The crowd had thinned. Dust floated in the warm, golden light as the last few karts were wheeled into trailers and tents. Engines stopped growling. Kids started laughing again. The pressure had left the paddock — but not Jaxon.
He sat on the bumper of their truck, still in his suit, helmet off but gloves on, like he didn't know how to stop racing. His knuckles were raw, his eyes far away. Curtis was by the fence, chewing a toothpick down to splinters, arms crossed, stare blank and unreadable.
"Hell of a drive."
The voice didn't belong.
Curtis turned. A man stood a few feet away — mid-50s, fit, pressed polo with a subtle logo stitched into the chest: Firestone Motorsports. Black shades. Clipboard tucked under one arm. No bullshit in his posture.
"You the dad?" the man asked.
Curtis didn't move. "Unfortunately."
The man chuckled like he hadn't heard the venom. "Well, I'll say it anyway — your kid's got feel. Racecraft. Especially for his age. That move in Turn 5?" He whistled, low. "Takes balls and brains."
Curtis spat the toothpick. "Balls don't win races. And brains get in the fuckin' way."
The man stepped closer, eyeing Jaxon in the distance.
"I've been around the junior ladder a long time. Seen kids flame out, seen 'em fold. But that kid? That kid hunted. You didn't tell him to pass — he knew to. That can't be taught."
Curtis lit a cigarette. One drag. No answer.
"I've got connections," the man added, voice quieter now, more surgical. "NASCAR, shootout seats, even some factory-backed junior programs sniffing around. He keeps driving like that, people are gonna want to talk."
Curtis finally turned, slow. "And what exactly are they gonna offer him?"
The man blinked. "Opportunity."
Curtis stepped closer. Smoked curled out the corner of his mouth.
"You think opportunity raised him? You think a scholarship's gonna erase what he is? Let me tell you something that boy ain't some prodigy. He's pressure in a fire pit. He drives like that 'cause there's nothing else. No plan B. No safety net. He ain't lookin' for a ladder to climb, he's tryin' not to drown."
The man's polite grin faded. "Still. If he keeps this up, he won't be here long."
Curtis flicked the cigarette butt at the man's shoes.
"He'll be where I put him. You wanna help him? Stay the fuck outta my way."
He turned, walked back toward the truck. Jaxon hadn't moved.
Curtis barked, "Load the kart."
Jaxon stood like he'd been electrocuted. No questions. No smile. Just the same exhausted, obedient silence as always.
The next race was three states over.
They left before sunrise, before the sky had even made up its mind about what kind of day it would be. The truck's headlights cut through the fog, the kart strapped tight on the open trailer behind them, humming with every bump in the asphalt.
Inside the cab, it was silence. Not peace — just silence. Curtis drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on a cup of gas station coffee he hadn't touched. Cigarette smoke curled out the cracked window. The radio was off. Always was.
Jaxon sat rigid in the passenger seat, a backpack on his lap, helmet beside him. Still sore from the last race. Still hearing his dad's voice from the paddock like it had been tattooed into his skull.
They'd been on the highway for an hour before Curtis finally spoke.
"That pass in Turn 5," he said, not looking over. "You know why you pulled it off?"
Jaxon blinked. "I was—"
"'Cause the other kid was soft. That's it." He took a drag, exhaled. "He hesitated. And you didn't."
Jaxon nodded.
Curtis flicked ash out the window. "Doesn't mean you were good. Just means he was worse."
More silence.
They passed a rest stop. Curtis didn't pull in.
"You touch the brake too early on that straight."
"I—"
"You did. Don't argue with me." His voice was calm. Weaponized. "You bleed a tenth there every lap. That's what separates podiums from wins. Wins from contracts. Contracts from getting your ass dumped back into a job you hate."
Jaxon turned to look out the window.
Curtis tapped the steering wheel. "You think any of those scouts saw a future champion out there?"
Jaxon didn't answer.
Curtis kept going. "They saw a project. A maybe. They saw a kid with potential and no control. You think they'll risk money on a maybe?"
"No," Jaxon said quietly.
"Louder."
"No."
Curtis nodded. "That's right. You either become a weapon or you get left behind. No one hands you shit."
