Chapter 8
The race day buzz didn’t die down with the sunset. Instead, the riders and pit crew spilled into the large, open hangout cabin at the far end of the campus-like track grounds—a space unofficially dubbed “The Pit House.” Music thumped against the wooden walls, snacks were scattered everywhere, and someone had even dragged a few coolers full of drinks inside.
Alex hadn’t planned on staying long. He’d told himself just one soda, maybe a slice of pizza, then back to his cabin. But somehow, that one soda turned into a beer handed to him by some LNC teammate he barely knew. Then another. Then a shot. Then a challenge.
He didn’t remember saying yes. But he always said yes to challenges.
Now, the room was spinning a little too fast and Alex was slumped half into a bean bag chair near the fireplace, his racing jacket tossed somewhere across the floor. His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded, and his smile was crooked in that lazy, too-far-gone way that said: yeah, he was gone.
“Hey—hey, hey, hey, listen—” he slurred, pointing at someone with a limp wrist and a nearly empty red solo cup. “I could totally, like... do that jump blindfolded. I mean it. I’d do it right now. But like. Not right now. But now-now, y’know?”
Someone nearby snorted with laughter. Alex giggled too, kicking his legs slightly, one boot slipping off with a thunk.
“I’m not even that drunk,” he said to the air, voice dragging. “I’m just... chillin’. Vibing. I’m a—what’s the word? A... a goat. No—a legend. Legendary goat.” He burst into laughter at his own joke, then stopped, blinking. “Wait. Did I just call myself a goat?”
From across the room, Johnathan had been watching the whole thing. Arms crossed, back against the wall. He hadn’t said much, but he was definitely noticing. And the way his jaw clenched slightly when Alex tried to get up and nearly faceplanted into a bean bag said a lot.
Alex staggered to his feet anyway, swaying. “Where’s my—where’s m’jacket? I need it. It’s cold. You cold? I’m not cold. But it’s cold. Gimme my jack... jacka... the thing.”
Someone tossed it at him and it hit him square in the face. Alex just blinked, slow and surprised, before snorting again and mumbling something no one understood.
John finally sighed, uncrossed his arms, and started walking over.
“Ohhh noooo,” Alex said with mock fear when he saw him approaching. He pointed dramatically, nearly falling over again. “He’s coming. It’s The Man himself. Johnny-boy. The Dirt Bike Daddy.”
Someone burst out laughing. Alex grinned wide, proud of that nickname.
Johnathan didn’t even blink. “Alright,” he said coolly, stepping in and catching Alex by the elbow before he collapsed again. “That’s enough for you.”
“I don’need help,” Alex mumbled, stumbling into him anyway. “I’m fine. I’m—floatin’. Like a cloud. A really, really cool cloud with... engine noises.”
“Yeah. You’re a cloud, alright,” John said dryly. “Come on. Before you barf on somebody’s boots.”
As John helped him toward the door, Alex leaned heavily on him and whispered, “You’re nice. Like, secretly nice. But like... mean outside. Like a candy. A sour one. Sour guy.”
John didn’t say anything. But he didn’t let go either.
Just as John had reached the door with Alex half-draped over him, someone from the crowd called out.
“Yo, John! Manberg crew wants a word!”
John turned, glancing over his shoulder. A teammate of his, taller, bulkier, had pushed through the crowd with a serious expression. John sighed. He hesitated—looked down at Alex who was still mumbling something about clouds and candy—then back up.
“Just a second,” he muttered, easing Alex into the arm of the couch like a stack of clothes. “Don’t move.”
Alex blinked up at him, dazed. “M’not a dog…” he whispered.
John ignored it and disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by noise and voices.
Alex giggled to himself, slumped awkwardly sideways. His vision swam a little—everything looked like it had motion blur. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make things settle.
“Hey, man,” came a voice. Smooth. Too smooth. Someone crouched in front of him, holding out a fresh cup. “You dropped this.”
Alex squinted. “Did I?”
“Yeah, totally. I saw you holding it earlier. Same drink, right?”
The cup was red like the others. The drink inside looked like beer—or maybe soda—he couldn’t tell anymore. His head was already pounding. His hand moved before he could think about it, grabbing the drink and taking a big sip.
“Thanks, dude…” he mumbled, voice thick.
The guy was already gone. Disappeared.
Alex sat back. His stomach turned immediately. Something felt… wrong.
Really wrong.
