5. 5
The Good Life - Three Days Grace
“ M ate, don’t tell me you’re still babying that bloody bike of yours.” Jackson’s voice buzzes through my phone speaker. I smirk, shoving a spanner into my toolbox.
“Still runs like a dream, Jax. Unlike your knee after that last spill.”
“Oi, don’t remind me. I’ve got the scars to prove it.
” His laugh comes through, but there’s a hint of nostalgia in it.
“You’re not seriously gonna sit this one out, are you?
Think about it. The first event in three years, Michael.
Three years.” My mouth opens to speak, but he beats me to it.
“Don’t give me that ‘I’ve moved on’ crap.
You loved it, mate. Don’t pretend you didn’t,” Jax presses.
I pause, leaning against the workbench, my eyes catching on the faded photo pinned to the wall. It’s me, mid-air on my old dirt bike, covered in mud but grinning like an idiot. Back then, it was just me, the track, and the burning need to win.
Motocross wasn’t just a sport to me—it was freedom. My form of escape .
When the world felt like it was crumbling around me, when Dad’s yelling echoed through the house, or the crash of a bottle shattered the quiet, I’d throw on my gear and ride.
Out there, on the track, none of it could touch me.
The abuse, the drugs, the alcohol—it all faded behind the roar of the engine.
Harrison bore the brunt of Dad’s fists, shielding me from the worst of it, but I still felt it.
Every scream, every bruise, every insult carved a little deeper.
Motocross was my way out, my way to forget.
“So, you’re thinking about it, huh?” Jax teases over the phone, his voice full of that familiar cockiness that used to piss me off back in the day.
“I did love it,” I admit. “Still do, if I’m honest.” There’s nothing like the adrenaline, the world blurring around you as the bike hums beneath you. I let out a sigh. As always, life got in the way. “But I sold my Yamaha YZ250 a couple of years back. Had to clear some bills.”
“Bloody hell, the YZ250? You worked your ass off for that bike!” Jax says, genuinely horrified.
“Yeah, well…” My gaze shifts to the corner of the shop where my Ducati sits under its cover, sleek and untouched by dirt. “Found my Ducati not long after. She’s been mine ever since.”
“Ducati, huh? Fancy bastard,” he teases. “The Ducati will be perfect.”
“Yeah, but she’s never touched a track. She’s not that kind of ride.”
“Excuses,” Jax fires back.
“How’s Kate?” I ask, steering the conversation away from myself. “Still putting up with you?”
“Barely,” Jax laughs. “Married life’s good, though. Keeps me out of trouble… mostly.” There’s a pause, then his tone shifts, turning serious. “Look, the boys are all coming back for this one. Even Rick.”
I scoff. “Rick? Didn’t he swear he’d never race again after his collarbone?”
“Yeah, well, he’s changed his tune,” Jax says. “He’s already signed up. Don’t let him show you up, mate.”
“Rick’s an idiot,” I mutter, shaking my head, though a flicker of temptation creeps in.
“Maybe, but he’s an idiot who’ll be at the starting line. And if he can do it, so can you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say dismissively, but Jax isn’t letting it go.
“You’ve got three months, Michael,” he presses. “Plenty of time to shake off the rust. Practise, stretch those legs, and come out swinging. You were always a natural.”
“Natural or not, it’s been years, Jax. It’s not as simple as just hopping back on.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps. “You always do this—shut yourself off when something scares the shit outta you. It’s time to stop hiding, Michael. Get your ass on that track.”
I let his words hang there for a moment, the silence stretching between us. He’s not wrong, and that pisses me off. “I’ll think about it,” I finally say.
“You better. And don’t think I won’t drag you there myself if I have to.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, a small smile tugging at my lips.
We hang up, and I’m left standing in the quiet of the shop.
My hand brushes against the helmet on the bench, and for a moment, I can almost hear the roar of engines, feel the heat of competition.
Maybe Jackson’s right. Maybe it’s time. Outside, the air is warm as I straddle my Ducati.
