Chapter Twenty-Eight
The dirt road rattled the truck so hard Carter had to keep one hand braced on the wheel.
The path to the secluded park was always rough—half potholes, half loose gravel—but he didn’t mind it.
The bumps kept Ethan laughing under his breath every time he bounced in his seat, and Carter would take that sound over silence any day.
Ethan glanced over, gripping the door handle as the truck hit another dip. “Where are we going?”
Carter smirked. “We’re gonna practice riding cross bikes. Then, if you want, we can join in the racing.”
Ethan’s entire face lit up. “No kidding? I’ve wanted to do this since the incident.”
“I figured,” Carter said. “But you gotta promise to be safe.”
Ethan nudged him with his shoulder. “Are you gonna ride too?”
“Yes, of course. I used to ride back in Texas.”
That earned him a grin—wide, excited, boyish. Carter felt it hit him right in the chest.
Damn kid had no idea what he did to him.
The trees opened up, revealing the motorcycle club tucked behind a ridge.
The place was loud, chaotic, and alive. Hard rock blasted from speakers mounted on poles, the kind of music that thumped through the dirt like a heartbeat.
Dirt bikes tore across the track, kicking up clouds of dust. The air carried gasoline, sweat, and that sharp edge of adrenaline that always hung over places like this.
Carter parked and killed the engine. Ethan was already halfway out of the truck, practically buzzing with excitement, as if he couldn’t get his feet on the ground fast enough.
Inside the rental shack, a line of riders waited—some seasoned, some nervous first-timers. Carter stepped up to the counter when it was their turn.
“Name?” the man behind the counter asked without looking up.
“Carter Higgins,” he said.
The guy grabbed two sets of keys and slid them across the counter. “Bikes are out back. Lockers are to the left. Gear’s inside.”
Carter handed Ethan his set. “This place is special,” he said as they walked toward the lockers. “No one gets an edge. You gotta rent their equipment. Everyone rides the same stuff, so it’s all skill.”
Ethan nodded, eyes wide as he took everything in. Carter enjoyed seeing him like this—open, curious, alive.
They changed fast—helmets, gloves, padded jackets, special boots that clunked against the concrete floor. Ethan adjusted his gloves; the kid’s hands were shaking just a little from excitement. It made something warm settle in Carter’s chest.
Out on the practice loop, they each mounted their bikes. Carter kicked his engine to life; the familiar rumble settled into his bones. Ethan did the same, already looking like he belonged there.
They rode the long circle first, getting used to the weight and balance. The dirt kicked up behind them; the wind rushing past, the music thundering from the speakers. Carter kept an eye on Ethan—steady, focused, confident. He rode as if he had been waiting years to breathe again.
After a few laps, Ethan pulled up beside him, lifting his visor. “I used to practice going up that hill,” he said, pointing to a steep rise at the far end of the track. “I’d spring into the air and try to somersault the bike, then land it. But my dad put an end to it.”
Carter stared at him. “Ethan, that’s too damn dangerous.”
Ethan shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I know. But it was fun.”
Carter leaned closer, voice low but firm. “I’d put an end to it too. I don’t want to lose you.”
Ethan froze for a second—just long enough for Carter to see the words hit him. Then he smiled, soft and warm, like Carter had handed him something precious.
They rode again, this time faster. Carter led for a while, then let Ethan take the front. The kid handled the bike like it was an extension of his body—leaning into turns, kicking up dirt, laughing through the roar of the engine.
Ethan cleared the jump clean, landing smooth, steady, confident. Pride slammed into Carter so hard his breath hitched. The feeling didn’t match anything from his childhood—none of those sharp, cold jolts he used to get when his old man barked approval after a win.
This one burned warm. Heavy in the best way. His hands tightened on the handlebars, chest going tight as Ethan looked back at him with that bright, reckless grin.
Damn. Watching Ethan fight his way back like that—Carter felt it hit deeper than he was ready for.
The practice loop had just felt smooth when Ethan pulled up beside Carter, visor lifted, eyes bright with mischief.
“Race me,” Ethan said, breathless with excitement.
Carter snorted. “You sure? I’m rusty, but I ain’t slow.”
Ethan grinned. “Prove it.”
That grin—God help him—Carter would follow it anywhere.
They lined up at the start of the practice track. Carter revved his engine, the steady rumble settling low in his gut, familiar and grounding. Ethan leaned forward on his bike as if he’d been waiting his whole life to be right there, ready to launch.
“Three,” Carter called.
“Two…”
Ethan shot him a look that said try to keep up.
“One!”
They took off.
Ethan launched ahead immediately, kicking up a spray of dirt. Carter pushed harder, leaning into the turns, but Ethan was riding like he had something to prove—fast, sharp, fearless. Too fearless.
