigarettes — the ghost of last night's hangover still clinging to the cab.
"You know why you're here?" his dad's voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp like a whip crack.
"To race," Jaxon muttered.
His dad snorted, harsh and bitter. "That's the bare minimum. You're not here to fucking show up. You're here to destroy everyone else. To make them eat your dust and choke on it. But you can't even hit a goddamn apex right. You're sloppy as fuck. You make mistakes like you've never heard the word 'practice.'"
Jaxon swallowed hard. He didn't argue. Fletcher didn't argue. Fletcher broke you until you built yourself back harder.
They rolled off the highway onto the sprawling blacktop of Gateway Motorsports Park. The paddock stretched out like a battlefield — trailers lined up, engines humming, mechanics yelling orders in a language Jaxon was supposed to speak fluently by now.
His dad killed the engine with a snap, turning to look at him, eyes burning.
"Get your shit together. Unload the kart. This weekend's gonna be hell, and I don't want to hear you whining once. You screw up, you're done."
Jaxon nodded, heart hammering as he climbed out. The sun hit him hard, sweat already slicking his forehead. He pushed the kart toward the pit box, every step weighed down with the knowledge that none of this was going to be easy.
His dad lit a cigarette, exhaled, and muttered, "You better be ready to bleed."
They pulled into the paddock before sunrise, the chill of early morning cutting through the truck's cab like a blade. The lot was already alive — trailers, teams unloading, engines humming softly in the quiet dawn.
Jaxon's dad didn't say a word as he hauled the kart out of the truck. "You get one shot. Thirty goddamn minutes to make something of it before they kick you off. No fuckin' mercy, no time to piss around."
Practice was a clusterfuck of nerves and noise. Drivers squeezed into their brief windows, tires screeching on cold asphalt, engines revving up for bursts of speed that didn't last long enough.
Jaxon strapped in, helmet down, heart hammering. The engine roared alive. Thirty minutes. That was it.
Every lap was a battle — chasing grip that shifted with every turn, braking as late as he dared without locking wheels, fighting throttle slip through the slow corners.
His dad stood just past the pit wall, stopwatch in hand, lips curling into a sneer as he barked through the radio, "Brake later. You're pussy-footin' like a scared little bitch. Turn your fucking head and commit or get the fuck off the track."
Jaxon slammed through the corners, sweat blurring his vision, fingers gripping the wheel raw. He felt every muscle burning, lungs on fire, but no rest came. When the clock hit thirty minutes, a flag waved, and the session ended before he could even breathe.
Back in the pits, his dad didn't soften. "That's all you got? You think thirty minutes is enough? It's a goddamn start, you dipshit, but not a goddamn win. You want to survive out here? You better make every fucking second count."
Jaxon nodded, chest heaving, the weight of the limited time crushing down, knowing tomorrow's session would be the same.
Heat 1
The sun was blinding off the pavement. The kind of heat that made your suit stick to your skin like glue. Jaxon climbed into the kart, teeth clenched, eyes forward.
He was starting seventh — mid-pack. No man's land. Too far back to control the race. Too far forward to hide.
Curtis leaned down over the sidepod, voice low but full of venom. "You don't move up in the first three corners, don't bother showing your face after. I'll leave your sorry ass here."
Jaxon didn't respond. Didn't blink. He just tightened his grip and waited for the lights.
They went out.
The roar swallowed everything.
Turn 1 came fast — a tight right-hander with no runoff, no forgiveness. He slipped inside P6, sidepods banging, tires screeching. The kid ahead wobbled on exit, Jaxon pinned the throttle and took him under braking into Turn 2.
Curtis was in his ear already, radio hot. "Two down. Don't fuckin' lift. Stay in it!"
He didn't. He threaded the needle between two karts fighting over fifth, stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and made it his.
P4 by Lap 2.
But the pace was brutal. The front runners were already inches away, and they weren't playing games. The kart in third defended hard — elbows wide, brake checks into tight corners. Jaxon had to back off twice to avoid contact.
"You're letting him own you," Curtis growled. "Break his fuckin' spine or sit behind him forever. Pick one."
