Chapter 6
Alex sat cross-legged on the floor of his small room, race notes and diagrams scattered all around him. His helmet sat in the corner, untouched. His gloves lay discarded by the door.
The clock read 3:41 AM.
He hadn’t slept. Not even a little.
His eyes darted across the track map again—memorizing every turn, every jump, every line he could possibly take. His fingers tapped nervously against the paper.
He couldn’t stop thinking.
What if he lost again? What if this was it? What if LNC realized he wasn’t good enough and dropped him? What if they all saw through him—saw that he didn’t belong here? That he was just some scared kid who got lucky one time?
His chest tightened.
He grabbed another diagram, holding it too tightly.
What if he failed?
What if this was just like before—when people gave up on him. When they told him he wasn’t worth it.
The pressure kept building. His vision blurred as he stared down at the paper in his hands. He didn’t even realize he was shaking.
Then the panic hit—
His lungs felt too tight, too small. He couldn’t breathe right. His heart pounded like it was trying to tear out of his chest.
He stood too fast, knocking over a chair. The room spun. His throat closed up.
He gasped, clawing at his hoodie like it was choking him, stumbling backward until he hit the wall.
His knees buckled.
No one was here.
No one to pull him back, no one to ground him, no one to tell him he was gonna be okay.
He curled up, pulling his knees to his chest, his back against the cold wall. His fingers dug into his arms, and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking.
It was too much. Everything was too much.
He hated this.
He hated feeling like this.
But there was no one.
Just him, the four walls, and the crushing weight of not being good enough.
The air felt thick in his lungs as he forced himself up off the floor, wiping at his face with a shaking hand. His fingers were cold. His entire body felt disconnected—like he wasn’t even inside it anymore.
He needed something. Anything.
Water.
He stumbled out of his room, down the stairs of the training cabin in the dark, the worn wood creaking under his weight. The hallway swayed slightly with each step. He gripped the railing as he made his way into the small kitchen.
The lights were too bright when he flipped them on. Everything felt sharp. Too sharp.
He filled a glass with water from the sink, hands trembling so hard that the water splashed out over the rim. He drank it anyway, gulping it down like it might fix the panic buried in his chest.
It didn’t.
His stomach turned with a dull ache. He hadn’t eaten all day.
He moved to the stove, digging through the cabinets like a ghost. Found a pan. Found eggs. Something easy. Just enough to get food in his body so he could calm down.
He turned on the burner, poured in oil, cracked two eggs—
And then—
A sharp sizzle.
His hand brushed the edge of the pan, and instantly—searing heat.
He cried out, stumbling back, knocking the pan off the stove.
Oil splattered everywhere.
The eggs hit the floor with a wet slap.
His hand burned—red and angry, already blistering in one spot.
He hissed, clutching it, backing into the counter.
"Shit—shit—"
The smoke alarm went off. Loud. Shrill. Screaming into the silence like a siren.
Chaos.
Alex stood frozen, hand burning, chest tight, heart racing.
He had just wanted a glass of water.
He had just wanted to feel okay.
He couldn’t take it.
The noise, the heat, the pain—his hand throbbed and the alarm still screamed above his head. His lungs felt like they were going to collapse.
Alex bolted.
He shoved the back door open and ran barefoot into the night. The cold air hit his face like ice, and he kept running, down the steps of the cabin and onto the gravel, not caring that it bit into his feet. He just needed to get away.
Tears blurred his vision as he collapsed into the grass near the edge of the track. He dropped to his knees, clutching his burnt hand against his chest and choking on sobs that wouldn’t stop.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t think.
Everything had gone to shit.
He had trained so hard. He had pushed himself until his body broke down, and still it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.
His hand was messed up now—how the hell was he supposed to race like this?
How was he supposed to do anything?
He let out a sound between a cry and a scream, curling into himself in the cold dirt.
The stars above blurred behind tears.
Nobody was coming. Nobody ever came.
He was alone.
Just like always.
The crunch of footsteps on gravel snapped through the air.
Alex didn’t hear them at first—not over his ragged breathing and the storm in his chest. But then a shadow crossed over him, blocking the starlight, and a voice cut through the chaos.
"Alex—"
He flinched. Looked up.
Johnathan.
John’s eyes widened as he took in the sight—Alex curled in the dirt, barefoot, shivering, eyes red, hand clutched to his chest, burned and blistered.
"Shit," John muttered, already kneeling beside him. "Hey. Hey, I got you."
Alex shook his head frantically. "No—don’t—just—go away—"
But John didn’t listen. He never really did.
Instead, he gently reached out, not grabbing, just offering. His voice was low, steady.
"Alex. You’re hurt. You’re panicking. You need help."
Alex’s breath caught in his throat, and he looked away, ashamed.
"I messed up," he whispered. "I burned my hand—I can’t race—I can’t do anything—"
"You can," John said, firmer now. "But not like this."
Without waiting for more protest, John slid an arm under Alex’s, lifting him to his feet. Alex leaned against him, half from exhaustion, half from something else he didn’t want to name.
They didn’t speak as John guided him back toward the cabin, his steps slow, careful.
