Chapter Twenty Three
Revel
The grid feels different today.
Same heat bleeding up through the asphalt. Same engines snarling around me, vibrating through the frame and into my bones. Same sharp smell of fuel, rubber, sweat, sunbaked concrete. Same grandstands packed with people waiting for one of us to do something brilliant or stupid enough to remember.
But I’m different.
That’s the fucking problem.
Or maybe it’s the point.
My hands settle around the grips while the crew finishes clearing away. Andre is somewhere off to the side, watching all of us with that permanently stressed expression that says he’d like one race where nobody tries to shave ten years off his life.
Good luck with that.
I glance toward the paddock where I know Cece is standing with Lena and Bexley.
Her hair blowing in the wind, sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head, one hand shielding her eyes from the Florida sun while she watches me from behind the barrier.
That’s my girlfriend.
Still sounds fucking good.
Better now that I know she loves me.
Actually loves me.
Not tolerates me or secretly likes me while threatening to run me over.
Loves me.
Fuck, yeah.
I smile inside my helmet.
Her eyes narrow immediately and she points at the track like she can somehow boss me around from fifty feet away.
Focus.
I lift two fingers from the grip and point at her instead.
She gives me the middle finger.
Yep.
That’s my girl.
For a second, everything else around me fades.
Not completely.
The engines are still screaming. Heat still sits heavy over the track. Someone beside me revs hard enough to shake the air, but my attention keeps drifting back to her.
To everything it took to get here.
Her pretending she couldn’t stand me while tracking every fucking move I made, that first kiss she swore never happened, the beach, Miami, and her Honda choosing the perfect fucking time to strand us there.
Takeout in bed, her falling asleep against me, the way she trusted me in the ocean, that little gold wave sitting against her chest, and finally hearing her say she loved me after spending half the night ready to fucking murder me.
Every stupid, messy, perfect piece of it.
I used to think winning meant crossing a finish line first.
Maybe it still does sometimes.
But this?
Cece standing in my paddock like she belongs here.
Knowing I get to go home with her afterward and that I’ve, somehow, gone from chasing the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met to being the guy she chose.
That feels like winning too.
Probably more.
My eyes drop for half a second to her stomach.
Bad fucking idea.
Because apparently my brain has decided this is the perfect time to remember Miami.
Our imaginary daughter.
Tiny and mean. Probably yelling at me in Spanish before she can properly form sentences.
Cece pregnant.
Fuck.
The image hits harder now, because for the first time, the idea doesn’t feel impossible.
A house.
Cece.
Guac judging every life choice we make.
Maybe someday a little girl with streaks in her hair and her mother’s attitude, running around making my life absolute hell.
The thought makes goosebump prickle along my skin.
Jesus Christ.
Focus.
Cece tilts her head like she can somehow tell exactly where my brain just went.
Her mouth curves. That little smug fucking smile.
I shake my head because, yeah, she knows.
Maybe not exactly what I’m thinking. Hopefully not, because I’d never hear the end of it, but she knows enough.
The official starts moving down the grid, final checks happen around us, visors lower, engines climb, and the whole atmosphere tightens until it feels like the air itself is holding its breath.
This moment always does something to me, that tiny stretch of time right before the start where everything is still possible.
I could win. I could lose.
I could make one perfect decision and change the race, or one bad one and fuck the entire thing.
Funny how that’s pretty much life too.
You never really know what’s coming, and that used to piss me off more than anything.
I spent half my childhood learning how little control I actually had over my own life, new houses, new rules, new adults deciding where I slept and what happened next while I stood there pretending none of it mattered.
Racing gave me control, or at least I thought it did. Out here, I choose when to brake, when to lean, when to push, how much risk I’m willing to take.
But even here, there are no guarantees. Tires fail, weather changes, people make mistakes, and some asshole you trust can close a gap you were sure was there.
You can do everything right and still end up sliding across asphalt wondering what the fuck just happened.
That doesn’t mean you stop riding.
I think that’s the part I finally understand now.
Andre gives one final signal from the wall, and I drop my visor. The world changes instantly, sound dulling around me while my own breathing gets louder inside the helmet.
My fingers curl around the clutch, the throttle answers beneath my hand, and the bike vibrates between my legs like it’s just as impatient as I am.
Across the barrier, Cece raises her hand. Two fingers touch her lips before she blows me a kiss.
Fuck me.
I catch it against my chest because apparently I’m dramatic now too, and the laugh that breaks across her face is the last thing I see before I force my attention forward.
The starting lights come on one after another, and everything inside me settles into place.
My heartbeat stays steady. My hands are ready. The bike is ready.
I’d like to say there’s no fear, but that would be bullshit.
There’s always fear.
Maybe that’s what makes any of this worth doing.
The lights go dark.
I launch.
The front goes light for half a second before the bike hooks and tears forward, the engine screaming as the entire grid explodes around me.
Everything becomes speed and instinct, but beneath the roar, beneath the adrenaline, beneath every stupid risk I’ve taken and everyone still waiting for me, one thing feels clearer than it ever has.
Life is fucking scary.
It’s supposed to be.
You can spend all of it waiting for the perfect opening, the safest choice, some guarantee that nothing is ever going to hurt, but that guarantee doesn’t exist. At some point, you have to trust the bike, trust yourself, trust the people who have proven they’ll ride beside you, then lean into the turn and fucking commit.
Because if you spend your whole life avoiding the crash, the heartbreak, and everything that scares you enough to actually matter, what the hell was the point?
I tuck lower behind the screen and open the throttle, the bike surging beneath me as everything ahead blurs into speed.
There are never guarantees. There’s no perfect opening, no completely safe way through, no version of life where you get to keep everything you love without risking something in return.
Sometimes, you only get one choice.
And that's to FULL SEND.
THE END