The sky sat low over the circuit, thick gray clouds pressing down like they wanted to suffocate the whole damn place. Dry air. Cold breeze. The kind of weather that stripped heat out of your bones but didn't bother to rain.
Jaxon stood behind the wheel of his kart, visor up, expression blank. Not calm. Not nervous. Just... loaded. Like a spring waiting to snap.
Curtis was five feet away, leaned up against the barrier with a toothpick tucked between his teeth like it was a fuse.
"You already locked the championship," he said, flicking ash off his jeans. "So go out there and show me whether that was dumb luck or if you're actually worth the shit I've spent on you."
He didn't look at Jaxon when he said it. Didn't need to.
This wasn't about the title. It never was. It was about whether the kid had the nerve to finish strong when it didn't matter.
Because to Curtis? That's when it mattered most.
Rolling start.
Jaxon slotted into pole — no fist pumps, no waves, no acknowledgment of the crowd lining the fence. The lights blinked in sequence. He gripped the wheel. Focused.
Green.
He launched like he'd been shot out of a goddamn rifle — smooth but savage. No wheelspin. Clean drive. The pack bunched up behind him but couldn't touch him. He was already two corners ahead mentally.
The kart felt alive under him — responsive, balanced. Tire pressures dialed. No understeer through the mid-speed sweepers, no twitch in the rear through the chicane.
Every lap he stretched the gap — not by much, but enough to control. Didn't overdrive. Didn't coast either.
Lap 4, second place made a move into the tight right-hander — a late-brake lunge.
Jaxon saw it coming.
He closed the door like a fucking guillotine.
By Lap 7, he was running smooth again. Braking points exact. Corner exits clean. Not a single overcorrection. Just cold, calculated control.
He wasn't chasing anyone. He was building a wall behind him.
Final lap.
The kart vibrated at full speed down the main straight. He didn't ease up. If anything, he pressed harder — not because he needed to, but because Curtis was watching.
He crossed the line alone. Miles ahead.
The marshal waved the checkered flag like it meant something.
Jaxon didn't lift until the engine begged him to.
Back in pit lane, people clapped. Strangers nodded. One guy even shouted his name.
Curtis stayed still, arms crossed, expression like carved granite.
Jaxon unbuckled, climbed out. Sweat stung his eyes but he didn't wipe it.
Curtis walked up. Slow. Controlled.
"You coasted," he said, deadpan. "Last two laps you managed the gap. That's what bitches do. That's what people who think they're safe do."
He tossed a towel at Jaxon like he was throwing away trash.
"You think I give a shit about a title? That trophy's gonna collect dust while someone else passes you next year. You want to be the best?"
Curtis stepped in close. His breath smelled like coffee and cigarettes.
"You don't just win when it counts. You kill even when it doesn't."
Then he turned, walked back toward the van.
Not a smile.
Not a word of praise.
The podium sat under a cheap canopy at the end of the paddock — three plastic steps on a wooden platform, flanked by two vinyl banners peeling at the corners. A few folding chairs scattered nearby, mostly empty. The championship was already decided. The crowd knew it. Half of them had already packed their trailers.
Jaxon stepped onto the top step like it was just another chore. No bounce in his stride. No smile. His kart suit was zipped to the throat, gloves still tucked in his waistband. The gold-colored plastic trophy in front of him looked like it had been ordered from a school supply catalog.
Second and third place joined him — grinning, nodding to the handful of people still clapping.
A local announcer with a PA system that crackled more than it worked called out names and points. Called Jaxon "a dominant force this season." Said he was "one to watch."
Jaxon didn't blink.
No champagne. No celebration. Just a polite handshake, a quick picture from someone's smartphone, and it was over.
He stepped down without ceremony.
Curtis was waiting at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Not a nod. Not a word.
He turned and walked toward the van.
Jaxon followed.
Behind him, one of the third-place kid's parents shouted, "Congrats, Jaxson!"
Jaxon didn't speak.
But he turned, just a little, and gave the kid a small thumbs-up.
Jaxon turned back around, eyes dropping to the gravel as he walked toward the van.
Curtis was already there, leaning against the door, arms folded, sunglasses on even though the sun was nearly down.
"You done playin' Mr. Fuckin' Sportsman?" he asked, voice dry and cold. "What was that? A fan meet-and-greet?"
Jaxon didn't answer.
Curtis stepped forward, close.
"You think that makes you bigger than the win? You think throwing some half-assed 'atta boy' to the competition makes you special?"
He leaned in.
"You're not special. You're not nice. You're not here to make friends. You're here to win. That's it. Next time you feel like playing role model, I'll remind you what losing feels like."
He walked around to the driver's side.
"Get in."
Jaxon climbed in silently. Set the trophy between his feet.
Curtis started the engine. Gravel crunched under the tires.
