The phone buzzed in Jaxon's hand, screen scratched, plastic case half-cracked. He held it to his ear, sitting on the tailgate of the truck behind the shop. Mosquitoes whined. The sun was low, slicing through the busted chain-link fence like someone dragging a flashlight across rust.
"…and then he just sent it up the inside," Thomas said, voice scratchy through the speaker. "Didn't even hit the brakes. Just smashed into Callum. Got a penalty and everything."
Jaxon scratched at a bug bite on his arm. "Did Callum get mad?"
"Yeah. He threw his gloves and stomped off. Looked like a penguin."
Jaxon smirked. "That's dumb."
Thomas laughed. "You'd've laughed too. It was so stupid."
Jaxon shifted on the tailgate, glancing back toward the shop.
"You guys have more ovals, right?" Thomas asked. "Like… round tracks?"
"Yeah," Jaxon said. "We run 'em sometimes. Not huge. Just little ones. Karts go quicker there."
Thomas made a noise. "I don't think I'd like that. You just turn left?"
"Sorta. But you're still fighting the kart."
"That's weird."
Jaxon shrugged. "It's fun."
There was a small silence, then Thomas said, "You working on stuff right now?"
"Yeah. Tires."
"Ugh. I hate tires. Dad always makes me roll them around and I end up dropping 'em."
"You don't scrub 'em?"
"Nah, not really. Just wipe. I think your dad makes you do way more."
Jaxon didn't say anything.
"I mean," Thomas added quickly, "you always looked tired after practice. Like you were doing everything."
Another pause.
"Whatever," Thomas mumbled. "You're still fast."
Jaxon scratched his arm again. "You racing next weekend?"
"Yeah. Gonna try to pass Leo this time. He cut the chicane and didn't get called on it."
Before Jaxon could say anything, the shop door slammed behind him.
"What the hell are you doing?" Curtis's voice cracked across the yard like a hammer on steel.
Jaxon froze.
"I told you to scrub the damn tires, not sit out here like some teenage girl on the phone," Curtis barked, storming over. Grease all over his arms. Dirty rag in one hand. "You think Cadet titles matter if your sidewalls look like shit?"
Jaxon jerked the phone from his ear.
"I gotta go," he said quickly.
Thomas's voice was faint. "Alright. Later."
Jaxon hung up and shoved the phone into his pocket just as Curtis closed the gap.
Curtis chucked the rag at his chest. "You talk to that British kid more than you listen to me."
"I already did the fronts," Jaxon muttered.
"Then why the hell are you sitting? Get the rears done or you're skipping dinner."
He turned and walked back toward the garage.
Jaxon didn't argue. Just slid off the tailgate, knelt beside the kart, and started scrubbing.
The kitchen light buzzed overhead, flickering like it was sick of being on. A single bulb, too bright, made the chipped table and cracked vinyl chairs look worse than they already were. The floor was dirty. The microwave clock blinked 8:42 like it had nothing better to do.
Jaxon sat across from his dad, pushing a lump of spaghetti around his plate. It was cold. Sticky. He hadn't eaten all day, but he still didn't feel hungry.
Curtis was halfway through his own plate, shoveling food into his mouth like he was racing himself. He didn't look at Jaxon for a while.
Then he set his fork down with a heavy clack and leaned back in the chair.
"You're running Springfield in three weeks."
Jaxon didn't look up. "Okay."
Curtis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're in the regional Pro Cadet field. Mid-State. New rules this year."
Jaxon took a tiny bite, barely chewing.
"You'll be running against ten-year-olds," Curtis said flatly.
The fork stopped in Jaxon's hand.
He blinked. "Wait. What?"
"You heard me," Curtis said. "They bumped the class ages. You fall into the lower end of it. Every other kid on that damn grid's gonna be ten."
Jaxon stared at the plate. His stomach turned.
"I'm eight."
"Yeah, no shit," Curtis snapped. "And now you get to find out how far behind you really are."
Jaxon clenched the fork harder. "I raced older kids before."
