Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Aaron
Race days always start too early and end too late, like time stretches itself thin just to make room for all the noise, all the pressure, all the expectations that come with stepping onto that track and pretending you've got everything under control.
By the time I get there, the place is already alive, engines revving in uneven bursts, voices overlapping, the smell of dirt and gasoline settling into the air like something permanent, something familiar enough that it should calm me down.
It usually does.
Today, it doesn't.
I stand next to my bike longer than necessary, helmet hanging loosely from my hand, eyes scanning over the track in slow, deliberate passes as I try to map everything out the way I always do, trying to force my brain into something structured, something predictable.
Turns, jumps, distances, timing.
Win.
That's the only thing that's supposed to matter.
That's the only thing that ever does matter.
Mason is talking beside me, something about the lineup, about the new riders this season, about strategy, maybe, but his words blur together into something distant and unimportant, background noise I don't have the patience to sort through.
"...you listening to me?"
"Yeah," I answer automatically, even though I haven't caught a single thing he's said in the last fifteen minutes.
Because my attention is already somewhere else.
It happens before I can stop it. My gaze shifts across the line, and lands on him.
Tyler.
He's leaning against his bike like he has nowhere else to be, like this isn't the first race of the season, like the tension in the air doesn't exist, like nothing has changed since the last time we stood across from each other.
Like that moment at the track didn't happen.
Like he didn't step closer.
Like I didn't almost—
No.
I shut that down immediately, my grip tightening slightly around my helmet as I force my expression back into something neutral, something controlled.
If he's pretending it didn't happen, then I can too.
His eyes find mine anyway.
Of course they do.
They always do.
We look at each other for a few seconds, then he grins, slow and easy, like he's already enjoying this more than he should.
And something in my chest shifts in a way I immediately ignore.
We line up.
Helmets on.
Engines roaring louder now, vibrating through the ground, through my chest, through everything.
For a second, everything narrows.
The gate drops.
And we're gone.
The first lap falls into place almost perfectly, like muscle memory takes over and drags me back into something familiar, something safe, every movement controlled, every turn calculated, every jump clean.
I take the lead early, cutting through the pack with ease, barely registering the other riders as anything more than obstacles to move past.
This is how it's supposed to go.
This is what I'm good at.
And then—
He's there. I don't see him right away.
I feel him.
Close enough that it throws something off inside me, something small but important, like a shift in balance that shouldn't matter but does.
I push harder. So does he.
By the second lap, we're side by side, neither of us willing to back off, both of us riding faster than we should this early in the race, pushing limits that don't need to be pushed yet, turning something strategic into something reckless.
I take a jump higher than necessary, feeling the brief weightlessness before landing clean.
He matches it.
I cut a turn tighter, tires skidding just slightly before catching again.
He mirrors it.
This isn't about winning anymore. Not really.
It's about beating him. And that's the problem.
Because every time I glance to the side, every time I become just a little too aware of where he is, how close he is, how he moves—
I lose a fraction of focus.
Just enough to matter.
"Focus," I mutter under my breath, jaw tightening as I try to force everything back into place, back into control.
It's just a race.
Just him.
He edges ahead.
Something sharp flares in my chest, immediate and irrational, and I push harder to close the distance, faster than I should, more aggressive than I need to be.
The turn comes up too quickly.
I lean in—
And the back tire slips.
The world tilts in a way that doesn't feel real at first, the bike sliding out from under me as the ground hits hard, knocking the air out of my lungs in one brutal second that stretches longer than it should.
For a moment, everything is noise and impact and dust.
Then—
Nothing.
I push up immediately, ignoring the way my body protests, adrenaline overriding everything as I grab the bike, dragging it upright with more force than necessary, heart pounding too fast, too hard.
By the time I'm moving again, I already know.
It's gone.
Still—
I keep going.
I see him. Tyler hits the next jump but lands wrong, not a full crash though, But enough to slow him down.
Enough to ruin it.
For both of us.
We finish but it doesn't matter, It was over long before the line.
By the time I pull off, everything inside me feels too tight, too loud, too much, like the adrenaline has nowhere to go and it's turning into something else instead.
Something worse.
I rip my helmet off, dragging in a breath that doesn't do anything to steady me, my hands still shaking slightly as I run them through my hair.
I don't look for him.
"What the hell was that?" Mason asks, jogging over, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Nothing," I snap too quickly, already stepping away before he can say anything else.
I have to get out of here or I'll have to explain what just happened.
And I don't have an explanation.
The ride home feels longer than it should, slower, heavier, every second stretching out as the race replays in my head over and over again in sharp, unforgiving detail.
The moment I lost focus.
The moment everything slipped.
The moment—
Him.
By the time I get back, the frustration has settled into something solid and ugly, sitting heavy in my chest as I walk into the trailer, already knowing this isn't going to get better.
Dad is there. Waiting.
"You lost."
Not even a question.
I drop my helmet onto the table, the sound louder than it needs to be, echoing slightly in the space between us.
"Yeah," I say, voice flat. "I noticed."
"That was sloppy." Something in me tightens immediately.
"Thanks," I mutter. "Real helpful."
