Endo (Full Send #2)

Chapter 28

28

REIGN

Deep End - Birdy

Here’s the thing about getting back on a bike: you either feel like a god, or you feel like you’re one bad turn away from eating asphalt. Today? I’m somewhere in the middle.

The hum of the track vibrates in my chest, the familiar roar of engines mingling with the sharp tang of gasoline and hot rubber. The pits are alive with movement—guys running back and forth, tuning their bikes, gearing up, and swapping jokes. It feels good to be here, like I’ve got a purpose again, but there’s still a weight in my chest that I can’t quite shake.

My bike sits a few feet away, gleaming under the midday sun like it’s taunting me. Like even it agrees I’ve avoided it and made excuses long enough. The guys haven’t said much about it so far today—they’ve been careful lately not to push. But even I know that won’t last. Even now I can feel their eyes on me, silent expectations pressing down on my shoulders.

Wolfe is the first to break the unspoken tension. “Yo, Reign,” he calls out, slapping a hand on my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. “You just gonna stare at it all day, or are you actually gonna remember how to ride?”

I smirk, masking the churn of nerves in my gut. “Relax, Wolfe. When I get out there, you won’t even see me. I’ll be too far ahead.”

He barks a laugh, shoving me lightly. “Big words from a guy who’s been playing track ghost for months. You sure you even remember which way to lean?”

“Unlike you, I actually know the difference between turning and wiping out,” I shoot back, leaning casually against the bike. “Want me to sketch a quick diagram? Help you out?”

“Please,” Wolfe snorts, crossing his arms. “You’ll be eating my dust before you even hit third gear.”

“Doubt it.” My smirk widens, the familiar banter easing some of the tension that’s been knotted in my chest for months.

Draygon chimes in from across the pit, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Damn, Reign’s already talking shit. Must be feeling himself. But seriously, man, it’s good to see you out here. The guys at the Iron Pit are probably lighting candles for your return. You were their golden goose.”

I roll my eyes. “They’ll be fine. Tell them to save the tears. I’ll be back to ruin their wallets soon enough.”

Thorne strides over, his usual cocky smirk plastered across his face, like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to insert himself. “What can I say, mate? You’ve got a knack for drama. First, you’re crashing out in glorious flames, then you’re swooping in on the strip, all knight in shining bloody leathers. Next thing we know, you’ll be in some soap opera.”

“Not my fault you can’t handle the competition,” I quip, shooting him a side glance. “Maybe I’ll audition you for the backup role. You know, comic relief.”

“Oi, watch it!” Thorne retorts, pointing a finger at me with mock indignation. “Just ‘cause you’re back doesn’t mean you’re top dog yet. You’ve still got to prove you’re not all bark.”

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” I say, glancing at my bike, the itch to ride building in my chest. “You’re just lucky I’m feeling generous today. Try not to cry when I leave you in the dust.”

Andre steps into the mix, his presence grounding in a way only he can manage. He claps a firm hand on my back, his tone easy but warm. “No one’s betting against you, Reign. It’s good to have you back. Don’t think too hard—just ride. You’ll know what to do.”

His words settle something in me I didn’t even realize needed settling. I nod, grateful. “Thanks, Coach.”

“Anytime,” he says, stepping back to give me space.

The banter fizzles as the guys scatter to prep their bikes, but the sense of camaraderie lingers. It’s in the smiles they toss my way, the way they keep throwing half-jokes over their shoulders. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I belong here again.

It’s been months since I’ve suited up. Months since I’ve felt the pull of the track. Today, though, the itch to ride isn’t just a whisper in the back of my mind; it’s a roar. The fear that’s shadowed me since the crash is still there, but it’s muted, drowned out by something louder. Something I can’t ignore.

I grab my gear bag and start suiting up, the familiar ritual grounding me as much as the leather itself. The jacket slides on first, its snug fit a comforting weight against my shoulders. My leg twinges as I bend down to pull on my boots, a faint reminder of the crash that put me here in the first place. Rehab’s been working—I’m stronger now, better—but certain motions still stir up a dull ache that refuses to let me forget.

