The German air had a bite to it—cool, clean, almost too sterile. The paddock was wide and quiet this early in the morning, the towering grandstands still casting long shadows over the garages. Everything felt… engineered. Even the breeze moved like it was timed.
Jaxon sat on the edge of a plastic crate, still in full race gear from track walk, his suit half unzipped. His eyes were locked on the circuit, just beyond the fence. Damp patches still clung to the exit of Turn 7. He watched them like they were alive.
Thomas leaned against the trailer, arms crossed, helmet by his feet. Ollie was suited up, gloves halfway on, tugging at the strap of his rib protector.
Ollie broke the silence first. "This place is quick."
Jaxon didn't look over. "Only if you stay clean. You drop a tire off the exit in Sector 2, you're done."
Thomas nodded. "Yeah, I saw someone loop it this morning. Fast left-hander just snaps."
Ollie exhaled, glancing toward the track. "It's a different kind of fast. Not like Italy or Spain. You make one mistake here, it's not time you lose. It's the kart."
Jaxon finally stood, brushing dirt off the back of his suit. "Good."
Thomas gave him a look. "You say that like you want it to bite."
"I do."
Ollie laughed under his breath. "That's what happens when you win five in a row. You get bored."
"I'm not bored," Jaxon muttered. "I'm ahead. And I want to stay there."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "You're up what, forty points?"
"Forty-three."
Ollie whistled. "Damn. I'm gonna need binoculars to see you on the standings sheet."
Thomas smirked. "Hey, I'm in eighth. That's technically still a row on the results board."
Jaxon didn't say anything. He was already watching the corner entry speeds of the karts in the warmup session.
Ollie snapped his gloves on. "Anyway. Time for me to get bounced off a kerb or two. Let's see how bad T4 really is."
"Lift early," Jaxon said flatly. "The grip drops halfway through. If you're greedy on entry, you're wide on exit."
Ollie gave him a sideways look. "You sound like you've already raced it."
"I've watched every lap since Tuesday. You should've too."
Ollie shook his head, smiling. "Jesus."
He grabbed his helmet and turned toward the grid. "Alright, see you on the other side."
Thomas watched him go, then looked at Jaxon. "He's not wrong. You've gone full psycho lately."
Jaxon's jaw was tight. "I'm not leaving anything to chance. Not here. Not with the points gap."
Thomas kicked at the asphalt. "You think this one's gonna be clean?"
"Maybe." Jaxson said, looking at the track.
—
The checkered flag dropped, and Jaxon crossed the line first.
Engine howling, tires slick with rubber and spray, he didn't raise his arms or scream. He just let the kart roll down the straight, helmet down, hands steady. Six straight wins. Germany was his now, too.
He pulled into parc fermé and killed the ignition. The sudden silence buzzed louder than the engine. Mechanics and officials swarmed the karts, but Jaxon moved slow, unbuckling one strap at a time, his gloves soaked with sweat. He slid off the helmet, setting it on the seat, his face unreadable under the weight of focus and fatigue.
A few seconds later, Thomas came in fifth—his best finish in a month. He rolled to a stop, chest rising and falling, adrenaline still leaking out through his breath. He yanked his gloves off and sat still for a second, watching Jaxon disappear into the crowd by the podium.
The celebration was loud and chaotic. Jaxon stood center stage, hair matted, race suit drenched, trophy in hand. Champagne sprayed in wide arcs across the lights. He didn't duck, didn't flinch. Just let the foam run down his cheeks as he lifted the silver cup above his head like it was just another task done right.
Off to the side, Thomas watched with his helmet tucked under his arm. He gave Jaxon a quiet nod. Jaxon caught it between flashes from the cameras and returned it—small, sharp. No words needed.
Later, they found each other near the back of the paddock, past the tents and trailers. The rain had turned to a thin mist. The noise was gone. Just the hum of engines cooling, distant laughter, and the crackle of gravel under boots.
Thomas leaned against a fence rail. "Six in a row. You're starting to look like a factory robot out there."
Jaxon stood across from him, suit half unzipped, breathing calmer now. "Doesn't feel robotic."
Thomas shrugged. "Fifth's not bad. Track was tough."
"You held it," Jaxon said. "No mistakes."
Thomas looked off toward the circuit, eyes half-lidded. "I don't think anyone's catching you."
"Still three rounds left," Jaxon replied.
Thomas gave a lopsided smile. "Yeah. If the world explodes maybe I've got a shot."
Jaxon didn't respond. He was staring down at the track again, the same cold gaze he gave every braking zone.
Then Thomas nodded toward the exit. "Monza's next. You gonna make it seven?"
Jaxon glanced back. "That's the plan."
Thomas stepped past him with a half grin. "Then I guess I'll try to survive it."
Jaxon watched him walk off, then looked down at his hands—still trembling, still alive.
Six wins down. Three to go.
—
The paddock was thinning out by the time Jaxon made it back to the Bearmans' side. The crowd had peeled off to beat the traffic, the last few tents rattling in the breeze as mechanics broke down awnings and zipped up toolboxes. Jaxon walked in silence, suit still half-zipped, hair wet with champagne and sweat, trophy tucked under one arm like a toolbox.