The trophy rattled against the door every time the truck hit a bump.
Jaxon didn't move it.
Curtis drove one-handed, the other resting on the window frame, thumb twitching near the cigarette lighter. The sky was darkening fast, clouds bruised purple along the horizon. Wisconsin farmland blurred past the windows in streaks of brown and gold.
No music. Just tires on highway and the ticking of the dash clock.
They hadn't said a word since leaving the paddock.
Jaxon swallowed the lump in his throat, then broke the silence.
"Why do you always drive with one hand?" His voice was low. Curious, but careful.
Curtis glanced at him, eyes hard and sharp.
"Got banged up in a crash back in my NASCAR days. Broken wrist. Didn't heal right. Still hurts when I push too hard."
He took a drag of his cigarette, then flicked the butt out the window without looking.
"No point in whining about it. You adapt or you die. Just like on the track."
Jaxon nodded slowly, absorbing it.
Curtis shifted his gaze back to the road.
"Don't think you're some hotshot now."
His voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel. Still didn't look over.
"Next season it won't mean shit what you did this year. Everyone comes back hungrier. Smarter. You coast one goddamn corner and they'll eat you alive."
Jaxon didn't respond. Just stared out the window at nothing.
"You think I'm hard on you now?" Curtis said. "Wait 'til we get home. You'll wish today never happened."
A long silence followed. Only the engine and wind.
Curtis tapped ash out the window.
"You let someone pass you next year — anyone — it'll be because you chose to lose. Not because they were better. There's no one better. There's just people who want it more."
Jaxon blinked slowly. The road signs passed in flashes. Sheboygan. Plymouth. Home was close.
Curtis lit another cigarette.
"Enjoy the silence while it lasts. We start testing next week."
The truck rolled up the cracked driveway of their modest Elkhart Lake home just as the last light bled out of the sky. Curtis killed the engine without a word, the truck's tired roar fading into the quiet hum of cicadas settling in for the night.
Jaxon climbed down, trophy still tucked between his feet. The house looked no different than it had every day since he was a kid — paint chipped, lawn half-mowed, windows reflecting a fading sunset.
Curtis cracked the driver's door open, staring down at him like he was already disappointed.
"Get your ass inside."
Morning came slow and gray over Elkhart Lake. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the simulator rig booting up in the basement — Jaxon's only escape and his prison all at once.
He sat strapped in, knuckles white on the wheel, sweat already beading on his forehead despite the chill. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows against the concrete walls plastered with faded NASCAR legends — ghosts Curtis worshipped but never talked about.
Curtis stood at the bottom of the stairs, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes cold and unreadable.
"Think you're some kind of god now?" His voice cut through the air like a whip. "That championship means you did your job. It doesn't mean you're good."
Jaxon said nothing. The rig roared to life, the virtual Road America stretching out before him in blinding detail.
"Turn three. Again." Curtis's tone was sharp, unforgiving.
Jaxon shifted in the seat, muscles burning, lungs tight.
"Faster. Cleaner. No mistakes."
Hours folded into one another. The laps stacked up, relentless and unforgiving. Every missed apex, every off-throttle wobble, every fraction of a second wasted — Curtis tore it apart with words sharper than any cut.
When the rig finally powered down, Jaxon's hands trembled. His body ached.
Curtis just stared.
"No rest. No breaks. You're only as good as your last lap. Don't forget that."
Two weeks later, the sun was already cooking the asphalt at the Road America karting track, the sprawling layout humming with the low growl of engines and the sharp scent of hot rubber.
Jaxon slid into the kart, gloves tight, visor down, heart hammering in his chest.
Curtis stood by the fence, silent and sharp, arms crossed, eyes flicking to the kart like a predator eyeing its prey.
The kart felt different the moment Jaxon pulled onto the long front straight — stiffer on the front end, twitchier through the sweeping turns, the rear slightly looser on corner exits.
He threw a glance at Curtis, who didn't flinch, didn't say a word.
Lap after lap, Jaxon hunted every corner of the Road America karting circuit — chasing perfect lines, feeling the kart's subtle shifts, the way it whispered through the chassis, tires, and throttle.
His lap times bounced — some blistering fast, others ragged and uneven.
Every time Jaxon slowed, Curtis's gaze sharpened, a ghost of a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth — not quite approval, but close enough to sting.
"You figure it out or you crash," Curtis finally said when Jaxon pulled in for a quick break, sweat dripping down his neck. "I'm not here to babysit. No telemetry telling you what's what. Just you, the kart, and what you can feel through the wheel."
Jaxon's throat was dry. His muscles screamed.
But there was no way back.
No excuses.
"Good," Curtis said, voice low and sharp. "You learn to sense what's wrong before it bites you. That's how real drivers survive."
Curtis didn't move. Didn't even blink. His eyes burned into Jaxon like a spotlight, cold and unforgiving.