The burn hit his throat first—not the normal kind. It was thick. Bitter. Sharp. His tongue felt fuzzy.
Alex blinked hard, head lolling to the side. The room stretched and twisted, like someone had taken a photo and pulled the corners out of shape. He tried to swallow again, but even that felt wrong. His fingers tingled. His legs were heavy.
He let out a confused, low sound. “Whuh…”
The music was too loud. The lights too bright. And yet… everything seemed far away now. Distant. Muffled.
He reached up to wipe his face, but his arm didn’t cooperate—it barely moved. He slumped harder into the couch, now sliding sideways to the floor. The carpet pressed against his cheek.
“John…?” he murmured, or at least he thought he did.
No one noticed.
The party was too loud. People were dancing. Talking. Laughing. Stepping right around him. He saw the floor under him ripple like water, and his vision kept blacking out for split seconds at a time.
His heartbeat was going too slow.
His thoughts weren’t sticking.
And then—
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Firm. Familiar.
“Alex?” John’s voice. Sharper now. Close. He was kneeling. “Alex. Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
Alex tried to focus, but his eyelids were too heavy. His tongue wouldn’t move right. His body felt like it wasn’t his anymore.
“What the hell happened—?” John looked around. “Did he drink something else?!”
Someone said something. Another person shrugged.
John didn’t wait.
He scooped Alex into his arms like he weighed nothing and pushed through the crowd, urgency in his steps. “Move. Get out of the way. Now.”
He barely heard someone yell after him—“Is he okay?!”
John’s jaw clenched. “No. He’s not.”
And he sprinted for the medical cabin.
The door to the med cabin slammed open with John’s boot.
“Hey!” he barked. “I need someone, now!”
One of the night medics, barely awake, jolted up from her desk. The moment she saw Alex slumped in John's arms—unmoving, breathing shallow—her face paled.
“What happened?”
“Something was in his drink. I think he got roofied,” John growled, voice raw and shaking underneath all the anger. “He was on the floor. He couldn’t talk. He—he was fine, and then—”
“Put him down, here.”
John laid Alex gently onto the narrow cot as the medic grabbed supplies, started checking vitals, and hooked up monitors.
Alex stirred a little, weakly groaning, but it was barely anything. His lips were pale.
John stood there, fists clenched, watching the rise and fall of Alex’s chest.
The medic looked up at him. “You got here just in time.”
John nodded once, curt. “He gonna be okay?”
“If nothing else was in the mix, yes. But he’ll be out for a while.”
John sat on the bench beside the cot. His leg bounced. His hands were twitching.
He stared at Alex’s face, flushed and unfocused, and felt this burning anger coil deep in his gut.
Who the hell would do that to him?
And why?
And why did it bother him so much?
He reached out and adjusted the blanket over Alex’s shoulder.
“You’re a damn idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Always doing the most. Always chasing it too hard…”
Alex stirred again, face twitching like he was dreaming something chaotic.
John stayed beside him the whole night.
Alex blinked into the morning light, eyes squinting as the world came into focus. His head was pounding like someone had smacked a drum behind his eyes, and his stomach was curled into knots. The sterile scent of the med cabin still clung to his hoodie.
Before he could even sit up, the door creaked open.
“There he is,” John muttered, stepping in with a bottle of water and a small protein bar. “You look like shit.”
Alex groaned. “Feel like shit.”
John helped him sit up, wordless, just patient. When Alex could stand without stumbling, John walked him across the campus—past the still-dewy training field and into the gravel path leading toward their cluster of cabins.
Each racer had their own, single-occupancy cabin, scattered around the main training facilities. They were small, like bunkers with porches, but homey enough. Alex’s cabin sat two doors down from John’s. They’d barely ever talked about it before.
John helped him into his room, but Alex pulled away fast. “I’m good. I’m fine.”
“You almost died last night.”
“I’m fine,” Alex snapped, yanking open a drawer, rummaging for his gear. “I need to get to the track. I gotta catch up.”
John didn’t move. “You're not even fully awake and you’re already trying to destroy yourself?”
“I lost last race.” Alex’s voice cracked. “And I’ve lost every other one before that.”
John folded his arms. “You’re nineteen. You’re acting like your career’s over.”
Alex didn’t say anything. Just stood there with one glove in his hand, breathing through his teeth.
John sat down on the edge of the desk like he owned the place. “Y’know, I’ve never had to worry about losing. My family made sure of that.”