Thomas was already back, sitting on a fold-out chair with a water bottle in one hand and a towel draped over his neck. Ollie leaned against the side of the trailer, scrolling through lap times on a tablet. Terri stood nearby with her arms crossed, eyes scanning the paddock like a hawk, while Adam finished loading a spare chassis into the trailer.
When they saw Jaxon, they all looked up. No one rushed. No one clapped. Just nods and eyes that said everything.
Adam straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag. "Hell of a drive."
Jaxon dropped the trophy down onto a folding table beside him with a dull clunk. "Thanks."
Thomas grinned. "Six in a row. You might as well go ahead and trademark the top step."
Jaxon gave him a look. "Fifth's not bad either."
"I know," Thomas said. "It just doesn't come with free champagne."
Terri stepped forward, not quite smiling, but the pride was in her voice. "You were clean. Sharp. The others were sliding all over the place and you made it look like a dry track."
Jaxon shrugged. "Didn't feel like it."
"That's how you know it was good," Adam said.
Ollie held up the tablet. "You know your fastest lap was three tenths quicker than anyone else? Even with the drizzle."
Jaxon didn't respond. He just took the towel Thomas tossed him and started wiping his face, letting the cold water in the air settle into his muscles.
"You good?" Adam asked, watching him closely.
Jaxon nodded. "Just tired."
Thomas leaned back in the chair. "You gonna burn out before the season's over or what?"
"I'll burn after," Jaxon said, without looking up.
There was a short pause. Then Ollie added, "Italy's next, right?"
Jaxon nodded. "Monza."
Terri spoke again, calm but firm. "Don't put so much pressure on yourself you forget why you're doing this."
Jaxon didn't answer at first. He looked at her, eyes distant but focused.
"I know why."
Thomas tilted his head. "Yeah?"
Jaxon's jaw tightened. "Because winning's the only part that makes sense."
Silence again. But this time, not heavy. Just understood.
Adam finally clapped a hand on Jaxon's shoulder. "Then let's keep the rig rolling. You've got your corner here, yeah? We'll carry it all the way to the flag."
Jaxon gave the faintest nod.
The tent buzzed with quiet activity again. Tools clicking. A kart getting rolled onto a stand. Everyone back to work.
—
Mannheim
The restaurant hummed with the steady clink of plates and quiet chatter. Warm light spilled over the rough wooden tables where the Bearmans sat like they owned the place. Adam was deep into a story about some long-ago race, his voice low and steady. Terri kept her eyes on the boys, occasionally throwing in a quick joke that got a laugh from Thomas and Ollie.
Jaxon slid into the seat between the brothers, eyeing the pile of food on the table — bratwurst, fries, and a giant pretzel that looked way too big for any kid to finish.
Thomas grinned, nudging him. "So, what's it like to have a trophy for every race now? You collecting them all?"
Jaxon shrugged, grabbing a fry, but his mind was already ticking through corner exit speeds and lap times. "Feels like I gotta keep up, or someone else will."
Ollie laughed. "Sounds exhausting."
"Yeah, well, no one's making me do it," Jaxon said flatly, tearing into the bratwurst. Still, his eyes flicked unconsciously to the window — imagining the slick track out there, how it'd feel pushing through Turn 6 at full throttle.
Adam chuckled. "Good. You gotta want it if you're gonna last."
Terri nodded. "Yeah, that's what we tell our boys all the time."
"Yeah, well, I'm a little different," Jaxon said, mouth half full but words clear. "I don't really do the normal kid stuff."
Thomas shot him a look. "You mean like video games and hanging out?"
Jaxon shrugged again, his thoughts already jumping back to racing lines, tire wear, and braking points. "Something like that. I'm not mad about it."
Ollie smirked. "So what do you do when you're not racing or obsessing about it?"
"Honestly, I'm almost always thinking about it," Jaxon said, voice low. But even as he spoke, he was replaying the last lap in his head — where he could have pushed harder, where the tires started to lose grip.
Thomas laughed.
The conversation shifted, the easy rhythm of people who'd spent too much time together. They talked about the track, the rain, which corners were slippery today, and who'd made the biggest mistakes.
Jaxon threw in his thoughts now and then — quick, sharp, never slowing the pace. When Ollie complained about the size of his pretzel, Jaxon just nodded. "Yeah, that thing's a meal."
Terri smiled, pouring another round of drinks. "You're fitting in, Jax. Not bad for a rookie."
Jaxon shrugged again. "I'm just here to eat."
Adam laughed and shook his head. "Don't be modest. You've earned the spot."
Jaxon took a sip of his water, eyes flicking to the window where the last light faded behind the buildings. Racing lines and lap times pushed through his mind like a steady hum beneath the chatter.
When the meal wound down, Thomas and Ollie started planning the next practice session, arguing over which tire compound to run.
Jaxon listened quietly, then leaned forward with a small grin. "I'm running the harder tires next time. They last longer."
Ollie raised an eyebrow. "Bold choice."
"Gotta be smart, not just fast," Jaxon said, voice steady.