The engine rumbles to life beneath me, a sound that’s always felt like home. Before I can pull out, Harrison’s voice calls out. “Oi, dinner at mine! Lasagne’s on!” I glance over my shoulder to see him leaning against his WRX.
“Imogen’s cooking?” I ask, half-smirking.
“Of course.”
“Alright. Just don’t let her burn it this time,” I retort, revving the engine lightly.
“She’ll kill you for saying that.”
I flash him a grin, then take off toward his place.
Inside the granny flat, the first thing I hear is the rapid pitter-patter of tiny feet. Before I can brace myself, a small body barrels into me, nearly knocking the wind out of my chest.
“Mike!” Joseph squeals, his little arms flailing as I scoop him up. He’s babbling something half-intelligible about his day, his wide grin flashing with a hint of mischief.
“Whoa there, mate! You’re getting heavy,” I tease, tossing him gently into the air. He squeals again, laughing so hard his chubby little cheeks puff up.
“Not ‘eavy!” he protests, wriggling as I hold him close.
“Not heavy, huh?” I grin, pretending to weigh him like a sack of potatoes. “Nah, you’re a tank, Joseph.”
“Taaaank!” he repeats, giggling as I set him down. He toddles off toward the kitchen, shouting something about lasagne.
“Dinner’s ready!” Imogen’s voice calls out, and I follow Joseph to the dining room. Imogen’s by the kitchen bench; her blonde hair swept back into one of those ribbon things she’s always wearing.
“Hey,” I say, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
She gives me a warm smile. “You’re just in time. Sit.”
Joseph’s in his highchair, smacking the tray with his tiny hands while Imogen feeds him little spoonfuls of mashed veggies in between bites of her own lasagne. Harrison’s already halfway through his plate, shovelling food like he’s never eaten before.
“So,” I start, glancing at Harrison as I cut into my food. “Jax called me today.”
Harrison pauses mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. His eyes narrow. “Like… riding Jax?”
I nod, taking a bite.
He drops his fork, grinning like a kid on Christmas. “What did he want?”
“What do you think?”
“No way.” His grin widens. “No bloody way. What did you say?”
I shrug. “Told him I’d think about it.”
“You’re kidding me.” Harrison leans forward, his excitement practically vibrating off him. “It’s been years, mate. You’ve got to do it. When’s the event?”
“Three months,” I reply, smirking at his enthusiasm.
“Plenty of time to get your shit together!” he says, slapping the table.
Imogen looks between us, frowning. “Wait, who’s Jax? Riding? What are you two on about?”
Harrison points his fork at me. “Go on, tell her.” I sigh, leaning back in my chair.
“Jax is an old mate from when I used to race motocross. The first event in three years is coming up, and he’s trying to rope me into it.”
“Motocross?” she echoes, her brow arching.
“Yeah,” Harrison jumps in, grinning. “This bloke here used to be a bloody legend on the track. Best teen rider Wattle Creek’s ever seen.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“Not that big a deal?” Harrison scoffs. “It was your whole life, mate. You need this. You’ve been too bloody serious lately. Well… apart from the fiery redhead the other day.”
Imogen freezes mid-scoop, spoon hovering over Joseph’s open mouth. Her eyes narrow. “Redhead?”
Harrison laughs nervously, waving his hand. “Nothing. Just some woman Michael ran into.”
“Pain in the ass, that’s what she was,” I mutter, but my mind betrays me, conjuring up her face, her fiery hair, her sharp tongue, the way she stormed off without a backward glance.
Imogen tilts her head. “Oh? Sounds like she left quite the impression.”
“Yeah, an annoying one,” I say, trying to sound indifferent. But I can’t help wondering what she’s doing now. Where she went. Why the hell she’s still in my head.
Imogen smirks knowingly. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Alright, enough,” I mutter, shoving another forkful of lasagne into my mouth to avoid further questioning.
Harrison is clearly enjoying the spectacle because he’s grinning from ear to ear. “I’m telling you. Racing, fiery redheads—this is exactly the kind of excitement you need in your life.”
I roll my eyes but don’t argue. Because maybe he’s got a point.