Alex glanced at him.
“I mean it,” John continued, voice a little quieter. “Private lessons since I could walk. Custom bikes. A track behind our house. My mom drove a Range Rover. My dad literally bought my way into my first team.”
Alex’s jaw tightened.
“I didn't have to prove anything to anyone, not at first,” John went on, glancing at the ceiling. “It was all handed to me. But I didn’t feel like it was mine. Not until I started earning wins on my own.”
He looked back at Alex. “You? You’re working your ass off just to stay here. That’s already more than I ever did at your age.”
Alex didn’t respond right away. Just stared at his gloves like they’d betrayed him.
Finally, he muttered, “They never supported me. My family, I mean.”
John nodded. “I know.”
Alex’s voice cracked. “How?”
“You race like someone who’s got nothing to lose,” John said. “And that means you’ve already survived worse than whatever this sport can throw at you.”
Alex slowly sat down on the edge of his bed, shoulders sagging. The gloves dropped to the floor.
John didn’t say anything more. Just reached down, picked up the gloves, and set them on the nightstand.
“You’re not racing today,” he said. “You’re recovering.”
Alex stayed quiet for a long while, eyes flickering toward the gloves on the nightstand. The silence between them was thick, heavy, buzzing with something unsaid.
But then John broke it.
“You really weren’t gonna say anything? About last night?”
Alex rolled his eyes. “What, that I got roofied at a party and woke up with you playing babysitter?”
John leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “That someone drugged you. Yeah, actually. That matters.”
“I didn’t ask you to care.”
“Well I do,” John snapped, his voice sharper now. “You could’ve died, Alex.”
Alex stood up too fast, dizziness flashing through him like lightning. “And? What were you gonna do—hold my hand and cry about it?”
John’s brows shot up. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Alex barked, stepping closer. “What’s wrong with you? You think just ‘cause you come from money, you get to walk in here and act like you’ve got everything figured out?”
John’s face twisted. “This isn’t about me, dude—”
“You don’t know what it’s like to be scared all the time that you’re not enough!” Alex’s voice cracked again. “That one bad lap and they’ll drop you like nothing—”
“Jesus,” John muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You’re exhausting.”
“Yeah? Then leave.”
But John didn’t. He stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“Alex.”
“I said no.”
John didn’t wait for a third protest. He grabbed Alex’s hoodie sleeve and tugged him out the cabin door with surprising gentleness—but enough insistence that Alex didn’t have the energy to fight it.
“Where the hell are we going?” Alex grumbled as they walked past the line of cabins.
“My place.”
Alex scoffed. “Why?”
“Because you need to sit down and shut up for five minutes. And because I have better snacks.”
That made Alex pause. “...Better snacks?”
John smirked without looking back. “You’ll see.”
When they got to John's cabin, Alex blinked.
It was… way bigger. Not obnoxious, but definitely double the space. The front porch had a little seating area. Inside, it was warm with rich wood accents and decent lighting, not the flickery bulb crap Alex had.
There were framed photos of races, shelves stacked with books and gear magazines, a sleek coffee machine in the corner, even a small couch. Alex’s jaw tensed.
“Of course you get the deluxe package,” he muttered.
John tossed him a protein bar from a cabinet. “They offered us all the same layout. I just upgraded.”
Alex caught it. “Must be nice.”
John shrugged. “What can I say? My parents like wiring cash when they feel guilty about something.”
Alex flopped on the couch and looked around, soaking it in. It wasn’t flashy, but it screamed comfort. Something he didn’t really know.
John leaned on the counter, arms crossed. “You’re like a stray cat, you know that?”
Alex gave him a look. “What?”
“Always ready to bite, even when someone’s just leaving out food.” He smirked. “Stray. That’s what I’m calling you now.”
Alex blinked. “That’s dumb.”
“Nah, it fits. You act like you belong to nobody. But you keep coming back.”
Alex’s cheeks flushed faintly. He looked down at the wrapper in his hands.
“Stray,” he repeated, quietly.
John smirked and tossed him a blanket. “Don’t get too cozy. I still expect you to lose the next race.”
Alex grinned, despite everything. “Yeah, well. Maybe I’ll surprise you.”
Alex stared at the blanket in his lap, fingers picking at a loose thread. The cabin was quiet now except for the faint hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock. John's words sat heavy in his chest—Stray. It echoed with something he didn’t want to admit but couldn’t shake either.