They drove in silence again. The road stretched on like it had no end.
A while later, Jaxon pulled out his notebook — the one he filled with track maps, lap times, telemetry scribbles. He started sketching the next circuit, corner by corner, like it was homework and war strategy rolled into one.
Curtis glanced over.
"What's Turn 7?"
"Double apex right. Off-camber. Drop in elevation."
Curtis grunted. "You brake?"
"No."
"Good."
They drove for another hour. Fast food wrappers on the floor. Sweat sticking to the vinyl seats. The only thing colder than the A/C was the man in the driver's seat.
As they neared the next track — another cracked-up ribbon of asphalt hidden behind fairgrounds and gravel — Curtis finally spoke again.
"You mess this one up, I pull you. I swear to God, I'll yank the kart mid-heat and you'll spend the rest of the season watchin' from the sidelines."
Jaxon didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just stared straight ahead.
Because he knew Curtis meant it.
And because somewhere deep inside — buried beneath the bruises, the blisters, the bile — he didn't want to prove his father wrong.
The paddock was already alive when they pulled in. Engines buzzed in the distance, tents flapped in the wind, and mechanics barked instructions over the hum of tire compressors and the grind of impact guns.
Curtis parked the truck with a sharp jerk, trailer wheels settling into the gravel like anchors.
"Move," he snapped. "You know the setup."
Jaxon jumped out, unhooking ratchet straps, rolling the kart down the ramp as Curtis unloaded the toolboxes. Their tent was a cheap pop-up — no frills, no logo. Just black tarp and attitude.
The other teams were more polished — matching shirts, fresh decals, full crews. Curtis didn't care. He never looked around. Didn't need to.
As Jaxon laid out the tire blankets and tools, Curtis was already checking the weather, tire pressures, track layout. Precision, not comfort. He barked lap numbers, time goals, pressure ranges.
"Practice window's forty minutes," he said. "You waste even ten of that fuckin' around with lines or gears, I'll know."
"I got it."
"You better."
Jaxon rolled the kart onto the stand and began working in silence. Checked chain tension. Verified rear axle alignment. Adjusted camber by eye, like he'd learned from watching the older guys.
Then his fingers slipped. The 8mm wrench clattered to the floor.
Curtis didn't miss it.
"You dropping tools now? What the fuck is that?" His voice cut across the pit lane like a whip.
A few mechanics glanced over. A kid nearby stopped what he was doing.
Jaxon picked the wrench up quickly, kept his head down.
Curtis stepped closer. "You think they're gonna scout a kid who can't even hold a fucking wrench? You think Ferrari's sittin' in the stands taking notes on who can drop tools the fastest?"
Jaxon's throat tightened. "No."
"No what?"
"No, sir."
Curtis stared him down, jaw working behind clenched teeth.
"You're a goddamn liability when you act like that. You fuck up a bolt torque in the pre-grid and you're not just slow — you're dead. You wanna end up in a wall 'cause your own hands betrayed you?"
Jaxon shook his head.
"Then act like it."
He turned away and lit a cigarette right there next to the fuel jug, daring fire to start just so he could watch something burn.
The clock ticked closer to the session start. Engines fired up all around them. Kart stands rattled as kids climbed in and mechanics fired starters.
Curtis barked from across the tent. "You better get me something under fifty-eight this round or I swear I'll pack this whole shitshow up and sell the kart to someone with balls."
Jaxon nodded, pulled on his gloves.
And every eye in the paddock felt like it was on him now — not out of admiration.
Out of pity.
Out of fear.
He climbed into the seat, tightened the belts, and pulled his helmet down.
Not to protect himself from the track.
But from the man who was already tearing him apart before the tires had even touched asphalt.
The tires squealed in protest as Jaxon threw the kart into Turn 6 — a tight right-hander with a late apex and no runoff. He went in too hot. A fraction too late on the brake. The rear stepped out.
He tried to catch it.
Too late.
The kart spun 180, tires locking, gravel flying. It skidded to a stop just short of the barriers.
Silence.
A second later the marshal waved yellow and motioned him to rejoin.