Thomas laughed. "Yeah, that's the Jax I know."
The conversation eased into something lighter as Ollie smirked. "Alright, since we've been serious all day, who's got the best joke?"
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you're on."
Ollie went first, grinning. "Why don't race cars ever get tired?"
Thomas shrugged. "Why?"
"Because they come with their own set of 'spare' tires!"
Thomas laughed, shaking his head. "Okay, my turn. What do you call a racecar driver who's bad at math?"
Ollie frowned. "No idea."
"Someone who can't count their laps!"
Jaxon cracked a small smile, ready to top them. "Alright, listen to this: My uncle… he was in the Navy. Served for 20 years. Decorated, respected, real patriot. But when he came home, he had a real hard time adjusting. Said he didn't recognize the country anymore, said everything felt… upside down. So one night he takes a long walk. Leaves his shoes at the pier…Next morning, we find out he joined the Coast Guard. Said the hats were better."
There was a beat of silence.
Thomas blinked. "Wait… what?"
Ollie squinted. "That's the joke?"
Jaxon leaned back in his chair, deadpan. "Yeah."
Another pause.
Then Thomas let out a laugh — short at first, then harder as it sank in. "Dude, what the hell? That's so stupid."
"It's so dumb it's brilliant," Ollie said, shaking his head with a grin. "You told it like it was gonna be a sad war story."
Jaxon shrugged. "That's the point."
Thomas pointed at him, still grinning. "Okay, okay. You win. That's the weirdest punchline I've ever heard."
"I wasn't trying to win," Jaxon said, reaching for his drink. "Just figured I'd mess with you."
Ollie raised his glass. "Well, mission accomplished."
—
The streets of Mannheim pulsed with late-evening energy. Lights from shops spilled across the cobblestones, casting soft glows on the sidewalks. The boys walked in a loose triangle — Thomas in front with a spring in his step, Ollie drifting sideways into store windows, and Jaxon just behind them, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, quiet but content.
"Alright," Thomas said, spinning on his heel, walking backward now, "we've got like two hours before we get dragged back. So what are we doing first?"
"Food?" Ollie offered.
"We just ate," Jaxon said.
"Yeah, but that was hours ago."
"It was ninety minutes ago," Jaxon muttered.
Thomas grinned. "And I've burned at least half that off talking."
They cut across a plaza where a street performer was juggling five glowing rings to a growing crowd. Ollie paused to watch, mesmerized, but Jaxon was already scanning the next block — a neon-lit arcade tucked between two cafés.
He pointed. "There."
Ollie followed his finger. "Arcade?"
Jaxon gave a half nod. "You scared?"
Ollie scoffed. "Of you? Please."
Inside, the place was dim, buzzing with the sound of digital explosions and pinball bells. Rows of machines lit up in every direction. The air smelled like popcorn and old carpet.
Thomas beelined for a racing sim. "We have to."
They threw coins in and lined up, each grabbing a wheel. Jaxon sat stiffly, adjusting his seat like it was a real car. Thomas and Ollie rolled their eyes.
"Dude," Thomas said, "you're not in qualifying."
Jaxon didn't answer. The countdown hit zero.
They tore off the line.
Thomas was aggressive, throwing his car into corners. Ollie was smooth, calculated. Jaxon? Unforgiving. Precise. He clipped apexes like he was born in the chassis.
Ollie groaned. "Come on, this isn't even fair."
"His idea of fun is sweating over lap times," Thomas said, laughing. "He's literally leaning into the screen."
Jaxon didn't react. Just crossed the finish line five seconds clear.
They played basketball next — Ollie wiped the floor with both of them — then air hockey, which devolved into chaos when Thomas scored on himself twice.
Jaxon wasn't the loudest, but he didn't feel out of place. He even cracked a smile when Thomas tried (and failed) to kickflip on a beat-up skateboard someone left by the entrance.
As they walked back through the buzzing streets, Ollie tossed a bag of gummy worms between them. Jaxon caught it without looking and took a handful.
"You actually had fun?" Thomas asked, half-joking.
Jaxon nodded once. "Yeah."
Ollie nudged him. "We'll make a human out of you yet."
Jaxon gave a flat look. "You should focus on finishing higher than fifth first."
Ollie barked out a laugh, and Thomas groaned.
They turned down a quieter street lined with old brick buildings and soft-glowing lamp posts. The buzz of the arcade still clung to their skin, but now the city felt a little more open, like it was giving them room to breathe.
Ollie pointed to a small shop with a faded sign: Eis Café Viktoria. "Gelato?"
Thomas lit up. "Yes."
Jaxon didn't object. He was already eyeing the menu posted in the window — not for the flavors, but for the way the crowd inside moved, who looked local, how fast the line moved. He couldn't turn it off.
They stepped in and were hit with a rush of cold air and sugar. Behind the counter, a bored teenager scooped bright colors into cones while a younger kid pressed his face against the freezer glass.
Thomas leaned over the counter. "Three scoops. Chocolate, pistachio, and—uh—whatever that blue one is."
Ollie laughed. "You don't even know what it is."