I flex my knee carefully, letting the stretch work out the worst of the stiffness before moving on. Helmet next, my fingers brush over the scuff marks etched into the matte black surface, each one a reminder of battles won and scars earned. Last, are my gloves. The weight of it feels right in my hands, like slipping into an old, familiar skin.

Swinging my leg over the bike takes a little extra care, the motion pulling at the lingering soreness in my thigh. It’s nothing I can’t handle, but the sharp edge of it makes me grit my teeth. Once I’m settled in the seat, though, the discomfort fades into the background. The bike feels both familiar and foreign beneath me—like a part of me I’ve been missing but still need to relearn.

I glance toward the guys as they gather at the edge of the pit, their expressions a mix of curiosity and quiet expectation. Sayshen catches my eye first, his grin lazy but laced with encouragement. I can tell they’re all watching, waiting to see if I’ll falter, but not a single one of them doubts I’ll rise to the occasion. And neither do I.

“About damn time,” he shouts, smirking. “Thought you were just gonna pose with it for Instagram or something.”

“Shut it, fucker,” I call back, but I can’t help the grin tugging at my lips.

Draygon leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Don’t choke out there. You’ve got a reputation to rebuild.”

Thorne’s voice cuts through next, dripping with his usual sarcasm. “Reckon you’ve still got it, mate? Or are you just gonna take a lap and call it a day?”

“You’ll see,” I shoot back, sliding my helmet on. The visor clicks into place, and suddenly, the world outside fades. It’s just me and the bike now.

I press the ignition, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The vibration hums through my body, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel steady. Alive.

“Let’s go,” I mutter to myself as I twist the throttle and roll toward the track.

The asphalt stretches ahead, a twisting ribbon of black that calls to every instinct I’ve been suppressing. The first turn comes fast, and I lean into it, my body stiff and cautious. The bike responds, but my muscles fight it, the ghost of the crash tugging at the edges of my mind.

The second turn comes quicker, sharper, and I force myself to trust the bike. To trust me . The tires grip the track like a lifeline, and with every passing second, the tension in my chest eases. The wind rushes past, drowning out the noise of the pit, the doubts, the memories.

By the third lap, I’m moving like I never stopped. The bike is an extension of me, every turn, every acceleration smooth and deliberate. My heart pounds with adrenaline, but it’s not fear anymore—it’s exhilaration. This is what I’ve been missing.

The rush. The control. The freedom.

As I round a turn onto the straightaway, a bike pulls up beside me. Revel. His bike hums low and steady, and he matches my speed with ease. His visor is down, but I can feel the tension radiating off him as he keeps pace with me.

We don’t speak, don’t gesture. It’s just us and the track, a silent conversation carried out in speed and precision. When he nods slightly and accelerates ahead, I let him go, my focus snapping back to my own rhythm.

The hum of the pits fills the air as I swing off the bike, the adrenaline still coursing through me. My leg aches faintly—a dull, familiar throb that I’ve learned to live with—but it’s manageable. More importantly, it didn’t hold me back.

Draygon steps forward first, his grin wide and genuine. “You looked good out there, man,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Didn’t even seem like your leg was bothering you.”

“How’d it hold up?” Wolfe asks, his tone softer than usual. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning me like he’s looking for any signs of pain.

I roll my shoulders, flexing my leg slightly to ease the stiffness. “It’s holding,” I reply, my voice steady. “Still gets tight on some of the turns, but rehab’s been helping. It’s getting there.”

Andre nods, his expression serious but encouraging. “You’ll get there. It takes time, but you’re already ahead of the curve. That didn’t look like someone holding back.”

“Agreed,” Draygon adds. “From where we were standing, you looked like you hadn’t missed a day. Smooth, sharp, confident.”

Thorne finally speaks, his voice lacking its usual edge of sarcasm. “Gotta say, mate, I was impressed. Looked like you were back to form. Damn near heroic, if I’m being honest.” He smirks, but it’s softer, less biting. “You keep this up, we’ll all be struggling to catch up.”