Lap 4. Jaxon faked right, swung left, caught the kid sleeping and snuck past under braking into the hairpin.
P3.
The leaders were two seconds up, and that was all she wrote. Not enough laps to chase. Not enough tire left to take risks.
The checkered flag waved. P3.
He coasted into the pits, chest heaving, body shaking from heat and effort. He pulled off his helmet, sweat pouring down his face, lungs clawing for air.
Curtis didn't clap. Didn't smile.
"Third," he said, flat. "You know what third place is? It's the second fuckin' loser. You wanna sleep in the kart tonight, or are you gonna grow a spine and win something?"
Jaxon stared at the ground, jaw tight, blood roaring in his ears. No reply. No excuses.
Heat 2
He was starting P3. Front row, outside.
The engines buzzed like angry hornets — smaller, higher-pitched than the beasts older kids drove. But out here, at eight inches off the ground, forty-five miles an hour still felt like death with a steering wheel.
Jaxon gripped the wheel tighter. Gloves sticky with sweat. The starter raised the flag.
Green.
He launched clean, but not perfect. The inside row bunched up — the pole sitter slammed the gas early and boxed him out through Turn 1. Jaxon held his line, tight through the right-hander, wheels humming across the rubbered-in groove.
Turn 2 came fast. Tighter radius, less room to breathe.
He cut under the kid in P2, wheels almost brushing plastic bumpers. They went side-by-side into Turn 3 — a sweeping left. Jaxon didn't lift. He held it flat, inches from the curb, engine screaming like a chainsaw at redline.
By the back straight he was clear. P2.
Curtis was at the fence. Not clapping. Not smiling. Just watching. Cold and stiff.
Jaxon pushed. Lap after lap, he reeled in the leader — maybe a foot, maybe a kart length each time.
He waited until Lap 4.
Turn 5 — the slowest corner on the track. The kid in front braked late, left a door open the size of a breath.
Jaxon dove.
Too hot.
He locked the rear for half a second, wiggled wide, and clipped the leader's rear tire. The other kart jerked sideways, lost grip, and spun harmlessly into the grass.
Jaxon kept going.
No black flag. No penalty yet.
He had two laps left.
The kid behind him pushed hard — P3 now chasing him down the straight. Jaxon defended like hell. Covered the inside lines. Made his kart wide. Rolled speed through the corners to keep distance.
Final lap. Back straight. His hands hurt. His legs shook. But he stayed ahead.
Checkered.
He crossed the line, first.
Pulled into pit lane. Shut the engine off. Helmet off.
Curtis was already there.
"You proud of that?" he said, voice like glass cracking. "You dump a six-year-old into the grass and call that a win?"
Jaxon looked down at the floor.
"You didn't win," Curtis growled. "You just didn't lose fast enough. And trust me—everyone watching knew it. They saw what you are."
A pause.
"A scared little punk in a plastic kart, getting lucky."
Race Day
The paddock was a sea of chaos — pop-up tents lined in uneven rows, air compressors screaming, tire trolleys clattering over asphalt. Kids buzzed around like wasps, their karts jacked up, gear stripped off, everyone moving fast because the track never waited.
Curtis' tent was quieter.
Not calm. Just colder.
Jaxon sat on a folding chair, race suit unzipped to his waist, his thin undershirt soaked through. He was hunched over a plastic table littered with a spare sprocket, a bent chain guard, and the crust from a sandwich he couldn't stomach.
His helmet sat beside him, scuffed. It stared back like a second skull.
Across from him, Curtis leaned against the truck bed, toothpick twitching between his teeth. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but the way he chewed it — fast, pissed off — said everything.
"You think that was clean racing back there?"
Jaxon didn't answer.
Curtis stepped forward, boots crunching gravel under the asphalt lip.
"You know how many eyes were on that pass you made in Turn 5? You think no one saw you shove that kid off? You think they're just gonna hand you a goddamn medal for that?"
"I didn't mean to spin him."