"That's what makes it fun."
Jaxon kept it simple. One scoop of hazelnut in a cup. He stood near the window, watching headlights pass by, the gelato slowly melting in his hand.
"Okay," Thomas said through a mouthful, "if you had to race blindfolded or race with no brakes—"
"No brakes," Jaxon answered immediately.
Ollie nearly choked. "Are you serious?"
"Blindfolded, you're dead. No brakes, you've got options."
Thomas pointed at him. "This is why you terrify people."
They spilled back onto the street, still laughing, still tossing dumb racing hypotheticals and what-if scenarios like kids who'd never been anything but drivers.
As they passed a music shop, Ollie paused at the window. "My mom used to make me take piano lessons."
"Used to?" Thomas asked.
"She gave up after I skipped three recitals in a row for karting."
Jaxon looked at the keyboard in the display, then back at Ollie. "Bet you were just scared to compete."
Ollie smirked. "You wanna race piano now, too?"
"I'd win," Jaxon said, deadpan.
Thomas cracked up. "I don't even doubt that."
A little farther down the road, a busker with an acoustic guitar played a quiet, folky tune that made people slow down.
The boys didn't. They moved through it like a current — drifting, but never still.
"Alright," Thomas said, spinning in a slow circle on the sidewalk, "what next?"
Ollie pointed to a flight of steps leading down to the riverwalk. "Let's go that way."
They cut down toward the Rhine, where the cobblestones turned slick underfoot and the lights of passing boats shimmered on the water. It was quieter here — no traffic, just the distant hum of the city above and the occasional shout from a bike bell.
Ollie leaned against the railing. "Imagine if the karts could race on water."
Jaxon squinted across the current. "You'd all drown."
Thomas laughed. "Yeah, but we'd look cool doing it."
They kept walking, their shoes thudding softly on the old stones. Every few steps, someone had carved a name or a date into the bricks — little pieces of history that had nothing to do with lap times or tire pressures. Jaxon noticed them all, though he said nothing. Just catalogued the angles, the way the path curved slightly to the left after a hundred meters, like it was inviting a race that would never happen.
A guy on a BMX bike sped past them and tried to hop a short stair set near the bridge. He landed crooked and skidded out with a loud crack, barely catching himself on the rail.
"Damn," Thomas said, grinning. "He almost died."
"He almost made it," Jaxon muttered.
Ollie nudged him. "You wanna try it?"
Jaxon didn't even glance at the stairs. "Not my kind of machine."
They walked a bit more until they found a bench overlooking the water and crashed onto it, all three of them silent for a second — not awkward, just letting the stillness hang.
Thomas tossed a gummy worm in the air and caught it in his mouth. "Bet I could hit that trash can from here."
Ollie scoffed. "No chance."
Jaxon raised an eyebrow. "You throw like you brake—late and wide."
"Wow," Thomas said. "You're real confident for someone who eats gelato with a spoon."
Jaxon didn't flinch. "Still faster than you."
Thomas grinned. "Not at throwing."
He launched the gummy worm. It arced wide and bounced harmlessly off a lamp post.
"Perfect line," Ollie deadpanned.
Thomas laughed and nudged Jaxon. "Alright, your turn. Got a joke that's not about racing?"
"A family friend told me i gotta let go of the past." Jaxson said.
"That it?" Thomas said.
"No i called my ex wife and told her she can keep the kids." Jaxson said.
For a moment, there was a beat of silence. Then Ollie burst out laughing. "Jesus, Jax, you don't mess around."
Thomas shook his head, grinning wide. "That's brutal. But damn, it's good."
Jaxon smirked. "Gotta keep it real, right?"
Ollie wiped a tear from his eye. "Yeah, well, that's one way to let go of the past."
Thomas laughed again. "Alright, my turn. What do you call cheese that isn't yours?"
Jaxon raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nacho cheese."
They all cracked up, the joke chain rolling again.
They all cracked up, the joke chain rolling again.
Just then, Ollie's ears perked up. "Hey, I overheard some other drivers talking about this old haunted house not far from here."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Haunted house? You serious?"
Ollie nodded, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Yeah. They say it's been abandoned for decades. Weird stuff happens there—lights flickering, strange noises, stuff moving on its own."
Jaxon gave a small shrug. "Sounds like a good way to freak yourself out."
Thomas grinned. "I'm in. You?"
Ollie laughed. "Definitely."
They made their way toward the outskirts of town where the house stood, the streets growing quiet and shadows lengthening.
When they arrived, the house loomed like a forgotten relic—its weathered wood sagging, windows boarded unevenly, and the yard littered with broken furniture and rusted bicycles half-buried in overgrown weeds.
The gate squeaked open, revealing a garden tangled with thorny vines and shattered glass bottles catching what little moonlight there was.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of mildew. Old newspapers plastered the walls, yellowed and curling at the edges. Faded photographs hung crookedly in broken frames—faces blurred by time.
In the living room, overturned chairs lay beside a cracked fireplace filled with ashes that hadn't cooled in years. A grand piano sat in the corner, its keys yellowed, some missing entirely, as if the house had once been full of music but had long since fallen silent.