Curtis raised an eyebrow. "In Europe. With kids who couldn't fight their way out of a rental kart. This ain't Britain. This is America. Midwest. No coaches, no baby gloves. Just you, your junk kart, and ten-year-olds who don't give a damn what year you were born."
He reached for his soda, took a long drink, then burped quietly into his fist.
"You think this is some feel-good underdog story? That someone's gonna pat your head because you're littler than the rest?"
Jaxon didn't speak.
Curtis leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You come home behind some ten-year-old farm kid who still pisses the bed and eats string cheese for breakfast, you better start packing your shit. 'Cause I swear to God, you pull that weak-ass crap and you're not driving again."
Jaxon's fingers tightened around the fork.
Curtis stared him down. "You think you've done something? Won a little trophy in the UK and suddenly you're hot shit? All that did was show me how much slower everyone else was. Not how fast you are."
Jaxon's jaw tensed, but he stayed silent.
"Everyone's got you beat on age, weight, height, probably horsepower too," Curtis said, voice hard now. "So when you go out there, you either drive like it's the last lap of your life, or they're gonna eat you alive."
He stabbed another bite of spaghetti and pointed the fork across the table.
"Don't come crying when you get shoved into the grass by some oversized country kid who's never even heard of Europe. You wanna prove something? Prove you can outdrive people bigger than you."
Jaxon looked down again. His face was blank, but his chest burned.
Curtis chewed. Loud. Aggressive.
"New chassis is ready," he said. "Margay cadet frame. It's not pretty, but you don't deserve pretty."
"It's old," Jaxon muttered.
Curtis dropped his fork onto the plate, sauce splattering. "And so is half the shit that wins. You want pretty or you want a goddamn seat?"
Jaxon didn't answer.
Curtis stood, grabbed his empty plate, and dumped it in the sink with a loud clang.
"You're scrubbing tires this weekend. Test day Sunday. No screwups. I don't care if it rains, snows, or God himself shows up to bless the track — you show up sharp, or you're sitting in the truck the rest of the season."
Jaxon nodded.
Curtis grabbed a cigarette off the counter and cracked the back door open. Before he stepped out, he looked over his shoulder.
"You screw this up, I'm not dragging you back to the UK for a redemption arc. You'll be done."
Then he was gone — the screen door slamming behind him.
Jaxon sat there in the ugly yellow light, the spaghetti cold, untouched. The buzzing bulb over him made his head hurt.
Ten-year-olds.
He was eight. Smaller. Lighter. Out of place again. But no one cared. Not here. Not Dad. Not the grid. Nobody.
He stared down at the plate for a long time, then stood up and dumped it in the sink, food sliding off in a heavy, wet slap.
Just the sound of the cigarette burning out back and the faint hum of the old fridge in the corner.
He grabbed a towel and headed back into the garage.
The truck rumbled onto the highway, tires humming against the cracked asphalt. A dull gray sky pressed down over the flat fields stretching either side, silent except for the distant hum of insects and the occasional call of a crow.
Curtis drove without looking over, his hand steady on the wheel. A stub of cigarette rested between his fingers, ash threatening to fall with every twist and turn of the road. The cab smelled like engine oil, sweat, and old leather — a place worn down by years of sweat and hard luck.
Jaxon sat stiff in the passenger seat, knees tucked tight to his chest. His hands rested in his lap, fingers twitching slightly. He stared out the window but saw nothing — just the blur of brown fields and empty sky. No music. No radio. Just silence heavier than the air outside.
Curtis finally broke it, voice low and harsh.
"Don't fuck this up. I don't want to have to haul your ass back home on a trailer."
Jaxon swallowed hard but didn't answer.
The truck hit a pothole, rattling the cab. Curtis cursed under his breath.
"Mid-State's not a playground. It's a war zone. Ten-year-olds with fire in their eyes and nothing to lose."
Jaxon shifted, uneasy.
"You're small. You're young. You're slower than every damn kid out there who's been at it since they were knee-high. So you better be ready."
Jaxon's voice came out barely above a whisper.
"I'll try."
Curtis snorted.