“Damn it, kid,” Carter muttered under his breath as Ethan took a turn so low his boot nearly scraped the ground.
Ethan hit the hill next—too fast—and for a second, Carter’s heart stopped. Ethan didn’t somersault the bike, but he sure as hell tried to get air. He landed hard, wobbling, then corrected.
A heavy weight settled right behind Carter’s breastbone.
He’s gonna get himself killed.
Ethan crossed the finish line first, throwing a fist in the air. Carter rolled up behind him, half proud, half ready to strangle him.
Before he could say a word, the owner stormed over—a big guy, sunburned face, arms crossed like a disappointed uncle.
“You!” he barked, pointing at Ethan. “Red helmet. Off the bike.”
Ethan froze. “Uh… me?”
“Yes, you,” the owner snapped. “You don’t jump the hill on practice runs. And you don’t lean that low unless you’re in a sanctioned race. You wanna break your neck, do it somewhere else.”
Ethan’s face went bright red—ears, cheeks, even down his neck. He looked as if he wanted to sink into the dirt.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Won’t happen again.”
“It better not. Last chance,” the owner said, then stomped off.
Ethan stared at the ground, mortified.
Carter waited until the owner was out of earshot before he stepped closer, voice low and firm.
“What the hell was that?” he said. “You trying to give me a heart attack?”
Ethan winced. “I just… got excited.”
“Excited?” Carter leaned in, helmet almost touching Ethan’s. “You pull that stunt again, and I swear I’ll put punish you with my paddle.”
Ethan’s eyes went wide. His blush deepened. “Carter…”
“I mean it,” Carter said, softer but still serious. “I’m not losing you over some damn hill jump.”
Ethan nodded. “Okay. I’ll be careful. Promise.”
Carter exhaled, tension easing. “Good. Now let’s practice like normal people.”
They rode again—slower this time, more controlled. Carter stayed close, watching Ethan’s posture, his balance, the way he corrected his turns. The kid was talented—no doubt about it—but he needed someone to keep him grounded.
And Carter was more than willing to be that someone.
After another half hour, the loudspeaker crackled to life.
“Racers for the amateur heat, line up at the gate!”
Ethan looked at Carter, excitement sparking again—but this time, tempered. “You ready?”
Carter smirked. “Born ready.”
They lined up with a dozen other riders. Engines revved. Dirt churned. The air buzzed with adrenaline.
The gate dropped.
Ethan launched off the line fast, kicking up a strip of dust that rolled straight into Carter’s face. Not wild, not reckless—just sharp, controlled speed. The kind that came from muscle memory waking up.
Carter stayed a few lengths behind, the grit in the air hitting his teeth, the smell of hot engines settling in his throat. Watching Ethan handle the bike like that sent a tight pull through his chest, something low and electric. Every clean turn, every steady lean, pushed that feeling deeper.
Ethan wasn’t trying to outrun anyone. He was claiming the track as if it belonged to him. And damn, Carter felt every second. The kid was flying.
By the final lap, Ethan had a clear lead. Carter could see the determination in the set of his shoulders, the way he leaned into the bike like it was part of him.
When Ethan crossed the finish line first, the crowd cheered. He skidded to a stop, ripping off his helmet, hair wild, face flushed with victory.
Carter pulled up beside him, heart pounding—not from the race, but from watching Ethan come alive.
Ethan grinned at him, breathless. “Did you see that?”
Carter couldn’t help it—he laughed. “Yeah, I saw it. You were damn incredible.”
And as Ethan beamed at him, dirt on his cheeks, eyes shining,
They were both starving by the time they peeled off their gear. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving that good kind of exhaustion—the kind that settled deep in the muscles and made everything feel earned.
The park had a little food stand near the entrance, nothing fancy—burgers, fries, cold sodas. Carter ordered for both of them because Ethan still looked too buzzed from winning to form full sentences.
They sat at a picnic table under a crooked umbrella. Ethan tore into his burger as if he hadn’t eaten in days, eyes bright, cheeks still flushed from the race.
Carter watched him for a second, unable to help the small smile tugging at his mouth. The kid looked… happy. Really happy. The kind of happy that made Carter’s chest feel too tight.
“You wanna come back next month?” Carter asked, taking a sip of his soda. “They run another amateur heat around the same time.”
Ethan looked up so fast he nearly dropped his fries. “Yes. Absolutely. I mean—yeah, that’d be awesome.”
Carter chuckled. “You look like you’re trying not to smile.”
“I’m not,” Ethan said, smiling anyway. “I just… I didn’t think I’d ever get to do something like this again.”
Carter felt that hit him somewhere deep. “Well, you can. And you will.”
Ethan ducked his head, but the grin stayed.