Chapter 12
Blaze
"Damn it!" The boy behind me curses under his breath. "There's less than two hours for the race to begin, I don't even know that track. I wanted to do a little tour on my own before the race."
I don’t turn around, but I hear him loud and clear. His voice is grating—one of those entitled brats who think whining solves shit. His friend, sitting in a corner, doesn’t seem to give a damn, scrolling through his phone with his leg crossed like he’s lounging at a spa.
"You gotta calm down, man. He’ll be done in a minute," his friend says, his tone indifferent.
I grit my teeth. I don’t need this bullshit. My fingers are covered in grease, sweat sticking to my neck as I work the tire. The bike’s almost as good as new, but now I’m regretting even agreeing to this shit show.
"Hey, be quick with it, will you?" the kid snaps, his voice sharp and condescending. "You’re just changing the tires, right? You’re limping, so it’s slowing you down."
That’s it. I stop, drop the wrench a little too hard on the ground, and slowly turn my head toward him. My forehead’s tight, lines pulling across my skin because of the deep frown I’m wearing.
"Hey, kid," I snap back, my voice calm but razor-sharp. "Aren’t you supposed to have done the route tour days before now?"
His stupid little face twists, like he’s trying to process my words but doesn’t like how they taste.
"Huh? What do you know about racing?" he fires back, puffing up his chest. "Your job is to fix the fucking bike, man."
Oh, I fucking hate brats like him. The ones who think someone like me doesn’t know shit because I’m covered in grease and dirt, working my ass off with my hands. My mouth twitches, and I swallow the urge to give him a proper piece of my mind, but before I can respond, I hear another voice.
"Wait."
The brat’s friend finally looks up from his phone, his expression shifting as he glances between me and the kid. Then he laughs, almost choking on his own damn amusement.
"Max, you idiot, do you even know who you’re talking to?"
Max? So that’s the little asshole’s name. I pick up the wrench again, more out of habit than necessity, but I’m still watching them. The one named Max gives his friend a confused look, his brows furrowing.
"What do you mean?"
His friend grins, clearly entertained by whatever stupid realization he’s having. "That’s Blaze. You know—the Blaze? The one you’ve been pissing yourself over for years."
Max freezes. His mouth hangs open for a second like a fish out of water, then snaps shut. His eyes widen, and he suddenly looks less like an entitled punk and more like a kid caught stealing cookies from the jar.
"Wait," he stutters, glancing back at me like he can’t believe it. "You’re—you're Blaze? That Blaze?"
I don’t respond. I just give him a pointed look before turning back to the bike. The tire’s fixed, so I focus on cleaning up my tools, trying to ignore the sudden silence behind me.
"Shit," Max mutters under his breath. He sounds embarrassed now, as he fucking should be. "I didn’t—I didn’t know it was you."
His friend snickers like this is the funniest shit he’s seen all day. "You’ve been an asshole to your idol, man. Nice job."
Max doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes burning holes into the back of my head. It’s like he’s desperate to say something but can’t figure out what. Good. That’s exactly how I like it. I toss the last tool into my box and stand up straight, brushing my hands off on my jeans.
"I’m done," I say flatly, finally looking at Max. "The bike’s ready. Don’t fucking break it before the race."
He blinks, still looking like an idiot. "Blaze—uh—I mean—"
"Save it," I cut him off sharply, hoisting the tool box onto my shoulder. "You don’t get to be a little shit and then play starstruck. Fix your attitude before the race."
His face turns red, a mix of shame and frustration, but I don’t care. I’ve dealt with plenty of kids like him—arrogant, loud-mouthed, and full of shit. They think they’re untouchable until someone knocks them down a peg. And I’m always more than happy to deliver the lesson.
As I start to walk away, I hear him curse under his breath.
"Shit. I didn’t know it was him."
His friend laughs again, clearly enjoying the hell out of Max’s embarrassment. "You’re never living this down, man. Never."
I don’t look back, but I can picture the scene perfectly—Max standing there, fumbling for words, and his friend loving every second of it. It almost makes me laugh, but I hold it in.
Outside the garage, I drop the toolbox on the ground and lean against the wall, lighting up a cigarette. The first drag burns my throat, but it’s exactly what I need to shake off the annoyance.
"Blaze," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. "Fucking kids."
I close my eyes, letting the smoke linger in my lungs before blowing it out in a slow stream. The sound of footsteps makes me open them again, and I spot Max standing there awkwardly a few feet away.
I swear to fucking God—
"What the fuck do you want now?" I snap, narrowing my eyes at him.
He is startled but doesn't step back. I'll give the kid one thing, though - he's got balls. "Listen," he almost shouts, holding up his hands as if in some crazy hope that he's going to need to be shielding himself from my punch. "I'm sorry, alright? I didn't know who you were. I shouldn't have been such a dick. I mean, I'm just nervous about this stupid race and I took it out on you. Not cool."
I stare at him for a moment, taking another slow drag of my cigarette. His half-hearted apology felt neither here nor there, but at least he's quiet.
"Yeah, well, next time try your nerves inwards, will you?" I mutter. "I am not your punching bag, nuts."
"I know..." he says, looking at his shoes, like a silly little boy caught red-handed, "but I—I've been your fan for years, and—"
"Don't," I cut him off, flicking the cigarette away and pushing off the wall. "You don't get to kiss my ass now."
He immediately bites into his lip, like he's going to muzzle some dumb shit he was going to say. Good. I'm not in the mood for it. I grab my toolbox, ready to head out, but I hear him mumble something under his breath.
"What was that?" I snap, turning back around.
He looks up, his face red. "I said I want you to train me. I’ll pay you if I have to."
I laugh—loud and sharp and completely humorless. "You couldn’t pay me enough to deal with you."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t give up. "I’ll prove myself to you. I swear."
I roll my eyes, turning my back to him as I walk away. "Don’t waste your time, kid."
"Watch me!" he calls after me, his voice loud and stubborn.
I don’t bother answering. He’s just another loud-mouthed kid who’ll burn out as soon as shit gets tough. I round the corner, and can’t help thinking, kids like him flooded me back then and asked to be trained, I rejected them. I'm not even in a good condition to train anyone anymore.
I shove the thought away and keep walking, I also needed to be at the race.