CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Asher
The track in Aragón stretched ahead of me. At barely seven a.m., it was just me and the tarmac. I filled my lungs with the cool morning air, bracing for one of the biggest challenges of the season.
The first time here, I’d been heartbroken. The second—last year—rattled and desperate just to finish. It was a miracle I’d taken second when every mile felt like a stab to the heart.
“Morning.”
I turned at Roy’s voice. He strode over with two takeout coffees, eyes hidden behind black shades.
“Trying to poison the competition?” I nodded at the cups. “Fair warning: I’m tough. Might take double the dose of whatever you put in there.”
Roy slid off his shades. “You can drink it. I figured you needed something. It’s never easy to face the past.”
He knew about Dad. Everyone did. His wins were only overshadowed by his absurd death on this track.
“I met your father,” Roy said. “Still have his autograph framed at home. We raced together his last season, though I ended up at the bottom of the table. When I saw you wildcard in Jerez, it was like watching him again.”
I sipped. The coffee was just how I liked it—scorching and bitter. “A journalist once told me the same. That I copied his technique.”
Roy took a hearty gulp of his. “You’re his son. Like him—but better.”
“Fuck.” I twirled the cup. “Definitely poisoned. Next you’ll say it’s a shame I won’t beat you, and I’ll drop dead right here.”
He smirked. “I’d hope not. You make racing more fun.”
“Isn’t being undefeated for the last four seasons enough fun?”
“Nobody’s undefeated,” Roy said. “I won last season, but this one might be yours. Careful at turn eight. Visibility’s shit there, and that’s what slowed you down last time.”
Images of Dad’s accident flashed, but Roy was right about that section. Strange Dad hadn’t highsided there with how brutal it was.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll try to focus better this time.”
I fucking hoped a year of therapy was enough for that.
Roy nodded. “Good. Wanna know what advice your father gave me?”
My heart twitched. Even years later, I would’ve given anything to hear Dad’s guidance. “Sure.”
“He told me to embrace who I was and stop dwelling on what I wasn’t. Might apply to you, too. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna call my wife.”
He waved his phone and headed toward the hotel.
I finished my coffee, thoughts spinning.
I’d always wanted to be like Dad. Race like him. Look like him. Only a man like him would give his rival advice. He believed there was space for everyone.
But copying his strategy hadn’t worked. Things hadn’t worked out with his first team, and his technique fit him better than it ever fit me. Maybe Roy was right. Maybe I needed to take a leap of faith, embrace who I was, and trust Dad would still be proud.
***
I knew it even before the front wheel grazed the finish line.
First.
Fucking first.
Fans roared. My crew jumped up and down. Swallowing the knot in my throat, I pressed my fingers to my lips, then pointed upward—to where Dad was watching.
I wanted to call Kaia. She’d probably left me a voice message already; she wouldn’t miss the race.
I didn’t need a win to feel lucky—I had her—but fuck, this felt incredible.
After the cooldown lap, I followed Marshall’s directions into the pit lane. None of it was new—the team’s congratulations, the quick interviews, the podium ceremony—but everything felt amplified. Brighter.
“Congratulations again,” Roy said as we walked to the media center. “Kind of regret giving you advice, not gonna lie.”
I clapped his back, laughing. “Too late. And thanks. Hope I made the race more fun for you.”
“Should’ve poisoned you yesterday,” Roy muttered. “I handed you the stick to break my own head with.”
“Exactly that.”
People swarmed the media center. I considered the staff entrance but fuck it. As Roy and I cut through the throng, my pulse skittered.
One second. A flash of a familiar face in the crowd. No way.
“Asher?” Roy called, about to step inside.
“Go ahead. I’ll be a minute.”
I pivoted, feet carrying me toward the man I hadn’t seen in years. The crowd parted; my heart pounded. Was it really him?
“Miguel,” I called.
He turned slowly, and I stopped dead. It was him. Lines bracketed his mouth, gray streaked his temples. Mid-forties, but older somehow. Worn down.
“Asher,” he said.
Questions jammed my throat. Why didn’t you call? Why ignore my emails? Why send me that gift in December?
I opened my mouth, but nothing came.
He stayed silent too, watching me the way he used to when I was a kid, and he told me I’d go far. Why was he here? For me?
The crowd funneled into the media center. Shit. I needed to go—but I couldn’t let him vanish again. I’d rather miss the press conference than this chance.
“We need to talk,” I told him. “After the conference. Can you wait?”
He nodded, weary. “I’m going there too.”
My gaze snagged on the pass around his neck. He belonged here. He must work in racing now.
As we walked toward the building, I caught his glances. They burned into me, sent my blood racing.
He slipped into a seat at the back beside the sports reporters. I joined Roy at the front table. My phone vibrated. I unlocked it instantly.
Kaia: You did it, mi nino. I’m so proud of you.
She’d attached a photo of herself, eyes glistening, smile radiant. I typed back fast.
Me: Gracias, mi amor. Te quiero.
Roy cleared his throat discreetly. I forced my attention back to the journalist in the front row.
“Bruno Lopez from Racing World. To what do you owe today’s victory?”
Easy. I glanced at Roy. “Roy’s advice. Sorry for being such a fast learner.”
The room broke into chuckles. Roy punched my bicep, grinning. The next few questions went to him. Then it was my turn again.
“David Gonzalez from Deportes Plus. How does it feel racing on this track?” the middle-aged man asked.
