Chapter 90

Chapter 90
Blaze

"That was sick as hell, Blaze!" Alexi jumps off her bike, helmet under her arm, sweat on her brow. “You fucking smoked them!”

I yank off my gloves, my heart still pounding from the last lap. My chest’s tight. Not from the ride—this part’s easy. It’s everything else that’s got me shaking.

“It was a warm-up.” I mutter, pulling off my helmet and letting the air hit my face. “That wasn’t shit.”

Alexi scoffs, stepping in front of me. “You just took first in a crowd full of maniacs who wanted to eat your legacy alive, and you’re standing here acting like it’s nothing?”

“It is nothing,” I snap, tossing the helmet onto the seat. “Main race hasn’t started yet. That’s the one that counts.”

She narrows her eyes, like she can see straight through the front I’m barely holding up. “Yeah? Then maybe you should stop looking like you're one second from falling apart.”

I look away. Can’t argue with her. Don’t even have the strength to fake it.

My fingers twitch. My jaw’s tight. I feel like a fucking grenade with the pin barely in.

Alexi moves closer. Her voice drops. “What the hell’s going on with you?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, it’s not words that’ll come out—it’s everything else. Rage. Hurt. Stupid goddamn hope.

She watches me for another second, then sighs. “Look. I know what kind of shit you’re dragging behind you, but you better leave it off the track. You promised to win this race, so do it without mercy.”

“I’m trying,” I say quietly, voice raw.

She nods, soft now. “Then ride like you’ve got nothing to lose, Blaze. Burn the fucking road. You hear me?”

I nod once. But it’s a lie.

Because I do have something to lose. I already lost it once. And it still fucking burns.

Alexi walks away, pulling her helmet on as the final call for the main race echoes through the pit speakers.

I stay there for a second, watching her ride off. The sound of engines revving fills the air. Everyone's getting into position. And me? I'm stuck in my own head again.

Carlo.

He’s in everything—every gear shift, every breath, every curse muttered under my breath. It’s him. Always him.

And today’s his fucking wedding day.

I told myself I was done. That I didn’t give a shit. That I came here to win, not to feel. But I’ve been lying to myself since the moment I left his apartment that night. Lying through my teeth, through every interview, every smile, every rev of this goddamn engine.

He left me behind.

He chose the suit and the perfect fiancée and his dad’s fake-ass legacy. And I chose this. Grease. Gasoline. Freedom.

But none of it makes me feel whole anymore.

“Riders to the grid,” someone yells.

I mount the bike, boots locking into place. Fingers grip the handles. Visor down. All the noise outside fades into that perfect moment of stillness before the storm.

But as the screen above flickers with live crowd footage, my eyes lock on something that stops my breath mid-chest.

What the hell—?

I blink hard.

No fucking way.

There. In the third row from the barrier. Right behind the sponsors’ banner.

Carlo.

In a fucking wedding suit.

I nearly lose it.

That’s him. That’s his face. His goddamn perfect jawline, his dark hair messy like he’s been running. His eyes scan the track like he’s looking for me.

What the fuck is he doing here?

I lean forward instinctively, heart hammering.

Did he run out of the wedding hall?

He can’t be here. This has to be a trick, a stunt, something. But no one else knows what he looks like that well—not unless they are him.

And fuck, it is him.

A voice blares over the loudspeaker, dragging me back to the present. “Blaze Ashford seems to be trailing a few miles behind already... is he off his game tonight? Or is this the calm before the storm?”

Shit.

They already launched.

I fire the engine. My fingers grip tighter than necessary.

For a few seconds, I’m just stuck there—burning from the inside out. Because I don’t know what the hell he’s doing here, or what it means, but my body doesn’t care. My blood’s already reacting like he lit a fuse.

The only thing I know for sure?

I want to finish this race and get to him.

I kick off hard and the bike responds instantly. The roar of the engine drowns out everything. Wind against my face, asphalt screaming under my tires—I’m not racing the others anymore.

I’m racing to him.

My focus sharpens. I weave between riders, cut corners, push speed limits I haven’t touched since before I lost my leg. I don’t fucking care.

Carlo’s here.

That single fact resets everything in me.

I’m on fire.

By the third lap, I’m climbing the ranks fast. The crowd’s going ballistic. I can hear them even through the helmet—chanting my name, screaming every time I pull another dangerous pass.

But all I see is his face.

I hit the straightaway and the world disappears. Just me, the road, and one last shot to leave every piece of pain behind.

My body moves on instinct. Every twist, every turn—I don’t think, I feel. Like I’ve got something to prove. Like I need him to see me like this. Not broken. Not abandoned. But alive.

Final corner.

I grip the brakes just enough, swing in tight, engine screaming under me. Then I rocket down the last stretch like the devil’s on my tail.

Crowd explodes.

My name blasts over the speaker. “Blaze Ashford wins the main race—undefeated return!”

I skid to a clean stop at the finish, chest heaving, arms burning, legs numb. The rest of the riders fly past, but the world’s already muted for me.

Because I’m scanning the crowd again, frantic now.

Where the fuck is he?

I rip off my helmet, stand on the bike seat like a maniac, eyes darting left to right. People are pushing forward, phones out, screaming. I hear my name a hundred times.

And then—I see him.

Carlo.

It's really him, it's him.

Pushing through the crowd like nothing else matters.

My breath catches.

He’s coming toward me.