Chapter 2
That night, Alex sat in his new room, stretching a poster flat against the wall. His hands smoothed out the edges, but his mind wasn’t really on it.
The room was still mostly bare—just a bed, a dresser, and a desk pushed against the wall. Boxes sat unopened in the corner, proof that he hadn’t really settled in yet. It didn’t feel like home. Not yet.
He stepped back, looking at the poster. It was an old one, a racing event from years ago. The kind he used to stare at when he was younger, dreaming about being on a track like that, riding against the best.
Today had felt like a dream. Flying over that embankment, racing alongside the real competitors, feeling the wind tear past him as he kept up with them—no, as he passed them. He should’ve felt proud.
But instead, doubt gnawed at his chest.
The others had been good. Not just good—better. Their movements were sharper, their control tighter. He had held his own for a little while, but deep down, he knew the truth.
In a real race, he wouldn’t win.
He clenched his jaw and sat down on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor.
Johnathan’s words echoed in his head. You keep pulling stunts like that, you won’t make it.
Maybe he was right. Maybe Alex was just some reckless kid who thought speed was enough. It had always been enough before. But here?
Here, it wasn’t.
His hands curled into fists.
If he wanted to stand a chance, if he wanted to prove himself—not just to Hector, not just to Johnathan, but to himself—he’d have to do more than just be fast.
He’d have to be better.
Alex exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t going to sit here and mope about it. If he wasn’t good enough, there was only one solution.
He had to train.
His mind was made up before he even finished the thought. He grabbed his helmet and keys, slipping out of the house as quietly as he could. His bike was parked outside, leaning on its kickstand under the dim porch light.
The streets were silent. Redwater Springs wasn’t a big city—it had that small-town stillness at night, the kind where the only sounds were the distant hum of power lines and the occasional bark of a stray dog.
Alex didn’t hesitate. He swung a leg over his bike, started it up, and took off toward the track.
By the time he got there, it was 2 a.m.
The place was deserted, as he expected. The main gates were locked, but the fence? Easy enough to get through. He left his bike outside, climbed over, and dropped onto the dirt with barely a sound.
Then he saw it.
The track, empty and waiting, bathed in the glow of the overhead lights. They stood tall around the course, casting long shadows, making the whole place look almost unreal—like Heaven’s Gate itself had opened just for him.
He stepped onto the dirt, his boots sinking slightly. No other racers. No distractions. Just him and the track.
Perfect.
Without another thought, he sprinted back to his bike, pushed it under the fence, and fired up the engine.
The roar shattered the silence, but there was no one around to care.
Alex grinned, revved once, then took off.
This time, there were no instructors watching, no rivals to measure himself against. Just the turns, the jumps, the dirt, and the night sky above.
He hit the first curve, leaning low, feeling the grip of his tires dig into the packed earth. The next straightaway—he opened the throttle, flying forward, his heart pounding in sync with the engine.
Faster.
Jump.
Airborne.
The moment stretched out, weightless. Then he landed, skidding slightly before regaining control.
Again.
Over and over, he pushed himself. Every turn sharper. Every jump higher. Every second shaved down.
But no matter how fast he went, no matter how clean his landings were—
He could still hear it.
You won’t make it.
Gritting his teeth, he sped up. Faster. Harder. His arms ached, his fingers cramped from gripping the handlebars, but he didn’t stop.
He wouldn’t stop.
Alex barely had time to react.
Out of nowhere, a pair of bright lights cut through the darkness, blinding him. A dirt bike—red and black, a KTM—was right in front of him, coming fast.
His heart jumped to his throat.
Too late.
The moment of hesitation cost him. His hands jerked on the handlebars, the bike wobbled beneath him, and before he could recover—
He crashed.
The impact sent him rolling, his helmet slamming against the dirt. For a second, everything blurred—sky, ground, track lights spinning in a chaotic mess. His bike skidded a few feet ahead, kicking up dust before coming to a stop.
Then—silence.
Alex groaned, staring up at the night sky, the stars slightly out of focus. His head throbbed, but the helmet had done its job. Nothing broken. Just pain.
Slowly, he pushed himself up, his body aching all over. His gloves were caked with dirt as he rubbed the side of his helmet, trying to shake off the dizziness.
Then, footsteps.
Boots crunching on the dirt, getting closer.
Alex turned his head, eyes narrowing at the figure approaching. The rider of the red and black KTM.
The lights were still on, casting long shadows, but Alex could make out the person now—tall, broad-shouldered, a dark racing suit with a logo he couldn't make out in the harsh glare. Their helmet was still on, visor down, hiding their face.
Alex’s pulse was still racing, a mix of adrenaline and frustration. He forced himself to his feet, brushing himself off.