Jaxon hit the starter. Nothing. Again. It sputtered. Finally, it coughed to life.
He rejoined, slow lap, head down, visor fogging up.
Curtis was already at the fence, arms folded, jaw grinding.
Back at the tent, Jaxon coasted to a stop and climbed out. Before his feet hit the ground, Curtis was already walking over.
"What the fuck was that?" he hissed.
Jaxon peeled off his gloves. "I braked late. It stepped out."
"No shit it stepped out. You spun it like a goddamn idiot in front of everyone."
"I was trying to find the limit."
Curtis shoved him.
It wasn't subtle. It wasn't light. Jaxon stumbled backward into the kart stand, knocking tools loose with a clatter.
A few heads turned.
Curtis didn't care.
"You don't find the limit by wrecking the fucking line," he spat. "You earn the limit. Lap by lap. Control. Feel. You don't just go in like some blind little shit and pray you stick it."
"I'm sorry."
"You're sorry? Oh, well then let's call fucking Red Bull right now and tell them you're sorry. I'm sure they'll send a contract over tonight!"
Jaxon stood frozen. Face red, but cold. Visor still in hand.
Curtis took a step closer, his voice dropping low so only Jaxon could hear it.
"You ever spin like that again, don't bother coming back to the tent. I'll sell the kart before you even get your helmet off."
Jaxon didn't nod. Didn't speak.
He just picked up the fallen wrench, placed it neatly back on the table, and walked to the back of the tent.
Curtis lit another cigarette, stared out toward the track.
One of the other dads nearby shook his head, muttered something under his breath.
Curtis didn't even flinch.
Because in his mind, this wasn't cruelty.
It was coaching.
And there was no room for weakness in racing.
The Next Day
The sun was higher now — hot, sharp light bleaching the asphalt. The track shimmered like glass. Qualifying had begun.
Ten minutes. One chance.
Jaxon was strapped in, engine humming steady. Curtis leaned in through the bars of the fence, chewing a fresh toothpick like it was fighting back.
"You get one clean lap," he barked. "None of that spin-happy bullshit. You brake late, you hold the line, and you put it on pole. Or don't fucking bother showing your face when the clock runs out."
Jaxon said nothing. Just clicked his visor down. Everything else — the sun, the noise, the pressure — faded behind the roar of the engine.
Green flag.
He launched out of the pits like a shot, tires still cool, frame twitching under him. First lap: warm-up. Second: push. Third: fly.
Lap after lap, he got faster. Sector one — perfect. Sector two — tight, fast. Then came Turn 6.
Same corner.
Same temptation.
Too fast in.
Again.
Rear-end stepped out — but this time, the kart didn't just spin. It snapped. Violent. Tires bit for half a second, then let go completely.
He slid sideways off the line, front-left tire caught a patch of raised curb. The kart lifted. Just enough.
Then it launched.
The chassis slammed into the grass sideways, crumpling the axle. The kart dug in and rolled once…twice. Plastic bodywork shredded, engine choking on dirt. Jaxon's body slammed into the seat harness hard, his helmet skidding across packed ground as the kart came to a brutal stop in a cloud of dust and oil.
Silence.
Gasoline fumes.
Pain everywhere.
Track marshals ran.
Curtis didn't.
He stood at the fence. Staring. Not moving.
Jaxon didn't get up right away. He lay there, breath punched out of his chest, limbs slow to respond. Then, with one guttural groan, he rolled to his knees. Shaking. Vision blurred.
He stood.
The crowd on the fence clapped softly — not celebration, just relief that the kid could walk.
Jaxon didn't acknowledge it. Didn't look around.
He limped every step a jolt of pain across the grass and back toward the paddock. Suit torn at the shoulder. Gloves soaked in sweat and dirt. A smear of blood trailed from his chin to his chestplate.
Curtis met him halfway outside the tent.
Didn't help.
Didn't ask.
Just stared.
"That's what you call qualifying?" he said, voice flat, like he was reading from a grocery list. "You wrecked the axle, the sidepod's cracked, and you looked like a scared little bitch out there."
Jaxon didn't respond. His mouth was dry. His ribs screamed.
Curtis stepped closer, tone low and venomous.