The floorboards creaked under their weight, each step echoing through the hollow halls.
In the kitchen, jars of spoiled preserves were covered in thick cobwebs, and a calendar hung on the wall, frozen on a date decades old.
As they moved deeper inside, a sudden gust of wind slammed a door upstairs, making all three jump.
Thomas whispered, "Okay, this is definitely giving me the creeps."
Jaxon shined his flashlight toward a staircase littered with broken toys and old racing trophies, their once-shiny plaques now dull and unreadable.
Ollie poked at a cracked mirror, making a face. "Wonder what happened to the people who lived here."
Suddenly, a faint sound—like distant footsteps—echoed from the upper floor.
They froze, exchanging nervous glances.
"Probably just the wind," Jaxon said, trying to keep his voice steady.
They dared each other to explore a little more, laughing nervously as they peeked into rooms filled with forgotten relics: a dusty chessboard mid-game, a shattered dollhouse, pages torn from books scattered across the floor.
As they stepped into what must have once been a parlor, the dim beam of Jaxon's flashlight caught on a faded wallpaper pattern—flowers entwined with something that looked almost like tiny faces, hidden in the petals. He blinked, then shook his head. Probably just his imagination.
Ollie crouched down near the fireplace, brushing dust off a small, cracked music box. He flicked it open carefully. A faint, warped melody sputtered out, then died abruptly, like the house itself was sighing.
Thomas reached for a nearby bookshelf, causing a cloud of dust to billow out. Among the brittle pages, he found a tattered diary. Flipping through the yellowed sheets, he read a few half-legible lines:
"They come at night. Whispers from the walls. I try to hide, but the shadows watch."
His voice dropped low. "Okay, that's creepy."
Jaxon peered over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. "Sounds like someone lost their mind in here."
A sudden, sharp knock echoed through the empty room. They all jumped, flashlights swinging wildly.
"Who the hell—?" Ollie started, but no one answered.
The boys exchanged looks. It was probably the wind again, but it was enough to break the tension for a moment.
Thomas took a cautious step toward the stairs. "Wanna see what's up there?"
Jaxon hesitated but nodded. "Let's get this over with."
They climbed the creaking stairs, each step threatening to give way beneath them. On the landing, the air was colder, and a stale, metallic scent lingered.
One of the bedrooms was filled with children's toys—dolls with cracked porcelain faces, a wooden train set half-assembled on the floor.
Ollie picked up a faded photograph lying on the dusty dresser—a family portrait, smiling but eyes oddly blurred out.
"Whoever lived here left in a hurry," he murmured.
Suddenly, a faint tapping sound started again, this time coming from the far corner of the room. They turned their flashlights toward it and saw a rocking chair gently moving back and forth—though there was no breeze.
Jaxon swallowed hard, heart pounding, but kept his voice steady. "It's probably just the house settling."
Thomas laughed nervously. "Right. The house has opinions."
The chair stopped. Silence filled the room.
Then, from the hallway, a sudden crash echoed—a shelf falling over downstairs.
"Okay, maybe time to go," Ollie said quickly.
As they turned to leave, Jaxon paused, glancing back at a cracked window where something—just a flicker—seemed to move behind the glass.
He shook it off and followed the others down.
Back on the street, the night air felt alive again, the city's hum welcoming them back.
Thomas exhaled deeply. "Not bad for a night's adventure."
As they sat in the fading glow of the busker's final chords, Ollie's phone buzzed sharply against his leg. He glanced down and frowned.
"Uh… Mom just texted. Says we should head back—said it's getting late and they're worried."
Thomas groaned. "Figures."
Jaxon shrugged, already standing. "Guess it's time."
Ollie pocketed his phone with a small smile. "Yeah, I told her we'd be responsible."
They gathered their things, casting one last look toward the softly lit streets before starting the slow walk back.
The night air was cooler now, but the quiet warmth of the evening stuck with them — a little break from the chaos, before the race of tomorrow called them once again.
—
The pale morning light slipped through the thin curtains, painting the room in soft gray. Jaxon's eyes fluttered open, muscles still aching from the day before.
His phone buzzed sharply on the bedside table. He reached for it, already guessing who it was.
"Jaxon," Curtis's voice came through, rough and tired. "I won't be back in time for the next races. Got some shit back home I gotta handle. You're stuck with the Bearmans until the season's over."
Jaxon sat up, the weight of the news settling like a stone in his chest. He didn't reply immediately. Curtis's silence pressed down.
"Don't screw it up," Curtis finally said before hanging up.
Jaxon stared at the screen, then glanced around the room where the Bearmans had already started their day downstairs.
The van hummed along the twisting Italian roads, the sun setting low and painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. Inside, the three boys were fully awake now, the weight of the week lifted by the promise of Monza.
Thomas leaned forward, eyes glued to the GPS screen. "Alright, I call next pit stop for bathroom breaks. Winner picks the music."
Ollie smirked. "Easy win for me. I never need a piss."
Jaxon rolled his eyes. "You just don't drink enough water."
"Water's for plants and losers," Ollie shot back, grinning.