"What the hell?" he snapped, voice hoarse from the crash. "You trying to kill me or something?"
The KTM rider stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. Their helmet tilted slightly, like they were sizing Alex up. Then, through the muffled filter of the helmet, they spoke.
"You’re going the wrong way."
Alex blinked, still shaking off the crash. "What?"
"You’re riding against the track flow." The rider nodded toward the layout. "If this were a real race, you’d be disqualified. Or worse."
Alex scoffed, rubbing his sore shoulder. "Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly racing, was I?"
The rider didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just stood there, waiting.
Alex shifted his weight, rolling his jaw. He knew. He knew the track had a set direction, knew which way he should’ve been going.
But tonight wasn’t about rules.
"I was trying something," he admitted, his voice quieter now.
The rider didn’t respond right away. The track lights cast a glow over their helmet, making it impossible to see their expression. Finally, they spoke again.
"Trying something reckless."
Alex exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "If you’re here to give me a lecture, save it. I get enough of that already."
The rider stayed silent for a beat. Then, without another word, they turned, walked back to their bike, and swung a leg over it.
Alex frowned. "Wait—who even are you?"
The KTM’s engine rumbled to life, but the rider didn’t answer. They just revved the throttle once, then took off, disappearing into the night, the red taillight shrinking into the distance.
Alex stood there, dust still settling around him, his heart still hammering in his chest.
Who the hell was that?
Alex grit his teeth and pushed himself back onto his feet. His body ached, his head was still spinning, but he wasn’t about to let some mystery rider just show up, knock him on his ass, and then vanish without a word.
He stumbled toward his bike, shaking off the dizziness as he picked it up. The second the engine roared back to life, he twisted the throttle and took off, tires kicking up dirt as he sped after the KTM.
The rider wasn’t far.
Alex gunned it, catching up fast. The guy must’ve noticed, because just as Alex was about to pull up beside him—
The KTM skidded to a sudden stop.
Alex barely had time to react. He slammed the brakes, his tires dragging against the dirt, barely keeping himself from crashing again. His heart was still pounding when he looked up—
The rider was standing in front of him.
And then, slowly, they reached up, grabbed their helmet—
And pulled it off.
Alex’s stomach dropped. His breath caught in his throat.
Johnathan.
The Manberg racer ran a hand through his messy hair, his expression unreadable under the bright track lights. He looked down at Alex, eyes sharp and focused as ever.
"Jesus," Alex muttered, his head swimming again. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
His vision blurred. His knees buckled. The adrenaline that had kept him going was draining too fast, leaving nothing but exhaustion and pain. He barely registered Johnathan moving until—
A firm grip caught him before he hit the ground.
"Hey," Johnathan said, steadying him. His voice was calm, but his grip was strong, keeping Alex upright. "You’re out of it."
Alex tried to shake it off. "I’m fine—"
"No, you’re not." Johnathan sighed, shifting his weight to adjust Alex’s balance. "Come on."
Before Alex could argue, Johnathan was already pulling him toward his KTM. Too weak to fight back, Alex let himself be dragged along.
The next thing he knew, Johnathan had gotten him onto the bike, climbing on in front of him. Alex barely had the strength to hold on, but Johnathan grabbed his arm, pulling it around his waist.
"Don’t fall off," Johnathan muttered, kicking the bike into gear.
Alex barely heard him. The last thing he remembered was the hum of the engine beneath them, the cool night air against his face, and the distant glow of the MCD/LNC training cabin as they approached.
Then, everything went black.
Alex’s head throbbed as he slowly blinked his eyes open. The morning light seeped in through the blinds, casting soft lines across the wooden walls of the training cabin. His whole body ached like he’d been hit by a truck.
For a second, he didn’t remember where he was.
Then it all came rushing back. The crash. The KTM. Johnathan.
His eyes darted around the room. He was lying on a worn-out couch, a thin blanket draped over him. A glass of water sat on the table nearby. But the person he was looking for—
Gone.
Johnathan was nowhere in sight.
Instead, Hector Reyes sat in a chair across from him, arms crossed, watching him like he’d been waiting. His expression was unreadable, but his presence alone made Alex tense.
"Morning, kid," Hector said, voice even. "Sleep well?"
Alex swallowed, throat dry. He pushed himself up slightly, wincing at the soreness in his ribs. "What… what happened?"
Hector leaned back in his chair. "You tell me."
Alex’s mind was still foggy. He rubbed his face, trying to piece it together. "I— I went to the track last night. I wanted to practice. And then…" He hesitated. "Johnathan was there."
Hector’s expression didn’t change. "He brought you here."
Alex blinked. "He—" His brain took a second to process it. "Wait. He brought me here?"