At least he didn’t say Dad’s name, though the question was there, buried under the words.
“It’s a challenging one,” I said. “But I did my best.”
Across the room, Miguel held my gaze. A knot swelled in my throat. Why now? Why here? Was he here last year too? Watching every race? Eight fucking years—hundreds of chances—and he stayed silent.
Focusing on the rest of the conference was hell. The moment it ended, I shot to my feet, told Roy I needed to speak to someone, and headed straight for Miguel. He lingered by the door, twirling his cap.
“I’m staying at a hotel here,” I said. “We can talk there.”
“Okay.”
I used our walk to the hotel to tamp down the fury clawing at me. Because fuck, I was mad. Mad he ignored me. Mad he vanished when I needed him most. Mad he left me with memories of Dad and no one to share them with.
In my hotel room, I gestured toward two chairs at a small table by the window.
I sat, jaw locked, heart wedged in my throat. “I emailed you,” I said. “Called you. Went to your place in Madrid like a fucking stalker. Then you sent me a birthday gift like nothing happened. You were his best friend. What the fuck did I do for you to write me off?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, pressing folded hands to his mouth. “Nothing. And I’m sorry. I watched every race you’ve done. Came to every one in Spain. When you highsided”—his voice shook—“it was like watching Sergio again.”
“I was there.” My voice cracked, rising. “Remember who saw him die? Me. And you were the only one who could’ve made it bearable. We could’ve leaned on each other, but instead you… hid like a coward.”
Miguel shot to his feet, the chair scraping back.
“And I regret it every single day. Do you think it was easy watching you struggle?” He pressed a fist to his chest. “I lost my best friend, my brother—but you lost your dad. I didn’t want you to lose your mother too.
And you would have, if I hadn’t kept my distance. ”
I dragged my hands down my face. “You make no fucking sense. If I lost my mother, it’s because of her choices. She moved on three months after Dad’s death without a second thought.”
He scoffed, tossing his cap onto the bed. “No, she didn’t.”
Iron bands cinched around my chest. “What do you mean?”
Miguel paced, breathing hard. “She and Russell were together long before that. Sergio found out about her affair the night before he crashed. He was devastated. And it was my fault. I shouldn’t have let him race. He loved her with everything in him. He—”
“Her affair?” No. Impossible. My throat closed. I forced myself to breathe, but it barely worked.
“Please,” I exhaled. “Explain.”
He sat again, clasping his hands on his knees.
“He found pictures of them and confronted her. Turns out your mother and Russell went way back. They dated, then she met Sergio, and Russell married someone else. You’d think they’d moved on, but no.
They’d been seeing each other on and off for years.
Each time he came to Madrid, he stayed at the hotel where she worked. ”
“No.” I shook my head. I refused to believe it. If he was telling the truth, she’d lied to me all my life. Lied to Dad too. And then there was Kaia and her mom.
I rubbed my chest. This couldn’t be true. “Why tell me now?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth—”
“When you were fifteen and grieving? You wouldn’t have forgiven her, and rightfully so.
You would’ve been alone. You would’ve felt guilty, like me—thinking if only I’d stopped him from getting on that bike, he’d still be alive, laughing at my stupid jokes, riding, watching his son grow into a man he’d be proud of.
He was proud. You were his pride. Not his achievements.
Not the trophies. You. That’s why it hurt so much—because she wasn’t faithful, and there’s a possibility you might not be—”
Blood roared in my ears. “My father’s? Is that what you’re saying?”
Miguel nodded. “She told him she thought you were his, but she wasn’t sure. I saw your pictures with Russell’s daughter in a magazine. I wasn’t going to tell you any of this, but if the two of you are together, you need to know. I already feel guilty enough.”
“No way.” I shook my head. “Look at me. I’m Dad’s copy. Always have been. I can’t be Russell’s.” Maybe my mother wanted me to be, but one glance at me was enough for anyone to see whose son I was.
“I’m pretty sure you’re Sergio’s,” Miguel said. “He wasn’t going to do a paternity test. He said you were his son, and he was most definitely right. You look like him. You race like him. But if there’s even a tiny chance we’re wrong, I’d rather you knew.”
“So, nothing was wrong with his bike?” I whispered. “He was just so upset he made a mistake?” My voice broke on the last syllable. I blinked away the blur in my eyes.
“The bike was fine,” Miguel said.
I steepled my hands together. They shook. Twenty-four years of my life—nothing but a string of lies. How could my mother be so good at lying?
It wasn’t only about me. It was about Kaia and her mom. Her father neglecting her all her damn life. None of this was fair.
“I’m so sorry,” Miguel said. “Every year I bought you a birthday gift, and every year I hated myself for not reaching out. Sergio would’ve wanted me to take care of you, and I let both of you down.”
Resentment filled me, bitter and sharp. “You did. I deserved to know earlier. I didn’t fucking deserve to wonder why. I would’ve preferred the truth. You were worried about my relationship with my mother, but you never even asked if we got along.”
“I wanted you to have someone. Losing one parent was bad enough. I didn’t want you to lose both.”
I slumped against the back of the chair, exhaustion sinking into my limbs. If only I could close my eyes and go back to when I knew nothing.
“Is it serious with Kaia?” Miguel asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you need to…”
Break the heart of the girl I adored all over again. Just when we’d both begun to heal. Right after I’d asked her to move in with me. Doing the right thing sucked, but I owed it to her.
To us.
To Dad.