"That corner owns you. Still. After all this. You think you're gonna be anything in this sport if one turn keeps making you piss yourself?"
Jaxon nodded once. Hollow. Empty.
Curtis lit a cigarette, took a drag, and blew the smoke over his shoulder.
"Get inside. You've got three hours to fix what you broke. And you better be ready for the final. Or I'll throw the whole fucking kart in the dumpster and we drive home tonight."
Jaxon walked past him into the tent, holding his side, eyes low.
The tent was a furnace. Sweat stuck the fabric of his suit to his back. The fan wasn't running anymore — Curtis had unplugged it to save the generator power for tools.
Jaxon stood over the kart, eyes unfocused, chest rising in shallow, pained breaths.
"Don't just fucking stand there."
Curtis flicked his cigarette into the gravel. "You broke it. You fix it."
Jaxon knelt beside the wrecked chassis. His fingers trembled as he unscrewed the sidepod — jagged plastic barely holding onto the frame. The sprocket was bent. Chain half-off. Axle warped like a coat hanger.
Curtis tossed a fresh one from the tool bin. It clanged at Jaxon's feet.
"You know how to do this. Let's see if that crash shook the memory out of your skull."
Jaxon crawled to the rear end. Every movement lit up pain across his ribs.
"Axle first," Curtis barked. "Take the wheels off. Then unbolt the carrier. And don't strip the threads you do, we're done here."
Jaxon got to work, silent. His hands moved fast, but not clean. Wrenches slipped. His knuckles scraped against metal. One bolt wouldn't budge.
He hesitated.
Curtis grabbed a breaker bar and slammed it down beside him.
"You gonna cry at a stuck bolt now?" he snapped. "Put your damn weight into it. Or maybe you'd rather I teach some other kid who doesn't drive like a fucking jackass."
Jaxon bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, grabbed the breaker bar, and twisted with everything he had. The bolt squealed loose. His shoulder flared with pain, but he didn't stop.
He got the axle out, hands shaking.
Curtis stood behind him, arms crossed.
"Now grease the bearings. Slide the new one in. Line it to the damn hash mark, not whatever bullshit guesswork you've been doing."
Jaxon obeyed. Step by step. Lock collars. Sprocket hub. Rechain. Chain tension. Tire back on. Brakes. Everything double-checked. Nothing missed. Just like Curtis had drilled into him every night for years.
Oil smeared across his suit. Grease under his nails. Blood on his knuckles.
He stood, wincing.
Curtis walked around the kart slowly. Ran his hand along the frame. Pulled the chain once. Nodded once.
"Finally did something right."
Jaxon didn't smile. He didn't move.
He waited.
Curtis looked at him hard. Like he was trying to see through him.
"You better pray that thing holds together in the final," he muttered."Because if it fucks up again it's not the kart. It's you. It's always been you."
Jaxon stared down at the machine he'd just rebuilt.
But all he felt was hollow.
Race Day
The sun had barely cracked the horizon when Jaxon rolled up to the grid — dead last.
Curtis stood by the fence, eyes cold, lips pressed like he tasted sour piss.
"Back of the pack," Curtis spat, voice low, sharp as broken glass. "Like a goddamn cockroach crawling out of the dirt. You want to be a racer or a fucking leech?"
Jaxon said nothing. The weight in his chest was thick. Every breath a fight.
Lights flickered red.
Engines screamed.
Green.
The kart lurched forward, a shot out of hell. Jaxon swallowed the fear, pushed the wheel like it owed him blood.
He carved through the pack like a blade. Two karts down before Turn 1. Another under braking into Turn 4.
Curtis was there — no cheering, no nods. Just that hard, judging stare.
"You're sloppy. Like a newborn calf on ice. You think this is a fucking game? That shit's gonna kill you."
Lap after lap, Jaxon fought like hell. Hands cramped, legs burning.
He got tangled up with another kid at Turn 7 — a bump, the other kart shoving hard. Jaxon fought back, the wheel shaking in his grip.
"Use your head, dumbass! Jesus Christ, if you think you can muscle your way through you're already dead."
By Lap 10, he was P7.