Then, without really thinking, Alex muttered, “Fine.”
John glanced over. “Fine what?”
“You wanna call me Stray, then I get one too. For you.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
Alex stood, stretching with a fake yawn and tossing the protein bar wrapper into the bin. “You’re… uh…”
He hesitated. Then he smirked and pointed. “Cruiser.”
John blinked. “Cruiser?”
Alex nodded, leaning against the counter. “Yeah. You’re all polished, smooth rides, silver spoon, GPS set to success.”
John chuckled. “You literally just called me a rich guy on auto-pilot.”
“Exactly,” Alex said, grinning. “You cruise through everything. You coast. You were probably born in third gear.”
John shook his head, but he was smiling too. “Stray and Cruiser, huh?”
Alex shrugged. “Sounds like a knockoff buddy cop show.”
“Or a band.”
“Or a disaster,” Alex added.
They both laughed, and the sound came easy—no weight, no sharpness. Just a flicker of something normal. Something they could hold onto.
Cruiser and Stray.
Neither of them said it, but they both liked how it sounded.
John had already started rummaging through the fridge when Alex stepped up beside him, eyeing the bottle of whiskey in John's hand. He watched as John hesitated before pulling the bottle back, giving Alex a look that was part concerned, part amused.
“No,” John said, looking straight at Alex. “You’re too young for this.”
Alex scoffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not a kid, John. I can handle myself.”
John raised an eyebrow, the bottle still held protectively in his hand. “You barely turned 19, man. You should take it easy.”
Alex felt a flash of irritation. He could hear the edge in John’s voice, like he was being patronized, like he couldn’t make his own choices. Maybe it wasn’t anything big, but it made him feel small, like he was being treated like some fragile thing.
“Why are you being such a baby about it? You don’t think I can have a drink? After last night?” Alex’s voice cracked, barely louder than a mutter, but it was enough. The words slipped out before he could stop them. He didn’t want to seem weak, but the frustration of it all hit him in that moment.
John’s eyes softened a bit. He gave the bottle a last look before gently setting it back on the counter, pushing it away from Alex. “I’m not treating you like a kid, Alex. I just think you’ve had enough chaos for one night. I’m looking out for you.”
Alex snorted, rolling his eyes. He was tired of feeling like the screw-up, tired of everyone trying to fix him or watch over him.
He grabbed the bottle himself, defiantly, and twisted it open. “It’s stupid that you’re treating me like I’m still some… some kid. I don’t need you looking after me.”
Before John could stop him, Alex lifted the bottle to his lips. But as soon as he did, his hand slipped.
The bottle crashed to the floor with a loud smash, and the liquid spread out in a jagged pool across the kitchen tiles.
Alex froze.
His heart thudded in his chest, the room suddenly growing too tight, the pressure too much. He felt the tension in his body, like a snap of something pulling, the sensation of panic crawling up his spine.
The sound of shattering glass echoed in his mind for a split second, the sharp clink sending him right back to that moment he couldn’t escape, the chaos, the mistakes. His breath caught in his throat, his body stiffened. His hands shook slightly as he crouched down, grabbing a towel from the counter to mop up the mess, trying to steady himself.
John didn’t move right away, just watched him, his face hardening in concern. But Alex didn’t want to deal with it. He couldn’t.
“It’s nothing,” Alex muttered, a sharp edge to his voice as he wiped the floor, keeping his eyes on the mess instead of on John. “It’s fine. Just… just a stupid accident.”
John opened his mouth, but Alex cut him off before he could say anything.
“Just… leave it, okay?” Alex’s voice was softer now, but still laced with that defensiveness. He couldn’t handle being coddled, especially not in a moment like this.
John sighed, stepping back. “You’re not fine, Alex. Don’t pretend you are.”
“I said it’s fine,” Alex repeated, a little more forcefully, as if saying it louder would make it true. His fingers tightened around the towel, and he focused on cleaning, forcing himself to ignore the pounding in his chest. He couldn’t let it take over. Not now. Not again.
And after a long moment, when Alex had the mess mostly cleaned up, he stood, breathing a little easier, though his heart was still thumping in his chest. He looked over at John, who was still standing there, not saying anything.
Alex gave a tight, forced smile. “I’m good. Just… dropped a bottle. Happens.”
John studied him for a second before nodding, though he didn’t seem convinced.