Curtis snorted. "That's the bitch excuse. 'Didn't mean to.' You think intent gets written on trophies? You think the stewards give a shit about your soft little feelings?"
Jaxon looked down at his hands. Blistered. Greasy. Shaking.
"First fuck-up like that in a real series, you don't get a second chance. You get black-flagged, fined, tossed. And no one, no one, signs a liability."
He slammed his fist down on the table — hard. The chain guard jumped.
"You are not going to embarrass me in front of these Midwest rats. Do you understand?"
Jaxon nodded, quietly.
"I said do you fucking understand?"
"…Yes, sir."
Curtis walked off, toward the tire tent. Left Jaxon sitting there in the heat, eyes burning, heart still spiking from adrenaline and shame.
Around him, the rest of the paddock was alive — families cheering, mechanics joking, engines still howling like angry bees.
But in his tent, Jaxon sat alone, drowning in silence and sweat, waiting for the next round like it was a sentencing.
Hours Later
Jaxon's fingers trembled on the wheel as the lights blinked out. P2 on the grid, engine howling like a beast desperate to be unleashed. The kart jerked forward, tires grabbing the asphalt, the world narrowing to the roar in his ears and the weight of Curtis's stare burning into his back.
The kid in front was cocky—he launched clean off the line, but Jaxon's eyes were sharp. He smelled the weak spots—the microsecond hesitation in throttle control, the way the leader's kart danced just a touch wide in Turn 1.
Curtis paced behind the fence, toothpick clenched between his teeth, face carved from granite, eyes cold and unforgiving. No cheers. No encouragement. Just silence thick enough to drown in.
Jaxon dove in on Lap 2. Brakes mashed hard, tires screaming in protest, kart sliding but never losing grip. He cut under the leader at Turn 3 — inches from the curb, steel nerves screaming louder than the engine. Curtis's voice sliced through the static in Jaxon's head, venom wrapped in ice:
"Don't fuck this up, you hear me? One mistake and you're back in the dirt, and I'm done wasting time on you."
Jaxon swallowed the burn in his throat and shoved the throttle harder, each lap a battle between body and machine, between him and the ghost of his failures Curtis never let him forget.
Lap 5, back straight — the lead was his now. The kid behind was snapping at his heels, but Jaxon's kart was a razor cutting through air and doubt. Curtis's eyes never left him, jaw clenched like he was biting down on a curse.
Final lap, the world compressed. The apex at Turn 7 screamed for perfection. Jaxon's kart kissed the curb. Engine sang. Heart thundered.
Crossing the line, he killed the engine.
Curtis didn't move. No smile, no pat on the back.
"First," Curtis said, voice flat. "You got lucky. Don't expect me to tell you you're good. You're not. You're just less shit than before."
Jaxon's breath caught, but he nodded.
The podium stood a few yards from the paddock — a battered wooden platform, paint chipped and faded from years of Midwest sun and storms. The air buzzed with the low roar of karts still racing, the smell of burnt rubber and spilled fuel thick in the humidity.
Jaxon climbed the steps, chest tight with exhaustion and something else — a quiet, raw edge of defiance. Curtis stood just off to the side, arms crossed, expression unreadable, as if the whole damn thing was a goddamn inconvenience.
The announcer's voice boomed over the PA, mechanical and detached: "And here's your winner, Jaxon Rose! Give it up!"
Jaxon's name echoed. No cheering from Curtis. No fist bump or smile.
The medal hung heavy around his neck, the cool metal unfamiliar against sweat-damp skin. The small trophy, a cheap plastic cup with a crooked kart glued on top, was shoved into his hands by a volunteer who barely looked.
Photographers clicked—flashes exploding like gunfire. Jaxon forced a smile, the visor still fogged with sweat, his hands shaking just enough to betray the calm he tried to wear.
Jaxon swallowed, staring out at the crowd of drivers and parents, none of them knowing what hell he'd just survived to get here.
The anthem played. The flags fluttered.
And his dad? He was already walking away, leaving Jaxon alone with the trophy a reminder that even at the top, he was still trapped in the shadow of a father who'd never let him rest.