Curtis lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke like a damn dragon.
"Seventh? Fucking seventh? You're a fucking joke. When I'm done with you, you'll wish you'd never graced a kart."
The final laps were a brutal dance — Jaxon wheeling past rivals with desperate, savage aggression. Tires screamed. Engines howled.
On the last lap, he dove deep into Turn 3 — brakes locked, kart sliding, heart racing like a hammer.
He made the move. P4.
Last corner.
Flat out.
The leader was just ahead.
Throttle mashed.
Gap closed.
Crossed the line P3.
Curtis didn't move.
No claps.
No cheers.
Just cold eyes burning into him.
"Third? Christ, I've seen babies with more fight. You're a fucking disaster in a suit."
The podium ceremony droned on, crowd roaring, cameras flashing. Jaxon stood there stiff, hands clenched at his sides, sweat mixing with dirt on his skin. The trophies gleamed in the harsh light — meaningless. The cheers hit like hollow echoes, empty noise.
Curtis stood off to the side, silent. No smile. No nod. Just cold, stone-faced judgment.
Jaxon's heart hammered like a war drum, waiting for the crack, the blow — Curtis never missed.
The moment the ceremony ended, Curtis stormed over like a goddamn storm front.
His voice cut through the chatter, low and brutal.
"Third place?" He spat, eyes sharp as knives. "You call that a result? You're nothing but a slow-ass chump dragging my fucking name through the mud."
He grabbed Jaxon's shoulder hard not enough to bruise, but enough to remind who owned what.
"You think those claps mean shit? They're laughing at you behind your back. You were crawling through the pack like a scared kid on his first day. I don't raise scared kids."
Jaxon swallowed the lump in his throat, the words stabbing deep.
Curtis stepped back, chest heaving, toothpick snapping between his teeth.
"Get the kart packed. We hit the road before dawn. And you better make damn sure every damn bolt is tight. One mistake and you're not racing next race you're sweeping the damn garage."
He turned away, leaving a cold silence thicker than the heat.
The sun had dipped behind the horizon hours ago, but the dashboard's orange glow kept the small cab alive, casting long shadows over Curtis's weathered face. The road stretched ahead, dark and empty, cracked with age and neglect — just like everything else in this fucked-up life.
Curtis drove hard, one hand clenched tight on the wheel, the other fumbling with a cigarette pack. He struck one, dragging slow and deep, eyes never leaving the road.
Jaxon sat stiff in the passenger seat, hands folded on his lap, the bruises on his shoulder still aching. The silence pressed heavy between them — thick enough to choke on.
After a long moment, Curtis broke it, voice low and rough like gravel grinding under tires.
"You think that podium means shit? That third-place bullshit?" He chuckled dark, almost humorless. "It's a goddamn joke. You spent half the race hugging the back like you were scared of your own shadow."
Jaxon didn't respond. His throat was tight, words caught like broken glass.
"Look, kid," Curtis said, voice hardening. "You want to get anywhere, you gotta stop being a pussy. Karting's a war. And you? You're out here with a knife against a fucking arsenal."
The cigarette burned down between his fingers, ash falling onto the floor.
"You wanna know why I push you? Because I see what you can be. Not some scared little kid playing dress-up. I'm not raising a loser."
Curtis glanced over, eyes sharp as broken glass.
"But you gotta want it. You gotta bleed for it. And you don't."
Jaxon's fists clenched. His jaw tight, but he stayed silent.
"Don't fuckin' speak unless I say so."
The engine thrummed beneath them — relentless, unforgiving.
For a while, nothing but the sound of the road, the faint crackle of the radio picking up static.
Then, quietly, Curtis muttered, "You're mine, Jaxon. And that's both a blessing and a goddamn curse."
Jaxon swallowed, staring out the window at the blur of empty fields and cracked pavement.
The trip stretched on, miles folding beneath the tires like some endless punishment.
By the time the first faint light of dawn touched Elkhart Lake's edges, Curtis finally let out a long breath.
"Tomorrow, we start again. No mercy."
Jaxon nodded, the weight of those words sinking deep.
The car slowed as they pulled into the driveway — home. Not a refuge, but a cage.