"Try isn't enough. You either drive like a bastard or you get out of the way."
The cigarette ash fell onto the worn vinyl seat between them. Curtis flicked it away without looking.
The road stretched long and empty ahead.
Jaxon's heart hammered. The weight of Curtis's words pressed down on him like the heavy sky.
He wanted to say something. To ask for advice, or maybe just some kind of sign that he wasn't alone in this.
But Curtis's silence swallowed every word before it could leave his throat.
The pickup bounced over another patch of rough road.
Curtis grunted. "You ready to make everyone regret they ever saw you?"
Jaxon didn't answer.
Curtis's voice dropped lower, harsher.
"'Cause if you're not, you're wasting my goddamn time."
Jaxon swallowed again, voice small and steady.
"I'm ready."
Curtis didn't respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, the cigarette stub smoldering between his fingers.
The sun was low, casting long shadows across the paddock as Curtis and Jaxon pulled into their spot. The dust from other rigs hung in the air, settling on the cracked asphalt like a thin layer of grit. Curtis jumped down from the truck, muscles tight, already barking orders.
"Get the tent up. Fast."
Jaxon fumbled with the canvas, the corners stiff and heavy in his small hands. The metal poles clanged against each other as he struggled to set them straight.
Curtis circled behind him, watching every move like a hawk. The silence between them was thick enough to choke on.
"You're slow," Curtis said flatly. "Faster. This isn't some Sunday picnic."
Jaxon's jaw tightened, but he kept working.
Once the tent was finally up, Curtis grabbed the tarp and started laying out tools and spare parts with precise efficiency. The kart sat in the back of the truck, gleaming under the fading light.
Curtis didn't look up when he spoke.
"Listen. You're not passing on the straights."
Jaxon blinked, confused.
"What?"
"You heard me. No passing on the straights. Ever."
Jaxon's brows furrowed.
"But that's where you get speed."
Curtis shook his head, voice low and harsh.
"No. That's where you get caught. You only pass in corners. You make 'em miss. You hit your marks. Straight lines are for speed, not for fights. If you try to muscle past on the straights, you're dead."
Jaxon swallowed.
"Why?"
Curtis's eyes finally met his, cold and sharp.
"Because idiots blow it there all the time. They crash, spin out, wreck their race. You want to finish? You play smart. You pick your spots."
Jaxon nodded slowly, the weight of the rule sinking in.
Curtis tossed a wrench onto the tarp.
"Remember. You're not here to be flashy. You're here to win. Quiet and clean. No hero shit."
Jaxon swallowed again.
"Got it."
Curtis grunted.
"Don't waste time. Get the kart ready. No excuses. We start at first light."
The paddock lights flickered on as dusk turned to night. The wind picked up, tugging at the edges of the tent.
The Next Day
The morning fog still hung low over the paddock when Curtis pulled the truck into their assigned spot. The sun had yet to burn away the chill, and the air smelled of damp earth and fuel. The usual buzz of activity was muted in the early hour, but Curtis wasted no time.
"Get the kart out. Now."
Jaxon climbed down from the truck, his breath visible in the cold air. He moved with practiced ease, the weight of the season pressing down on his small shoulders. The kart sat covered by a tarp, its frame gleaming faintly beneath the soft light.
Curtis didn't offer a word of encouragement — none ever came. Instead, he shoved the tarp off with a rough hand, revealing the kart in all its familiar glory. But something about it felt… wrong.
Jaxon slid into the seat, snug and familiar. The smell of oil and rubber filled his nostrils, a smell he had come to associate with both comfort and pressure. He pulled on his gloves, fastened his helmet, and fired up the engine. The familiar rumble vibrated through his chest.
He eased onto the track, pushing the kart forward with a steady hand. The tires gripped the asphalt as he approached the first corner — but immediately, something wasn't right.
The kart felt heavier, sluggish. The steering was dull, unresponsive where it should have been sharp. The usual precise turn-in was muted, and the kart fought against every movement.