Inside, the alarm had finally gone silent. The pan was still on the floor, eggs a mess.
But John didn’t stop there. He brought Alex straight to the side room where the first-aid kit was kept. Sat him down gently.
"Let me see it," he said quietly.
Alex hesitated, eyes darting to the floor.
"Please."
Slowly, Alex held out his hand.
John took it with surprising care, and when he touched the burn with a damp cloth, Alex hissed, but didn’t pull away.
John’s hands were warm. Steady. He moved with experience, wrapping the wound with cool gel and clean gauze.
Neither of them said anything for a while.
And then John looked up at him, eyes soft under the low fluorescent light.
"You don’t have to kill yourself trying to prove something," he said. "You already did."
Alex’s throat tightened. His voice was barely a breath.
"You don’t get it."
John didn’t argue. He just nodded slowly.
"Maybe not. But I’m trying."
Alex pulled his hand back, sudden and sharp, like the bandage stung more than the burn ever could.
"Stop," he said, voice cracking. "Just—stop trying to be nice. I don’t need it."
John blinked, taken aback. He didn’t say anything at first, just sat back on his heels, letting the silence hang in the air between them.
Alex stood up too fast, nearly knocking the chair back. His head spun again, but he forced himself to keep standing.
"You don’t get it," Alex said again, this time bitter. "I’m not worth the time. I’m just some rookie who burns his own damn hand trying to make eggs the night before a race. I’m a joke."
"You’re not a joke," John said flatly.
Alex laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Then what am I?"
John stood, not angry, just... tired in that deep way, like he’d been through this before. Like he understood.
"You’re someone who gives a damn," he said. "Too much, probably. You care so much you’re tearing yourself apart trying to prove something to people who already see it in you."
Alex stared at him, chest rising and falling, eyes glistening again.
"Then why’d you show up? Why’d you even come find me?"
John’s gaze didn’t waver.
"Because I heard the alarm. And when I checked out my window and saw your door hanging open, I knew something was wrong."
Alex blinked. "...Your window?"
John nodded once. "I live in the cabin next to yours."
Alex frowned, caught off guard. "...You do?"
"Yeah," John said, a faint smirk forming. "The whole LNC/MCD campus setup? All of us living in those little wood cabins on-site for the season? You’re in 5B. I’m 5A. You really thought you were alone out here?"
Alex’s mouth opened, then closed.
He hadn’t thought about it. Not really. The first night, he’d been so focused on unpacking. On not looking at anyone. On surviving.
John stepped closer, voice lower now, but still steady.
"You’re not alone, Alex."
And for the first time in a long time, Alex didn’t have a response.
Alex glanced around the room—at the pan on the floor, the half-scorched eggs smeared across the tile, the water spilled near the counter, the gauze wrappers and bandage bits left behind from the first-aid kit. It looked like a storm had blown through.
He took a step toward it.
John was immediately behind him. "Hey. No."
"I made the mess. I should clean it," Alex mumbled, not meeting his eyes.
John’s hand caught his wrist—gently, never forceful. "You're not cleaning anything right now."
Alex tried to pull away. "It’s not a big deal."
"It is," John said. "You’re exhausted. You’re still shaking. You need to sit down, or sleep, or... anything other than clean up this wreck."
Alex clenched his jaw. "I don’t want people to think I’m some useless kid who can’t even—"
"You’re not useless," John interrupted. "You’re burnt out. That’s different."
The words hit a nerve, like they reached somewhere deep that Alex had been trying not to think about.
"You don’t have to prove anything tonight," John added. "Not to me. Not to anyone."
Alex finally looked up at him—really looked—and saw no mockery in his face, no amusement. Just quiet determination.
"I’ll clean it," John said, his tone soft but firm. "Go lie down. Or at least sit your stubborn ass on the couch."
Alex opened his mouth, but the protest didn’t come. He nodded, slowly, as if the decision weighed ten tons. He stepped back and dropped onto the couch, the cushions creaking under him. His shoulders slumped, and for the first time that night, he let himself breathe.
John knelt and started picking up the mess in silence. Eggs scraped off the floor, the pan rinsed in the sink, wrappers thrown away. It wasn’t dramatic or flashy. He just did it, like it wasn’t a big deal.
Alex watched him quietly.
Somewhere in his chest, that aching knot of panic slowly started to loosen.
Alex sat back on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, still watching John as he worked. The silence in the room felt heavy, but Alex wasn't sure if it was because of everything that had happened or just because he wasn't used to this—someone actually caring enough to do something like this for him. It felt... strange. But the tension in his chest was starting to ease, so he decided to fill the quiet with something more familiar.
"Geez, you clean better than I cook," Alex said with a half-hearted chuckle.
John shot him a quick glance, his mouth twitching upward. "Guess you’ll need a new career then."
Alex raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. "You think I could be a professional cleaner? That’s a low blow, man."
John smiled but didn’t say anything, just kept cleaning the pan with slow, deliberate motions.
Alex leaned back further into the couch, eyes on the mess John was making less of. "I should probably start a ‘how not to cook’ tutorial series. First episode: Don’t try to make eggs when you're already over-caffeinated and under-slept."
