Chapter 88

Chapter 88
Blaze

“Are you really gonna be quiet the whole damn morning?” Alexi throws a towel at me from across the kitchen, her voice sharp but familiar.

I don’t answer. I just sit there, elbows on the counter, coffee untouched, stomach in knots. It’s too fucking early for her voice, too early for this kind of energy. My mind’s already doing laps around Route 419 and choking itself on every sharp corner.

Alexi kicks a chair out and drops into it, her long legs sprawled, jaw tight, wearing one of her stupid cutoff hoodies that says Built Not Bought. She eyes me like she’s trying to read through my skin. “You haven’t said shit since last night.”

“Nothing to say,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the mug like it’s gonna offer some fucking answers.

“You’re two hours out from the biggest race of your fucking life and you got nothing to say?”

I shoot her a look. “You want a fucking monologue, Lex?”

She rolls her eyes and leans back, arms folded. “No. I want you to stop acting like today doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t,” I lie. I drag a hand down my face and lean back in the chair. “It’s just another damn race.”

She scoffs. “Right. Just another damn race. That happens to be your fucking comeback. The one that could put you back in the league, back in the game, back in every damn thing you walked away from.”

I don’t say what I’m actually thinking. Because it’s not the race that’s fucking with me.

It’s Carlo.

It’s always him.

It’s the fact that I don’t know where he is, what he’s doing, or if he’s even thinking about today. Hell, I don’t even know if he’s still going through with the wedding or if he backed out. I should’ve deleted his number, blocked him, erased his entire goddamn existence from my phone and my brain—but I didn’t. I can’t. I’m still fucking tethered to him in this sick, twisted way that makes me hate myself.

This race was supposed to be about me. My story. My redemption arc or whatever the hell. But somehow he’s still part of it, still in the back of my head, breathing down my neck like a ghost.

“Blaze,” Felix says gently as he walks in, holding a protein bar and a bottle of water like he’s walking up to a bomb about to detonate. “Eat something. You can’t race on an empty stomach.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t been hungry for days,” he says, placing them in front of me. “You’ve just been angry.”

“I’m fine,” I lie again, voice flat.

Felix doesn’t push. He never does. He just sits on the arm of the couch and watches me like he’s waiting for a crack, a sign, something to tell him how close I am to losing it.

The silence drags out, heavy as hell. I don’t break it. Can’t. If I start talking, it’s gonna spill out, all of it—Carlo, the mess in my chest, the way I still dream about him even when I’m wide fucking awake.

But my brain’s already slipping.

I remember the first time Carlo watched me race, not as a rival. The way he leaned against his car, arms crossed, trying to look bored but failing. He watched me like I was fire. Like I was a goddamn storm. And when I got off my bike, dripping sweat and cocky as hell, he smirked and said, “You ride like you’ve got something to prove.”

“I do,” I told him back then.

He didn’t ask what.

Now he knows.

Now he’s the reason I have to prove it all over again.

The clock ticks too loud. My heartbeat’s a steady hammer in my ears. Everything inside me’s tight—joints stiff, jaw locked, like I’m holding the entire day between my teeth. This isn’t just about placing first. It’s about dragging myself out of the fucking grave he left me in. It’s about proving to myself that I still matter.

That I’m still Blaze, No.1 for several years.

“Alright,” Alexi says, standing up and clapping her hands once. “We gotta head out. Traffic’s already clogging up near the route. We need time for check-in and warm-up.”

Felix tosses me my jacket. “You ready?”

I stare at them for a beat. Then I look down at the coffee, still untouched, still cold. I tap my fingers once against the mug before pushing it away and rising to my feet.

“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

The drive is quiet.

Alexi’s at the wheel, sunglasses on, chewing gum like she’s in a standoff. Her foot taps the floorboard every few seconds. Felix scrolls through something on his phone, earbuds dangling. He’s probably looking at betting odds or some bullshit race predictions.

Me? I just stare out the window, fighting the tightness crawling through my chest like a vice.

It’s pathetic. Still feeling this way. Still waiting on some invisible thread to snap between me and Carlo. Like part of me’s convinced he’s gonna show up and tell me he didn’t go through with it, that he’s still mine, that he’s still fucking in this.

He’s not.

He made his choice. Chose his father. Chose security. Chose control. And left me behind like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.

I’m the one who’s still bleeding for it.

The closer we get, the louder it gets. Engines, sirens, screaming fans. Route 419’s always had this unhinged pulse to it—like the whole street’s alive and waiting to eat you whole. Neon signs flicker. Vendors yell over one another. Girls in short shorts wave checkered flags. Crews are already fighting over parking spots and lane placements.

It’s fucking chaos.

But it’s my kind of chaos.

We pull into the private lot. My gut twists. Not from nerves, but from the weight of everything. Like I’m walking into a war zone I volunteered for.

I climb out. The air’s thick, heavy with smoke and rubber and oil. I breathe it in like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

Alexi grabs my helmet from the trunk and slaps it against my chest. “Your bike’s good to go. I triple-checked everything. You’re set.”

I nod, gripping the helmet tight.

Felix zips his hoodie and scans the crowd. “Press is out in droves. They’ll try to corner you. Don’t engage. Let your win do the talking.”

I don’t answer.

Because as I walk toward the pit, my eyes scan the chaos, and it’s not the cameras I’m looking for. It’s him.

Stupid fucking instinct. But I look anyway. For that tall bastard in a too-tight suit with guilt in his eyes. The one person I don’t want to see but still fucking hope for.

He’s not here.

Of course he’s not.

He’s probably off getting married right now. Saying “I do” like he never whispered that he loved me into my mouth. Like he didn’t leave bruises on my skin that still haven’t healed.

That’s what Carlo does. He disappears.

I wonder if he’s thinking about me. Just for a second.

I wonder if I ever made it real enough that he can’t forget.

I shake the thought off and climb onto my bike. My hands settle on the bars. The leather of my gloves creaks. The engine hums underneath me, low and alive.

This machine doesn’t lie. Doesn’t betray. Doesn’t give a fuck about emotions or weddings or trust funds. It just moves when I tell it to.

Alexi walks over and leans in. “You good?”

I flick my visor up, meet her eyes. “Never been better.”

She smirks. “Then prove it.”

I rev the engine. Hard. Loud. It rattles through my ribs and reminds me who the fuck I am.

And for a split second, I wish he could see me now. Wish he could see what he let go. What he fucking destroyed.

But he’s not here.

And I’ve got a race to win.

I kick off the stand, roll forward into the crowd of bikes, lights, smoke, and noise. My chest is still tight, but my mind’s clear.

I’m not racing for revenge anymore.

I’m racing because I’m not fucking done yet.