Thomas snorted. "Seriously? You're gonna dry out before the race."
"Not my problem." Ollie gave a mock salute.
The banter bounced back and forth, light and sharp. Then Thomas grabbed the aux cord, blasting a classic rock riff through the speakers.
Jaxon smirked, tapping his fingers on the dashboard to the beat. "Okay, but if this song comes on again, I'm officially switching to podcasts about aerodynamics."
Ollie laughed. "Dude, you're such a nerd."
Thomas threw a glance at Jaxon. "Yeah, but at least he's a fast nerd."
Jaxon gave a quick grin. "Speed and brains, baby. The perfect combo."
Ollie snorted. "Keep telling yourself that while I lap you."
"Yeah, yeah," Jaxon said, eyes flicking to the road ahead. "We'll see on the track."
For a while, the car filled with the music and easy chatter, the road curling ahead like a promise.
Then Ollie nudged Thomas. "Hey, if we survive Monza, I vote we take a detour to see that castle outside Milan. You know, the one that looks like it's straight out of a horror movie."
Thomas grinned. "I'm down. But only if Jaxon agrees to wear that stupid helmet you found last week."
Jaxson "Yeah, maybe if I wear that thing, the ghosts won't recognize me and think I'm Enzo Ferrari."
Ollie burst out laughing. "That's perfect. You'd be the spookiest driver on the track."
Thomas shook his head, still chuckling. "Alright, it's settled — ghost racer Jaxon it is."
Jaxon dragged his gear across the paddock, the sun beating down as he wrestled his tent poles into place. Sweat dripped down his forehead, but he didn't slow.
From behind, Adam Bearman called out, "Need a hand with that?"
Jaxon glanced back, spotting Adam carrying a bag of stakes and a hammer. "Yeah, a couple would help."
Terri followed, holding a cooler. "Got some water, too. You're gonna need it."
Together, they hammered stakes into the ground, Adam grunting when one wouldn't go in right.
"Thanks," Jaxon said, tightening the tent fabric.
Adam shrugged. "No problem. You'd help us if the roles were reversed."
Terri smiled, unpacking some snacks. "Monza's hot this time of year. Don't forget to stay hydrated."
Jaxon nodded, grateful for the quiet company.
Once the tent was up, Jaxon set his kart beside it, wiping dirt from the tires. Adam and Terri exchanged a glance, then quietly started helping Thomas and Ollie with their gear nearby.
Thomas jogged over, a grin on his face. "Hey, did you catch? There's a Ferrari scout hanging around today. They're scouting young drivers."
Ollie's eyes lit up. "Ferrari? That's next-level. You think they're watching us?"
Jaxon shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Ferrari's pretty cool, yeah. But I'm realistic — I'm American, and I'm not sure European scouts take guys like me seriously."
Ollie raised an eyebrow. "You think being American's a problem?"
Jaxon nodded slowly. "It's different over here. NASCAR's where I see myself. That's my lane."
Thomas laughed softly. "Fair. But don't sell yourself short. Talent's talent, no matter where you're from."
Ollie grinned. "Exactly. Scouts want winners, not passports."
Jaxon's eyes flicked ahead, calm but steady. "Maybe. Guess we'll see."
—
e green flag dropped, and Jaxon's kart launched forward with the cold focus that had become second nature. His hands gripped the wheel tightly but never tense, eyes locked ahead. The engine's roar filled his ears, drowning out everything else. Behind him, a flurry of movement: second and third wheel-to-wheel, bumping and jostling, desperate to gain any advantage.
That chaos behind was all Jaxon needed.
By the time he completed the first lap, he'd carved out a gap of about six-tenths of a second. Not massive, but enough to put a buffer between himself and the scrapping pack behind. He felt the kart settle under him—tires gripping perfectly, the throttle responsive, the steering sharp and exact. Everything clicked.
Ollie's voice came over the radio, low but steady. "Gap's holding steady at six-tenths, Jax. Two and three are banging wheels hard. Use that."
Jaxon's lips twitched into the smallest hint of a smile. "Copy."
He pushed on, smooth and relentless, gliding through each corner with surgical precision. His lap times were consistent—fast enough to keep pressure on, but measured to avoid mistakes. Behind him, the battle continued, second and third crashing into each other, trying to break free, but the damage slowed them.
By lap three, the gap had stretched to nearly a second.
"Nice and steady, Jax. Keep it clean," Ollie encouraged. "Don't get greedy."
The kart roared as Jaxon feathered the throttle out of corners, the sun beating down on the track making the tires sticky but predictable. He felt the rhythm now, the familiar hum of engine and rubber, the perfect lines etched in his mind from practice.
Lap after lap, Jaxon's lead grew — two seconds, then three, then four — his concentration never wavering. The track stretched ahead, each corner negotiated with calm authority, every shift and brake perfectly timed.
"Four seconds clear, Jax. Keep your head," Ollie reminded. "No slip-ups."
Jaxon nodded inside the helmet, though Ollie couldn't see it. He knew how easy it was to lose focus with such a lead, how a tiny mistake could erase everything. But not today.