John glanced up at him again. "You really think anyone would watch that?"
"Hey, I bet I’d get at least a hundred views. For the chaos factor alone," Alex said, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself.
"You’re a real pro at talking yourself down," John teased lightly, before grabbing a towel to wipe the counter. "But seriously, maybe you should give cooking another shot... just, y'know, after a full night of sleep."
Alex laughed, but it came out strained. "Yeah, or I could just live off pizza and take-out. Seems easier, right?"
John snorted. "You’re gonna end up running on nothing but carbs and caffeine at this rate."
"I mean," Alex shrugged, "what else is there? A life of minimal sleep, questionable food choices, and trying to out-race everyone on the track. It’s the dream."
John shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. "You’re an odd one, you know that?"
"Hey," Alex said, raising a finger as if imparting some great wisdom, "you just got a glimpse into the inner workings of Alex 101. It's a mess, but it gets the job done."
John paused for a moment, wiping his hands on the towel before tossing it aside. "Well, whatever it is, I think you’re more capable than you give yourself credit for."
Alex didn’t reply immediately. He was too busy trying to convince himself that John’s words were just... well, words. But for some reason, hearing them from John—someone who, despite everything, had been nothing but upfront with him—felt a little more real than usual.
Finally, Alex let out a quiet sigh, still leaning back on the couch. "Guess I’ll have to prove you right, huh?" he said, a playful glint in his eyes. "Maybe I’ll cook real food one day. Just not today."
"Good idea," John said with a grin, finally standing up straight. "Let's not push our luck."
Alex leaned back further into the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, feeling slightly lighter than before but still weighed down by the thoughts lingering in his mind. He caught John putting away the last of the mess with a casual efficiency, and for a second, he allowed himself to relax. It was a rare moment where he didn’t feel the sharp sting of needing to impress or prove anything.
"Well," Alex said with a little shrug, his voice light but with a hint of his usual bravado, "guess if the race goes poorly, I could always get a job at a restaurant. If I’m gonna burn things, I might as well get paid for it."
John didn’t laugh. Instead, he paused, and Alex's heart skipped a beat when he saw the way John’s gaze softened, like he was trying to read him. It was as if John heard something unspoken, something that made him hesitate before answering.
Alex, suddenly aware of the air in the room thickening, kept his voice casual. "I mean, it's not like my life’s ever been that stable, right? A few burnt meals are probably the least of my worries."
The words hung in the air, more raw than Alex intended. He quickly attempted to cover it up with a nervous chuckle, but it felt too forced. The punchline fell flat.
John didn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable as he stood there, holding the pan in his hand. Alex felt a cold chill wash over him as the weight of his own joke hit him like a truck. He wasn’t supposed to talk like that, wasn’t supposed to let people in, especially not about the things he kept buried under layers of sarcasm and humor. He tried to cover it up by giving a small, forced laugh, waving it off.
"Right, but whatever, it’s just a joke," Alex said quickly, his voice rising with a forced confidence. "I was just messing with you. I mean, race day, who needs stable? Just—" he faltered, looking anywhere but at John, "forget I said anything."
John didn’t let it go, though. He put the pan down carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly, but his voice remained calm and steady. "Alex... you don’t have to hide behind jokes all the time. You’re allowed to talk about stuff, y’know?"
Alex froze up completely, unable to answer as the moment stretched on. He wanted to shove the conversation away, act like nothing happened, but the weight of John's gaze on him was like a pressure cooker, slowly building up. His heart pounded against his ribs.
“Right. Anyway—” Alex started, trying to change the subject, his voice too sharp, “You think we could just move the race date? Give me a little more time to recover from my, uh, amazing cooking skills?” His attempt to joke again came out way too forced, almost like he was trying too hard to distract from what had just slipped through.
John didn’t laugh. Instead, he shook his head slowly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it was soft and sincere. "You know we can't do that. The race is set. But you’re going to be fine." He took a step closer, his tone gentle. “But you need sleep. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard tonight. You need rest.”
Alex opened his mouth to protest, to argue that he didn’t have time for sleep, that he had to keep going, but the words caught in his throat. He couldn’t make himself say it, couldn’t keep up the act.
John’s voice was steady as he stepped toward him, guiding Alex gently but firmly toward the bed. "You’re not racing if you're half asleep, alright? You’ll have a better shot if you’re actually rested."
Alex blinked, feeling the exhaustion wash over him like a flood, and for the first time all night, he realized he couldn’t push himself any further. He was done.
"Yeah, okay," he muttered, his voice small, suddenly too tired to argue. "But don’t expect me to sleep through the whole night."
John chuckled lightly, though there was a warmth to his eyes that Alex couldn’t quite shake off. "I’ll make sure you get at least a few hours. Now, get some rest, alright? I’ll be here when you wake up."
Alex nodded, a quiet thank you stuck in his throat. He climbed into the bed, feeling like the weight of the world was finally starting to lift off his shoulders. And as John made his way out of the room, Alex let himself close his eyes, though the doubts and fears still clung to the edges of his thoughts.