"Yeah." Hector sighed, rubbing his temples. "Dropped you off, made sure you were still breathing, and left before I could ask questions."
Alex frowned. That didn’t make sense. Why would Johnathan—someone from Manberg—go out of his way to help him?
"You wanna tell me why you were out there in the middle of the night, almost getting yourself killed?" Hector’s tone was calm, but there was an edge to it.
Alex looked away. He didn’t have an excuse. Not one Hector would want to hear, anyway.
Hector exhaled, shaking his head. "Look, kid. I get it. You wanna be the best. You wanna prove something." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But if you keep pushing yourself like this, you’re not gonna last. You need to train smart, not just hard."
Alex swallowed hard but didn’t respond.
Hector watched him for a moment, then stood up. "Get some more rest. We’ll talk later." He turned to leave but paused at the door. "And Alex?"
Alex looked up.
"Whatever happened between you and Johnathan last night?" Hector narrowed his eyes. "Figure it out. Fast."
With that, he walked out, leaving Alex alone with his thoughts.
Alex sat there for a while after Hector left, staring at the ceiling, his mind running in circles.
Johnathan had helped him. Brought him here. Why? That guy barely looked at him twice before, except to criticize him.
Shaking off the thoughts, Alex swung his legs over the side of the couch and stood up. His body still ached, but he ignored it. If he wanted to compete—really compete—he had to know the track inside and out.
A quick round. Just to familiarize himself.
He grabbed his gear, splashed some cold water on his face, and headed outside. The air was fresh, the sky still brightening with the early morning sun. The track stretched ahead of him, empty and waiting.
Perfect.
Alex climbed onto his bike, the familiar weight grounding him. He started the engine, the low rumble settling in his chest. Without hesitation, he rolled forward, easing onto the track.
This time, he wasn’t focused on speed.
Every turn, every bump, every incline—he took it slow, committing each detail to memory. He tested the grip of the dirt under his tires, noting where it was firmer, where it got looser.
He ran his fingers along a section of the track near a jump, feeling the texture of the dirt. Packed tighter here. It meant faster landings, but also meant he had to control his balance better.
He did a full lap, then another, slowly increasing his speed. Letting his body get used to the rhythm, the flow. The track had to feel like second nature.
As he rounded a bend, something caught his eye—tire marks. Deep ones. Leading off toward the hard track.
Johnathan’s KTM.
Alex exhaled sharply, gripping the handlebars tighter.
Fine. If Johnathan wanted to play this game, Alex would be ready next time.
Alex gritted his teeth as he rode. The rookie mistakes, the crashes, the doubts—they all clung to him like a weight on his chest. He hated it. Hated feeling like he was a step behind, like he had to prove himself over and over just to be worth something.
He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be great.
And yet—
Wasn’t this all supposed to be fun?
He slowed his bike for just a second, staring out at the track ahead. The way the dirt curved, the jumps, the sheer thrill of it all.
Racing was about winning, sure. But wasn’t it also about the ride? The rush of it, the feeling of the wind tearing past, the way everything else just disappeared when you were on the track?
Alex exhaled sharply. Screw it.
Without a second thought, he veered off, heading straight for the hard track. The second he got on, he saw him—Johnathan, already riding. The guy was fast, cutting through the course with that same sharp focus he always had.
Alex grinned. Time to test something.
He gunned the throttle and shot forward, catching up fast. Just as Johnathan was coming out of a turn, Alex nudged in—
Bump.
Johnathan barely shifted, but it was enough to let him know Alex was there.
Alex pulled up beside him, still grinning. "Race me."
Johnathan glanced over, unimpressed. "As if you’ll win."
Alex smirked. "You shouldn’t be so sure."
Johnathan rolled his eyes but revved his engine. "Fine."
That was all Alex needed.
The moment Johnathan leaned forward, Alex knew—this was real now. They weren’t just messing around. Johnathan was about to show him exactly why he had eight years of racing under his belt.
Good.
Alex took off.
The track blurred beneath them, the roar of their engines filling the air. They took the turns aggressively, inches from each other, neither backing down. Alex kept up, pushing himself harder than ever. Every bump, every jump—he took it, faster, sharper.
But Johnathan was better.
On the final stretch, Johnathan pulled ahead, crossing the finish a solid second before Alex.
Alex skidded to a stop, breathing hard. He lost.
But instead of frustration, all he felt was—
Laughter bubbled up in his chest. The thrill, the competition, the fun of it all—it was still there, stronger than ever.
Johnathan pulled up beside him, breathing just as hard. "That the best you got?"
Alex smirked. "For now."
Johnathan gave him a look, then—just barely—a smirk of his own.
"Try harder next time." Then he took off.
Alex just sat there for a second, watching him go.
Yeah. He could do that.