As the laps dwindled, the only sound was the whine of the engine and the rhythm of his breath. Behind, the chaos continued, but it was a distant storm now—unreachable.
By the final lap, Jaxon's gap had ballooned to six seconds. He could feel the adrenaline, the surge of satisfaction but also the quiet pressure not to let up. He eased off slightly, coasting the last corners, knowing victory was his.
Jaxon crossed the finish line without a word, the cheers fading into background noise behind his helmet.
The kart slowed as Jaxon coasted back to the paddock, muscles still burning but his face unreadable. No fist pumps. No loud cheers. Just quiet focus. The gap he'd built was solid, but to him, it was just another race finished.
Ollie's voice crackled over the radio. "You owned it, Jax. Perfect race."
Jaxon's voice came steady, calm. "Yeah. Thanks."
Jaxon pulled into parc fermé, his kart gliding to a quiet stop under the weight of another win. He didn't throw his hands in the air. Didn't pump his fists. Just sat for a second, still gripping the wheel, eyes forward behind the visor.
Ollie's voice crackled through the radio. "You owned it, Jax. Perfect race."
Jaxon's reply was steady. "Yeah. Thanks."
He unbuckled slowly, climbing out without fanfare. Still in full gear, helmet on, gloves tight, he stepped away from the kart and walked across the narrow barrier that separated the holding area from the spectators.
Behind the fence, Ollie stood with Adam and Terri, waiting. Adam leaned on the rail, arms folded, a proud grin on his face. Terri gave a small wave. Ollie looked like he wanted to climb the fence himself.
"No one even got close," Ollie said when Jaxon reached them.
Jaxon nodded, voice quiet through the helmet mic. "They didn't have the pace."
Adam chuckled. "You made it look easy."
Terri leaned closer to the rail. "You didn't even break a sweat, did you?"
"Yeah," Jaxon said. Still calm. Like he hadn't just crossed the line six seconds clear. "Felt good out there."
Ollie grinned. "That gap? That was rude."
Jaxon gave a short nod. "Thanks." Then, quietly, "Go see Thomas."
Terri caught the cue without hesitation. "He'll be waiting. Fourth place — he earned that."
Adam was already turning. "He's at the other end of parc fermé. Let's go give him a proper welcome."
Ollie tapped Jaxon's shoulder once. "Catch you in a bit," he said, jogging after his parents.
Jaxon stayed put, calm, still in full gear. No celebrating.
—
The crisp air filled with the low murmur of the crowd as Jaxon climbed the steps to the podium. The weight of his race suit felt familiar, snug like armor against the world. He didn't crack a smile. He didn't throw his fists in the air. This was just another moment — a small marker on a long, relentless path.
The crowd's applause washed over him like white noise. Cameras flashed. The announcer's voice echoed somewhere far away, congratulating him for the win.
The national anthem began, its solemn notes cutting through the chatter. Jaxon's eyes stayed fixed on the trophy in his hands — cold metal, heavy and real. He turned it slowly, appreciating the solid weight. This wasn't about glory or the cheers. It was about the work behind it, the countless hours spent chasing perfection.
When the anthem finished, the podium crew handed out bottles of champagne, the labels clearly marked 'non-alcoholic.' The cork popped with a sharp hiss, the sparkling liquid spraying into the air. Jaxon raised the bottle, spraying it with calm precision, careful not to waste a drop.
—
Ollie sat tense in his kart, engine rumbling quietly as he waited for the starting lights to drop. The heat shimmered off the asphalt, but his focus was sharp, eyes locked on the signal.
Jaxon and Thomas leaned back in the folding chairs by the paddock fence, watching. Thomas's jaw tightened as he tracked every movement. "I still can't believe I finished fourth today. Could've been better."
Jaxon didn't say much, just nodded. "You pushed where it counted."
The tension built with the red lights hanging like a countdown. Ollie's hands gripped the wheel tighter, ready to explode forward the moment they went dark.
The red lights blinked off and Ollie blasted off the line, his kart snapping sharply through the first corner. Jaxon and Thomas leaned forward, eyes tracking every move.
"He's smooth," Jaxon said quietly. "Perfect launch."
Thomas exhaled and nodded. "Yeah, he's dialed in today."
Lap after lap, Ollie held a solid pace, managing traffic expertly, never losing focus. The gap slowly stretched out, the leaderboard showing him steadily pulling away from second place.
"Two seconds up," Jaxon said, glancing at the timing board.
Thomas glanced over, a small smile playing on his lips. "Good for him."
As Ollie crossed the finish line, victorious, Jaxon clapped softly, nodding in approval.
Thomas chuckled. "Damn, he earned it."
Jaxon shrugged. "That's racing."
Jaxon and Thomas trailed behind Adam and Terri as they headed toward the post-race celebrations.
Ollie hopped out of his kart, which was parked firmly in first place.
Without wasting a second, Ollie ran up to the family, his excitement clear as they gathered around him, showering him with congratulations.
Ollie stood tall on the top step of the podium, eyes scanning the small crowd gathered in front. The sun hit just right, casting long shadows across the stage and glinting off the metal of the trophies lined up nearby.