"I'm serious," he continues, stepping closer, his tone hardening. "You had the lead. Then you just threw it away."
"I didn't throw anything—"
"It looked like you forgot how to ride."
I let out a short, sharp breath, pacing a step away before turning back, the frustration building too fast, too hot.
"It was one race."
"It was the first race," he snaps. "The one that sets the tone."
"Oh my god, it's not that deep—" It is in fact that deep.
"It is if you actually care about winning."
"I do care."
"Then act like it."
"I am—"
"No," he cuts in, his voice rising just enough to hit something deeper. "You're distracted."
I freeze for half a second.
And that's enough for him.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he's already figured it out, like he's just waiting for me to admit it.
"What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying."
"You think I don't see it?" he presses. "You've been off for days. Today just proved it."
Anger flares instantly, fast and defensive, covering everything else before it can surface.
"I said it's nothing."
"Is it a girl?"
I laugh, sharp and humorless. "Seriously?"
"Then what?"
I don't answer.
"That's what I thought."
The argument escalates fast after that, words overlapping, voices rising, years of frustration spilling out in ways that don't even fully make sense anymore, stepping closer and closer until the space between us disappears completely, until it feels like one wrong move could turn this into something physical.
I pull back first.
Not because I want to.
Because I have to.
"Forget it," I mutter, grabbing my keys with more force than necessary.
"Don't turn your back at me, coward." he throws after me.
I stop at the door, shoulders tense, jaw tight. Then l walk away.
The night air hits different.
I ride for hours.
The road stretches out endlessly in front of me, the engine loud enough to drown out everything else, but not enough.
Not enough to stop my mind from going back to it.
To him.
This is his fault.
The thought settles in slowly at first, then sharper, clearer, until it's the only thing that makes sense.
If he hadn't been there—
If he hadn't pushed—
If he hadn't distracted me—
I slow down.
And only then do I realize where I am.
Outside his place.
The engine cuts, leaving behind a silence that feels heavier than anything before it, my hands still gripping the handlebars like I haven't fully decided what I'm doing.
This is stupid.
I should leave.
I don't.
I get off the bike slowly this time, movements more deliberate, like giving myself time to change my mind, even though I already know I won't.
Each step toward the door feels heavier than it should, the anger in my chest mixing with something else I don't want to name.
I knock.
Hard.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The sound echoes through the quiet, too loud for the hour, too sharp to be ignored.
There's a pause.
Then—
The door opens.
And there he is, he looks like he just woke up. For a second, everything stills.
The noise.
The anger.
The thoughts.
Then it all comes rushing back at once.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Aaron?"
"You screwed me over today."
The words come out sharp, immediate, already loaded with everything I'm not saying.
"Aaron, leave."
I don't. In fact I step inside.
The door barely clicks shut before I'm yelling again, chest tight and voice ragged. "You were a fucking distraction today! I just lost because of you and your stupid mind games, getting inside my head.. messing with me!"
Tyler freezes, confusion flashing across his face, then anger, then something else I can't read. "Distraction?! I was—what, what did I even do, Aaron? You're insane!"
"Insane?!" I roar, taking a step closer. "You're insane! You've been in my head all last season, all this years, and now—now I'm finally losing it, and it's your fault! You're always there!"
"Always there?!" Tyler shouts back, his voice shaking with something—frustration, disbelief, maybe even... hurt? "You know what? Maybe if you actually focused for one damn second, you wouldn't blame everything on me!"
I feel my blood boil. "Oh, don't you dare—don't you dare make this about me not focusing! I gave everything today and I still lost because of you! You think I like losing? You think I enjoy failing?!"
"Maybe you'd stop failing if you stopped blaming everyone else for your mistakes!" Tyler fires back, stepping forward, and suddenly the apartment feels too small, the air too thick.
I snap. My hands shove him, hard enough to make him stumble back a step, but he catches himself immediately and shoves me right back. "What the hell, Aaron?!"
"What the hell?!" I scream, chest heaving. "You think you're perfect? You think you're untouchable? You're the reason I—"
Before I can finish, Tyler lunges, and our shoves turn into a full-on grapple. Arms twisting, gripping, clothes wrinkling, both of us yelling, breathing hot and fast, adrenaline drowning out everything else. The anger is physical now, raw, immediate.
"You think I wanted this?!" Tyler yells into my face, his forehead nearly touching mine. "You think I like seeing you pissed off at me all the time?!"
"Then why—then why do you always get in my head?!" I snap, slamming a hand into his chest.
He shoves back harder, knocking me against the couch, and suddenly we're tumbling, hitting the cushions, limbs entangled, shouting so loud it echoes off the walls. It's chaotic. It's messy. It's everything and nothing at the same time.
"I—" I gasp, trying to push him off, but he's on me, pressing down, chest to chest, eyes wild, hands gripping my arms. "I hate you—"
"Yeah?!" Tyler hisses back, voice low, dangerous, teeth clenched. "Well I hate you too!"
And then something cracks—not the fight, not yet, but the barrier between anger and something else. The tension between us becomes almost unbearable, thick enough to choke on, and without thinking, our lips collide—angry, desperate, chaotic—the fight turning into something completely different, something neither of us can control.
Well, I'm fucked..