Chapter 11
11
REIGN
Scars - Boy Epic
The room smells sterile, all rubber mats and antiseptic, but there’s something familiar about it now. Rehab has become a routine, something I can’t afford to avoid even though it’s the last thing I want to do.
“Good, Reign, keep it steady. I know it hurts, but we’re almost done,” Jen says, her voice patient but firm.
I keep my gaze on the wall ahead, the feeling of the leg brace digging into my knee, the resistance against my leg with every push. It burns, but I don’t let it show. Jen’s been good to me, always pushing when I need it, never letting me slack off. She knows how stubborn I can be. But I still hate this—hate that I’m here, hate that I’m still stuck.
I push through the last few reps, feeling the sharp ache in my muscles. When I’m done, I yank the brace off, shaking out my leg with a wince.
“You’re looking stronger,” Jen says with a nod. “How’s the rest of it?”
I grunt, glancing over at her. “Same shit. Can’t shake the nightmares.”
She raises an eyebrow, her expression sharp and unrelenting. “You’ve got to talk to someone about that. You’re not gonna get through this if you keep it locked up.”
Jen’s like that—blunt but not unkind, always pushing just enough to make me uncomfortable but not enough to make me snap. She’s got this tough, no-nonsense vibe about her, the kind of person who’s seen too much to be easily intimidated. Her short, dark hair is always neatly tied back, and her eyes—bright and piercing—have this way of seeing straight through the walls I try to put up.
Her office, tucked into the corner of the rehab facility, is a mix of professional and personal, with certificates on the wall alongside snapshots of her family. There’s a picture of her two kids, a boy and a girl, stuck to the edge of her computer monitor, their grins wide and goofy. It’s a reminder that she’s more than just my therapist—she’s someone who’s lived through her own shit and come out the other side.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, the familiar ache in my legs flaring as I adjust my weight. “I’m fine,” I mutter, the words automatic. It’s the same thing I tell everyone. The same thing I tell myself every damn day. But it’s not true. Not really.
She leans back in her chair, studying me like she knows exactly what I’m doing. “You’ve been saying that for months, Reign. How’s that working out for you?”
I don’t answer, my gaze dropping to the floor.
The rehabilitation process has been pure hell.
The kind of hell that forces you to confront every weakness, every failure, every ounce of pain you’ve ever tried to bury. When I woke up in that hospital bed, my body broken and my world turned upside down, I thought the hardest part would be surviving the crash. I was wrong.
The real battle started when they told me I might not walk again.
Physical therapy was grueling—hours of exercises that left me drenched in sweat and swallowing back screams of frustration. Jen was there through all of it, her voice firm but encouraging as she pushed me to do one more rep, to hold the stretch a little longer, to try again even when every fiber of my being wanted to give up.
“You’ve got this,” she’d say, her tone steady and unwavering, like she believed in me even when I didn’t.
Some days, I hated her for it. Other days, I clung to her words like a lifeline.
When I finally took my first steps without crutches, it was Jen who clapped the loudest, her smile wide and genuine as she cheered me on. It was a victory, sure, but it didn’t feel like one. Because Cruz wasn’t there to see it.
Now, sitting across from her in her office, I feel that same mix of gratitude and resentment bubbling under the surface.
“I’m not saying it’s easy,” Jen continues, her voice softer now. “But bottling it up isn’t the answer. You’ve got people who care about you, Reign. Let them in.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple,” she agrees. “It’s messy and hard, and it takes time. But you’ve been through worse. You can handle this.”
I glance at her, the sincerity in her expression making my chest ache. I want to believe her. Hell, a part of me even does. But the idea of opening up, of letting myself feel all the things I’ve been running from, feels impossible.
Instead, I push the thought away, leaning back in my chair with a forced smirk. “You should really work on your motivational speeches, Jen. That one was pretty weak.”
She laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases.
“Just think about it,” she says, her tone light but still pointed.