“Yeah,” John said, voice a little quieter now. “Sure. But you don’t have to do this alone, you know.”
Alex didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he just grabbed the broom and started sweeping up the glass.
John watched Alex for a moment, his eyes scanning the younger man’s stiff posture and the way his shoulders were tense. He knew Alex was trying to keep it together, but the effort was obvious. John sighed, breaking the silence with a suggestion, anything to get Alex to stop pretending like everything was fine.
“Hey,” John said, his voice softer this time. “You want to watch a movie? Something to… you know, distract you for a bit?”
Alex paused in his sweeping, staring at the floor for a second before glancing up at John. He looked at the older man as if weighing the suggestion, like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to take the offer or push it away.
“A movie?” Alex repeated, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A little late for that, don’t you think?”
John shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like you’ve got anywhere else to be right now.”
Alex didn’t answer immediately, still frozen in place, his hand gripping the broom. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to take the distraction—hell, he needed it—but there was a part of him that resisted. He didn’t want to let John in. He didn’t want to admit that he was falling apart inside, that the chaos was still too close to the surface.
But then, he sighed and leaned the broom against the wall. “Fine. But I’m not going to make it some emotional movie night,” he muttered, trying to cover up the vulnerability in his voice with sarcasm.
John smiled, relieved to see Alex at least loosen up a bit. “Yeah, we can keep it light,” he said, heading toward the TV. “How about an action movie? Something with explosions and car chases?”
“Perfect,” Alex said dryly, but there was the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. It was hard to stay mad at John when he was trying so damn hard.
As John set up the movie, Alex slumped onto the couch, his mind still racing but feeling the pull of exhaustion. The weight of everything from the past few days was wearing on him, but he didn’t want to admit that, either. He just sank into the cushions, pulling his legs up and crossing his arms, trying to look like he was in control.
John sat beside him, making sure to keep some space between them—just enough to respect Alex’s boundaries, but close enough that he could tell Alex wasn’t alone. The TV flickered to life, and the familiar sound of car engines and gunfire filled the room.
“Here’s hoping this distraction works,” Alex muttered, his voice quieter now.
John glanced over at him, watching his profile in the dim light from the screen. “It will,” he said, his tone soft but reassuring.
The two of them settled in, the movie playing in the background as they both silently escaped into the chaos of explosions and high-speed chases. For a little while, it was easy to forget about everything—about the race, about the pressure, about the mess Alex had made of himself the night before.
And for a moment, Alex could almost believe things were okay. Just for a moment.
The movie played on, but the sounds of explosions and dramatic music seemed to fade into the background. Alex’s eyelids grew heavier with each passing minute, and he found himself slowly relaxing, the tension in his body gradually easing. His usual anxiety seemed to be at bay, replaced by the comforting warmth of the couch and the soft hum of the TV.
John, sensing Alex was starting to doze off, quietly got up and walked into the kitchen. A few moments later, he returned with a bowl of chips and some pretzels. "You looked like you could use some snacks," he said, sitting back down on the couch, offering the bowl to Alex.
Alex didn’t even bother to protest. He simply reached for the bowl, grabbing a handful of chips. "Guess I’m not above comfort food," he said with a lazy grin, though his voice was quieter than usual.
John settled back into the couch, allowing the moment to hang between them in the silence. Neither of them said anything for a while. They simply existed in the same space—two people who didn’t need to fill the air with words all the time. For once, there were no expectations, no pressure to be something they weren’t.
Eventually, Alex’s eyes fluttered shut completely. His body relaxed into the cushions, and before he knew it, he was asleep, his head nestled against John’s shoulder.
John glanced down at him, his chest tightening in an unfamiliar way. He didn’t want to admit it, but there was something about having Alex so close that felt... right. He shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and then let out a soft sigh.
His own eyelids grew heavy, and soon, the exhaustion from the long day caught up with him. His head tilted toward Alex, resting against the younger man’s, and without thinking, he let himself drift off as well. The two of them, wrapped in the quiet of the moment, drifted into a peaceful, unspoken connection.
And before they knew it, they were both asleep on the couch, the movie’s faint glow lighting the room as the world outside continued on, leaving them to find comfort in the calm, in each other’s presence, without needing anything more than this quiet reprieve from the chaos.
For once, Alex didn’t have to push himself to keep going. And for once, John didn’t have to pretend he wasn’t looking out for someone.