Down below, Adam and Terri watched from behind the barrier, proud but not loud about it. Thomas stood with his arms crossed, a grin tugging at his face. Jaxon was next to him, quiet, unreadable, but there — always watching closely.
The announcer's voice echoed over the speakers, calling out the positions. As Ollie's name hit, the crowd gave a cheer — not overwhelming, but genuine. He gave a small nod in return, nothing over the top. Just enough.
The anthem played. He stood still, steady. Not stiff or dramatic, just focused — respectful without pretending this was something bigger than it needed to be.
Then the trophies came out. Ollie accepted his with a quiet thank-you and held it low, like he'd been there before even if he hadn't. He looked toward his family for half a second, just a flick of recognition.
Next came the bottles. He cracked his open and gave it a quick shake, spraying a lazy arc into the air.
When the ceremony wrapped, he stepped down from the podium, walking with that light, post-win looseness.
—
The paddock had quieted into a soft hum by late afternoon. Folding chairs scraped across gravel, tent flaps flapped loose, and the haze of oil and rubber slowly gave way to the smell of damp earth and spent adrenaline.
Ollie stood just outside the Bearman awning, sipping from a half-empty bottle of water, his suit unzipped to the waist. The buzz of his win still lingered around him — not loud or showy, just a calm confidence that hadn't worn off yet.
A man in a red polo stepped in from the edge of the paddock — pressed, professional, the kind of presence that didn't need announcing. He walked with purpose but not urgency, a clipboard tucked under one arm.
"You're Oliver Bearman?" the man asked, voice relaxed but direct.
Ollie nodded, a little caught off guard. "Yeah."
The man smiled slightly. "Nice job out there. Very measured under pressure. Fast without forcing it. That's not common."
Ollie glanced over his shoulder, where Adam and Terri stood nearby. Not hovering — just close enough to hear if things got serious.
"I'm Matteo," the man added. "I work with Ferrari's junior program. Talent identification, mostly."
Ollie blinked, then straightened up. "Oh. Wow. Uh… thanks."
Matteo reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black card — matte finish, no logo. Just a name, number, and a prancing horse watermark barely visible in the light. He handed it to Ollie without fanfare.
"No pressure. No promises. Just… when your karting days start wrapping up, give me a ring. We've got some testing slots for the right kids — see how they work in cars. Get a sense of who fits."
Ollie turned the card over slowly, nodding. "Alright."
Matteo gave a nod, then looked over at Adam and Terri. "He's got the right eyes. Don't let him burn out early."
Terri gave a polite smile. Adam nodded, arms crossed but clearly listening.
Matteo stepped back. "I'll be around for a few more rounds. Take care."
And then he was gone, walking off toward the other side of the paddock, clipboard under his arm like he hadn't just dropped a bomb into the Bearman tent.
Ollie looked at the card again, thumb tracing the edge. "Holy shit," he muttered under his breath.
Thomas had caught the last half of the conversation. "That was Ferrari, right? Like—Ferrari Ferrari?"
Ollie turned to his family, his voice a little steadier now. "Guess I better start learning how to heel-toe."
Terri ruffled his hair. "You finish karting first, then we'll worry about heel-toe."
Adam chuckled. "One race at a time, son."
Ollie looked down at the card once more, then slid it into the pocket of his suit.
—
Matteo spotted Jaxon across the paddock, methodically packing away his tools under the fading light.
Jaxon's hands moved steadily, folding the worn fabric of his tent as the paddock began to settle. The afternoon light softened, and most teams had started packing up. A shadow fell across his space.
"Who're you?" Jaxon asked without looking up, voice low and guarded.
The man in the red polo stepped closer, a calm smile playing at the edge of his mouth. He held out a matte black card, the faint prancing horse watermark catching the light.
"Matteo. I work with Ferrari's junior program — scouting and driver development," he said smoothly. "I've heard your name. You're hard to miss on the track."
Jaxon finally met his gaze, eyes sharp but unreadable.
"I'm not really looking at that," Jaxon said, folding another corner of the tent with practiced calm.
Matteo didn't flinch. "Fair enough. You're American, right? That means a different route, a different kind of pressure. But I've seen your pace — your focus. Not many kids race like you do over here."
Jaxon raised an eyebrow, folding the tent in silence for a moment.
"You ever think about what comes after karting?" Matteo asked gently, stepping closer.
Jaxon paused, then said quietly, "I'm not in a hurry to find out."
"That's smart," Matteo nodded. "But if you ever want to test the waters — Formula racing, car testing — we've got some openings. Limited spots, but for the right drivers. I think you'd be one of them."
Jaxon looked down at the card Matteo had slid across the ground. His fingers brushed over the smooth surface, then he tucked it into his jacket pocket.
"Thanks," Jaxon said simply, eyes still distant.
Matteo smiled faintly. "No pressure. Just keep racing like that, and the door stays open."
He nodded once and turned, disappearing back into the buzz of the paddock.
Jaxon stood there a moment longer, the card heavy in his pocket, then turned back to his tent, hands moving again methodically, controlled, like everything else he did.