Jaxon's brow furrowed. He fought to keep the kart on the ideal line, muscles tensing as the kart resisted. The back end threatened to drift wide, the front wheels barely biting. It was like driving through mud, every movement requiring more effort.
Lap after lap, the kart pushed back harder. Each corner demanded more strength, more patience, more concentration. Jaxon gritted his teeth, fighting the fatigue that clawed at his arms and neck.
He glanced toward the pit lane, catching sight of Curtis standing stiff and silent, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him. No instructions. No reassurance. Just the cold weight of judgment.
Jaxon swallowed hard, forcing his focus back to the track. He adapted bit by bit — adjusting his steering input, modulating the throttle with care, softening his braking to preserve grip. The kart's stubbornness became a challenge, a puzzle he was desperate to solve.
His hands ached, his body screamed for relief, but he pushed on. Each lap was a battle to find balance, to wrest control from the kart that refused to cooperate.
The sun climbed higher, drying the fog and warming the air. But Jaxon barely noticed. His world was the cockpit, the kart, the endless chase for perfection.
After what felt like hours, he pulled back into the pit. Sweat dripped from beneath his helmet, mixing with dirt and grease. He unclipped his gloves slowly, hands trembling.
Curtis approached without a word. His eyes held nothing but cold calculation.
"You felt it," Curtis said, voice sharp as broken glass.
Jaxon nodded, voice hoarse. "Yeah. It's… different."
Curtis gave a brief, humorless chuckle. "That's the point."
Jaxon looked up, confusion flickering across his face.
Curtis's stare hardened. "You want to drive? You want to win? You learn to handle the shit I throw at you. You don't get handed anything. You earn it."
Jaxon swallowed. The weight of those words settled on him like a stone.
Curtis took a step back, expression unreadable.
"Tomorrow, you'll be out there again. And the kart might feel different again. Or it might not. Doesn't matter. You adapt. You adjust. You don't quit."
Jaxon nodded again, though inside he felt small and tired.
Curtis turned away, already checking over the kart with a mechanic's eye.
Jaxon watched him go, the lesson clear but harsh to be faster, smarter, stronger, he would have to learn to handle whatever came.
The night crept over the paddock, swallowing the last of the light and leaving the world in a dull, gray haze. Jaxon sat on the edge of the trailer step, helmet in his lap, staring at the cracked asphalt beneath his boots. His fingers absentmindedly traced the scratches on the helmet's shell.
The kart sat quiet in the back of the truck, its metal frame cold and unforgiving. Every time he thought about today's laps, the heaviness of the kart, the sluggish steering, the way it seemed to fight him—his chest tightened.
He let out a slow breath.
'Why does he do this?' The question gnawed at him. Every session was a new challenge, a new trick Curtis used to push him harder, to break him down and build him back up. But some days, it felt like too much.
Jaxon looked up as the trailer door creaked open and Curtis stepped out, his face shadowed under the brim of his cap.
"You still sittin' there? Get inside. We start early."
Jaxon rose slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Inside the cramped trailer, the cold metal smelled faintly of gasoline and sweat. Jaxon dropped his gear onto the bench and sank into the hard seat.
Curtis leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"You think you're tired now?" Curtis said, voice flat and heavy. "Wait till tomorrow. The kart's not gonna get easier."
Jaxon nodded.
Curtis's gaze bore into him. "You think those kids out there are gonna cut you any slack? No. They're gonna push, shove, and run you off the track if you give them the chance."
Jaxon's hands curled into fists.
"I'm trying," he said quietly.
Curtis snorted, a sharp sound.
"Trying's for kids who wanna feel good about themselves. You're not here to try. You're here to win. Or get the hell out."
Jaxon flinched but didn't answer.
The silence stretched.
Curtis's voice softened — but only a fraction.
"You gotta find a way. Doesn't matter how beat up you get, or how much the kart fights you. You make it work. You figure it out."
Jaxon stared down at his hands.
"Tomorrow," Curtis said, "you start all over again. And I'll be watching."
The words hung heavy, the promise of more struggle to come.
Jaxon closed his eyes, the weight of the day settling deep in his bones.