I nod, but the truth is, I’ve been thinking about it. About everything. And no matter how hard I try, the memories still claw at me, the guilt still weighs me down, and the pain still feels like it’ll never end.
I leave the rehab center with a huff, the late afternoon sun still warm on my skin. It’s been weeks since I’ve really felt like I’m making progress, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending like I’m okay.
But I shove it down, like I always do.
Today’s the first lesson with Lena where she’ll actually be riding on the track, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Part of me is looking forward to it—teaching her, keeping her safe—but the other part of me is wound so tight, I can barely sit still. The track isn’t the ocean, but it still feels like stepping back into a world I’ve been avoiding since the crash.
Before heading over, I decide to stop by Sea Side Café. I figured caffeine will help take the edge off, and if I’m being honest, I need a distraction. The place is quieter than usual for this time of day, the soft hum of conversation blending with the hiss of the espresso machine.
Lena’s always been a sucker for iced coffee—extra caramel, no matter the season. She used to drive Cruz crazy with how sweet she liked it, calling it “dessert in disguise,” but she’d just laugh and sip it anyway. The memory makes my chest ache, but I shake it off, stepping up to the counter to place my order.
“One iced coffee, extra caramel, and a black coffee. Large. I’m gonna need it,” I tell the barista, forcing a half-smile.
I grab the drinks and head for the parking lot, the scent of coffee filling the interior of my Mustang as I drive toward the track. The caffeine’s more of a crutch than a solution, but right now, I’ll take whatever keeps my head on straight.
When I pull into the lot, the track stretches out before me, all sharp curves and long straightaways, calling to something deep inside me. The urge to be out there, following my line, twisting the throttle, and feeling the engine rumble beneath me, is almost overwhelming. For a moment, I can picture it—how natural it used to feel, how free.
But then my eyes land on that spot.
The exact place where everything went to hell.
My chest tightens as the memory hits like a sucker punch: the screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, the way time seemed to slow as everything shattered. My hands grip the steering wheel harder, my knuckles whitening as I force myself to breathe through the wave of nausea.
The pull of the track disappears, replaced by the weight of why I can’t be out there anymore. My head won’t let me. And maybe it never will.
I exhale slowly, shaking off the tension as best I can, and grab the coffees from the passenger seat. Lena will be here soon, and I can’t afford to spiral. This isn’t about me. It’s about her. Always has been.
I set the iced coffee on the bench and lean against the metal fence, watching the empty track. It’s peaceful here, but that peace doesn’t last long. The sound of a bike revving up from down the road reaches my ears, and I turn to see her pull in.
Lena.
She’s not wearing her racing suit today, just a black leather jacket and skinny jeans, her boots clicking against the pavement as she slows down to a stop. Her hair falls in messy waves around her down her shoulders, sun-kissed strands catching the light. There’s something about the way she carries herself, the confident tilt of her chin as she takes off her helmet, the glint in her eyes that makes my heart race every damn time.
I watch her as she dismounts, shaking out her hair, her movements fluid and practiced. She glances at me, and our eyes meet, but it’s not the same as before. There’s a barrier between us now, a distance I didn’t expect.
Not with her. Not with anyone.
She walks over, her eyes landing on the tray of coffees on the bench, as a small smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “I hope you loaded it up with sugar,” she says with a smirk, her tone teasing. “Extra caramel, right? Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“Of course.” I hand her the iced coffee, feeling my chest tighten for reasons I can’t explain.
She takes it, glancing at me with that little challenge in her eyes. “So, you’re gonna treat me like a rookie again today, or are we moving on to the good stuff?”
The way she says it, with that edge of cockiness, hits me hard. I remember the way she snapped at me last time, the way she pushed herself so damn hard, and I don’t want to see her make the same mistakes today.
“I’m treating you like someone who’s still learning,” I say, my tone firm but lighter this time. I sip my coffee, eyeing her over the rim as I add, “Unless you’re secretly a pro and just forgot to mention it?”