I shake my head, letting out a small chuckle. “Thanks, guys. Means a lot.”

Wolfe grins, stepping forward to clasp my arm briefly. “We’re just glad you’re back. This place wasn’t the same without you.”

The weight in my chest loosens a fraction, the steady stream of support pulling me further out of the fog I’ve been stuck in. Their words aren’t just platitudes—they mean it. And for the first time, I let myself believe it.

The banter quiets, replaced by something calmer, something grounding. I glance back at the track, the memory of the ride fresh in my mind. The bike under me, the rush of speed, the turns—it felt like a piece of me had finally clicked back into place.

For the first time in months, it feels like I’m not just here—I’m part of this again.

Then the low purr of an engine draws my attention. Revel pulls into the pits, his bike humming like a predator stalking its prey. He rolls up beside me, cutting the motor and flipping up his visor. For a moment, our eyes meet, and for once, there’s no cocky smirk—just something steady, something genuine.

“You looked good out there,” he says, his voice carrying just enough respect to surprise me.

I arch an eyebrow, caught off guard but not about to show it. “Thanks,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.

Revel leans back slightly, resting an arm on his handlebars. “Seriously. The team’s been missing you. Glad to see you back.”

The sincerity in his words is unexpected, and I can’t help the flicker of confusion that passes through me. “Trying to get back to 100 percent,” I admit, shrugging. “Still figuring it out.”

“You’ll get there,” he says with a nod. “You’re already closer than you think. Hell, you’re better than most of us, and you’ve been off for how long?”

The faint smirk I manage isn’t forced. “Nice to know you’re finally admitting it.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Matthews,” he quips, flipping his visor back down. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” With that, he revs his engine lightly and rides off toward his station, leaving me standing there with his words still ringing in my ears.

Revel isn’t the type to hand out compliments, least of all to me. But whatever this was—it felt real. Genuine. Like maybe he wasn’t just talking about my performance on the track.

Before I can dwell on it, a car pulls up, and my attention shifts. Lena steps out, her stride confident, her gear bag slung over one shoulder. Even in her training gear, she’s a vision—effortless and commanding, her presence pulling every eye in the pits without even trying.

But something’s off. The warmth I’ve come to expect from her isn’t there. Her focus is sharp, distant, and it cuts through the pits like a cold wind.

I push off my bike, moving to meet her halfway. “Hey,” I call out, keeping my voice light, hopeful even.

She glances at me, her eyes flicking over my face for the briefest moment before shifting past me to the guys. “Hey,” she replies, her tone clipped, detached.

The coldness in her voice lands like a punch. “Everything okay?” I ask, trying to keep the edge out of my tone.

“Fine,” she says too quickly, brushing past me without a second glance.

The sting of her cold shoulder is immediate, a crack forming in the high I’ve been riding since I got back on the track. My chest tightens, the questions and frustrations swirling in my head. We were supposed to train today, get ready for the rescheduled race—the one ruined the other night when the cops showed up. It’s happening in a couple of days, and the stakes couldn’t be higher. We both know it. So why the hell is she acting like this?

I watch her as she heads to her bike, unzipping her bag and pulling out her helmet with deliberate, almost mechanical movements. Everything about her screams avoidance, like she’s trying to put as much space between us as possible.

Wolfe, ever the one to lighten the mood, quips from behind me, “Guess Lena’s here to show us all up again.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Draygon adds with a laugh, but their voices barely register.

I stay rooted to the spot, my jaw tight as I take her in. This isn’t the Lena I know—the one who let her walls down with me, who shared pieces of herself no one else has seen. This Lena feels like a stranger, cold and distant, and it guts me more than I want to admit.

The guys start to gear up for their next laps, their chatter fading into the background as my focus narrows on her. She’s avoiding me, and I don’t know why, but I’m not letting it slide.

Not with the race so close. Not after everything.

Once the track clears and the guys are done, I’m getting answers. Whatever this is, it’s not over. Not by a long shot.