The flag dropped like a hammer. Engine noise roared through Jaxon's helmet as he vaulted into the first corner. Everything felt the same and nothing felt right—the kart was still crooked, still heavy on its line. But he fought to stay inside, to turn in smooth, and not lose a split-second.
He could hear kids banging off each other behind him. Ten-year-olds; bigger, stronger, rougher drivers. Already two or three fights for position forming ahead. Jaxon leaned in, held his breath, squeezed the throttle just right.
By turn three, he'd picked off two slots. The kart still felt wrong, but he'd found a rhythm—it responded to the lines, not the force. If he let it breathe, it worked.
Lap two came and half the field was ahead. Jaxon followed two kids through a high-speed left-right, riding the dirty line, feeling the kart slide—and grip—like it was alive again. Trusting it was the hardest thing he'd done all week.
Lap three: the leader messed up. Went too deep in turn five and tagged the wall. The kid wrenched the kart around six inches, then slowed to nurse it. Jaxon saw the gap and took it, clipping the inside apex, edging past before the exit.
Lap four: heart pounding, lungs burning, but Jaxon kept pressure. The kid ahead was quick—but not precise. Inside the chicane, just before the hairpin, the leader drifted too wide. Jaxon ducked in low, all speed, all grit. Squeezed past with inches to spare.
White flag lap. He was leading—not tied for it, not close. Alone out front. The kart was still nudging left, even on the main straight, but Jaxon ignored it. He focused on the next turn, the next line, the rhythm of trying, failing, adjusting, trying again.
The checkered flag rolled out. Jaxon jerked the wheel toward the unused section of asphalt and coasted to a stop on the cool concrete. Engine cut, and he sat there. The sounds of cheers around him felt miles far. Maybe they were.
He sat for a moment, chest tight. Victory didn't feel anything like it did online in the UK—no flash, no fireworks, no triumphant music. Just… relief. Heavy, aching relief.
footsteps arrived—Curtis, his arms crossed, expression impassive. Jaxon didn't look up.
A voice behind him, quiet but real: "Nice one, man."
Jaxon turned his head and saw the guy he'd passed last lap—the kid with the dented helmet—offering a small grin. Another driver joined them, helmet pushed back, sweat on his lip.
"Word," the second kid said. "That move in turn seven? Sick."
Jaxon stared at their faces, expecting envy or anger, but got nods. Did he deserve it? He didn't know yet.
Curtis stepped forward, hands still resting on his hips. Didn't say a word.
Jaxon climbed out of the kart, legs wobbly. One of the boys reached out a hand.
"Congrats, bro," he said.
Jaxon accepted it, voice still catching. "Thanks."
The other added, "You too. You're solid."
Curtis cleared his throat. Jaxon glanced over.
"Get back in line. We'll prep for Round Two."
It wasn't a cheer. It wasn't even relief. Just orders.
Jaxon wanted to say something, maybe to let it sink in. But Curtis's glance stopped him. So he nodded and moved toward the trailer.
The win felt muted—like an echo in an empty room. But it was real. It happened even when the kart fought him every inch of the way.
The other ten-year-olds drifted back to their pits, giving Jaxon space. A few waved. He kept his eyes on Curtis, trying to read the look but finding nothing but frozen steel.
Curtis didn't say congratulations. Didn't give him a nod of approval. Just handed him a fresh rag.
"Tools are wet. Keep them clean."
Jaxon took the rag. His fingers shook. The win felt like a weight on his chest. Not celebration, not triumph.
Next Month
By July, the heat came up from the tarmac in waves thick enough to see.
The halfway point of the season hit like a quiet storm — no banners, no speeches, no champagne. Just the rustle of tire bags, the hum of generators, and the familiar stink of brake dust hanging in the paddock air.
Jaxon stood next to the kart under the tent, the back of his neck slick with sweat. His race suit clung to him like a wet rag. A clipboard hung from a hook by the workbench with hand-written points, round by round, Curtis's scribbled tallies stacked in red ink.
Jaxon's name sat at the top.