She leans against her bike, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Secret pro? Totally. My last championship trophy is collecting dust at home.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Next to your signed poster of me, right?”
She gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like I’ve caught her in the act. “You found out! Damn, now I’ll have to burn it.”
I chuckle, but it fades as I glance toward the track. “I’m just saying, don’t get cocky out there. This isn’t something you just wing.”
She tilts her head, feigning offense. “Are you calling me a rookie, Coach?”
I grin despite myself. “If the helmet fits…”
She huffs, rolling her eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement there. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Yeah, but you’re still here,” I fire back, arching a brow. “So what does that say about you?”
She laughs, and for a moment, the tension eases. But as she moves to put her helmet on, my gaze lingers, my thoughts shifting back to why we’re really here.
We get started, and I can feel the weight of every moment between us. The air is thicker now, full of unsaid things. I can’t stop watching her, noticing the way her body moves with the bike, the way she leans into each turn. She’s good, but there’s something missing—something I can’t put my finger on.
I don’t want to admit it, but I’m worried. The thought of her pushing too hard, making a mistake, it gnaws at me every second. I know I’m supposed to be calm, collected, a teacher. But with her, it’s different.
“Lena, ease off the throttle,” I say through the Bluetooth headset, keeping my voice steady despite the edge of panic clawing at my chest.
“I’ve got it, Reign,” she snaps back, her tone tight.
The sharpness in her voice doesn’t calm me; it only makes the knot in my stomach tighten. I watch her lean into the next turn, pushing harder than she should.
“Lena, you’re coming in too fast,” I say firmly, trying to keep the worry out of my tone.
“Relax,” she mutters, but then I see it—the back tire wobbles, skidding slightly as she overdoes it.
“Brake! Lean into it!” My words are sharp, cutting through the connection, helpless to do anything but watch.
She fights for control, her body shifting, but the bike teeters dangerously close to the edge of the track. I grip the railing at the edge of the pit, my pulse pounding in my ears, helpless to do anything but watch as she wrestles the bike back into line.
When she finally straightens out and comes to a stop near the far end of the track, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I jog toward her, as she pulls off her helmet, her face flushed and eyes wide with adrenaline.
“What the hell was that?” I shout, the words flying out before I can soften them. “You could’ve wiped out!”
She swings a leg off the bike, meeting me halfway, her posture defensive. “I didn’t, did I? I had it under control.”
“Barely,” I fire back, stopping just short of her. My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, but the sight of her almost losing it is burned into my brain. “This isn’t a game, Lena. You’re not invincible out there.”
Her chin lifts defiantly. “I know that, Reign. You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass.”
I step closer, still breathing hard from the rush of fear. “I’m treating you like someone who needs to take this seriously before you get yourself killed.”
She glares at me, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—anger, frustration, maybe even hurt. “You don’t think I’m taking this seriously? I’m out here, aren’t I? Trying, even though you act like I’m never going to be good enough.”
Her words hit hard, sharper than I expect, and for a moment, I’m at a loss.
“I’m trying to keep you from getting yourself killed,” I growl, stepping back, running a hand through my hair. “You don’t get to take stupid risks out here. Not with me watching.”
Her expression hardens, and she opens her mouth to retort, but something in her softens, just a little. Her eyes flicker with frustration, but there’s something else there, too. Something I can’t read.
She takes a deep breath, her shoulders sagging just a bit. “I get it,” she says quietly. “I’ll take it slower.”
We stand there for a moment, the air between us still thick, full of unspoken words. I’m not sure what else to say. I don’t know how to explain that it’s not just about her. It’s about me, too.
Later that night, I’m sitting in my apartment, staring at the glass in my hand. My mind is still racing—still running through everything I didn’t say, everything I couldn’t. I want to be the guy she needs, but I’m still haunted by my own demons.
The drink doesn’t help. Nothing fucking helps.