#1 Jaxon Rose 246 points
Second place was nearly twenty points back.
He hadn't missed a podium in four straight rounds. And he'd done it all with setups that never stayed the same twice, tires that were always half-shot, and a father who'd rather spit in his face than say good job.
From the outside, it looked like he was dominating. People were noticing.
That's when they started showing up.
It started with a guy from some GT junior team — black polo, clipboard, expensive sunglasses. He didn't speak to Jaxon directly, just hung around the fence after Heat 2 at Carolina Kartplex. Watched. Took notes. Then nodded at Curtis before disappearing.
Two rounds later, a rep from a junior touring car team showed up — SRO ladder, maybe GT4. Curtis called them "those European pansies." But he kept their business cards. Tossed them on the dashboard like they were trash, but he kept them.
More came after that.
Email. Call. Visit. Watch. Leave.
None of them ever talked to Jaxon.
He overheard one in the trailer when Curtis stepped outside to yell at a tire guy.
"—his spatial awareness is way ahead of his age. His car control, the way he corrects oversteer without panic… it's not normal."
Another said, "We'd like to put him on our junior list, give him support—"
Curtis cut that off quick.
"You don't support my son," he said. "You want to take credit for something you didn't build."
He slammed the trailer door behind them.
Jaxon sat on the other side of the wall, knees pulled to his chest, silent. Always silent.
Later that evening, when the paddock lights buzzed on and the other kids were goofing off on scooters and playing with remote control cars, Curtis lit a cigarette and sat on the tongue of the trailer.
"You hear what they're saying?" he asked, eyes on the track.
Jaxon said nothing.
Curtis exhaled slowly, smoke curling through his teeth.
"They don't want you," he muttered. "They want something they can slap a logo on and pretend they trained. You're just meat to them."
He exhaled smoke through his nose and turned to Jaxon.
"You think that's some big deal? That you're special now? You're not. You're a name on a list. The second you fuck up, they'll move on."
Jaxon didn't speak.
Curtis took a step closer.
"So when they start smiling at you in the pits or offering free hats or asking to 'support your future,' you keep your mouth shut. You don't thank 'em. You don't look at 'em."
He flicked the cigarette at the dirt.
"You don't owe them shit. You don't even owe me. But you owe that steering wheel everything."
Then he walked back into the trailer.
On track, Jaxon kept winning.
At Pittsburgh, he passed three karts in the final lap with a rear axle that was so off-center, the mechanic from the team parked next to them came over after the race and said, "That thing drives like a crab."
Jaxon didn't blink.
At Charlotte, his brakes were cooked halfway through the final and he still defended his lead for five laps with no rear grip.
Every weekend, Curtis changed something. Subtle. Cruel. Sometimes it was caster. Sometimes ride height. Once he filled the radiator halfway and left it. No warning. No explanation.
Jaxon adjusted. Every time. Quietly. Without complaint.
He stopped asking questions.
He stopped expecting answers.
Now, midway through the summer calendar, Jaxon leaned on the tire rack beside their trailer, arms crossed, suit unzipped to the waist. Around him, other drivers sat with family, sipped Gatorade, played with their phones.
He had none of that.
But he had the points lead.
He had whispers from manufacturers.
He had a face that people were starting to recognize.
And none of it felt real.
Curtis came around the back of the trailer with a new set of tires slung over one shoulder.
"They're talking about you again," he said, not looking up.
Jaxon didn't respond.
Curtis tossed the tires down with a thud and crouched by the kart.
"They said you could go to Europe. Said maybe even a Formula Regional test in a few years if you keep this up."
He stood, wiped his hands on a rag.
"You know what I told 'em?"
Jaxon stared straight ahead.
"I told 'em you're not ready."
Finally, Jaxon turned.
Curtis's eyes met his. Cold. Direct. No room for softness.
"You think this is pressure?" he said. "You think this is hard? It hasn't even started yet."
Jaxon swallowed.
"Now mount those rears," Curtis snapped, already walking away.
The paddock noise returned around him—engines turning over, clanks of tools, laughter from another tent nearby.