"You learn to feel what's wrong before it bites you," he said, voice low, grinding like gravel under a boot. "That's not some happy accident. That's survival. The second you lose that feel, you're done. Out of the race, out of the game, maybe out of your own skin."
He took a long drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the late afternoon sun.
"No one gives a shit if you scrape by on luck. You think the other kids care about your bruises? Your excuses? They don't. They'll run you down and spit on your corpse without a second thought."
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper razor-sharp enough to cut steel.
"You either own that kart. Every twitch, every skid, every goddamn millisecond of feedback it throws at you—or it owns you. And if it owns you? You're not fit to be on the track."
He straightened up, flicked ash to the ground.
"So don't come crying to me because you don't have the balls to be better than the bastard next to you."
Curtis didn't even wait for Jaxon to climb out of the kart.
He walked straight to the sidepod, crouched low, and started turning the rear track width out two full rotations without saying a word.
Jaxon pulled his helmet off, breathing hard, skin flushed under the layers. "You're changing it again?"
Curtis didn't look up. "You felt it twitchy? Good. Now you're gonna feel it unstable as shit."
Jaxon blinked, still panting. "Why?"
Curtis stood, wrench in hand, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a rag blackened from fuel and grease.
"Because race day isn't fucking fair. And you don't get a warning when everything goes to hell. So you either learn to adapt—or you spin into a wall and blame the weather like the rest of the losers."
"Get back out there."
Jaxon hesitated.
Curtis stepped closer. "You flinching? That fear I smell? Thought you were a racer. Or are you just playing dress-up in a fire suit hoping someone claps when you finish in one piece?"
Jaxon grit his teeth, grabbed his gloves, and lowered himself into the seat.
The kart felt worse now — heavier through the corners, delayed on throttle, snapping loose at the rear if he looked at the apex wrong. He wrestled it lap after lap, fighting to stay smooth. The more he pushed, the more it fought back.
Curtis stood at the fence, arms crossed, not even taking notes. Just watching. Cold as steel.
By lap 15, Jaxon was starting to overdrive. Missed a braking point into the hairpin and skidded wide, gravel spitting up behind him. He yanked the kart back on track, fists clenched around the wheel, throat burning.
When he pulled in, Curtis didn't wait.
"You don't force the kart when it's screaming at you. You listen. You adapt. You don't drag it around the goddamn circuit like a sack of rocks and expect it to dance."
"I tried…"
Curtis's hand slammed the sidepod, rattling the frame.
"Don't try. Try is for people who don't know how to fucking win."
Jaxon looked away.
Curtis dropped his voice, venom in every word.
"You want to cry, go upstairs and live a nice soft life like the kids who quit after their first shunt. But if you're staying here? You bleed for every corner."
The air hung still.
Jaxon just nodded, then turned back toward the kart.
Three days later.
Road America karting track. Grey skies, cold breeze, still slick in the corners from overnight rain. The air bit at exposed skin. Most kids weren't out today.
Jaxon was.
Curtis made sure of that.
"Fire it up," Curtis barked, pacing like a caged animal behind the fence. "Out-lap. Then ten at full tilt. No spins. No excuses."
Jaxon's fingers fumbled on the starter. Cold engine. Sluggish spark.
Curtis slammed his palm down on the top of the steering wheel. "If you stall that thing again, I'll break your fuckin' fingers and start it myself."
Jaxon didn't flinch. Not anymore.
The engine caught. Growled to life.
Out-lap. Then ten laps on a knife edge.
Turn 6 — still damp. Rear stepped out. He caught it, but wide. Lap ruined.
He stayed in it. Pushed harder.
Lap 5 — misjudged the hairpin. Braked late. Ran off-line again. Rear tire caught the edge of the curb. Bounce. Twitch. Correction.
When he pulled into the tent, Curtis was already waiting.
Helmet barely off when the first shove landed — flat palm to the chest, hard enough to knock Jaxon backward into the side of the kart.
"You call that driving?" Curtis barked. "You looked like a dog chasing its own tail through Sector Two. You brake late, you apex late, and then you have the audacity to lose time and just keep going like nothing happened?"
Jaxon opened his mouth.
Curtis's hand cracked across his helmet still half on his head — not enough to knock it off, just enough to rattle his teeth.
"Don't you fucking talk. You listen."
Jaxon stared at the floor. His ribs throbbed from the slap. His ears rang.
Curtis leaned in. Breath hot with coffee and cigarettes.
"You think F1 gives a shit how much you tried? You think some scout's gonna put you in a seat because you meant well through Turn 9?"
He grabbed Jaxon by the front of the suit and pulled him an inch from his face.
"You're a sack of meat in a go-kart unless you figure out how to drive without needing a goddamn instruction manual. There's kids your age with fire in their fucking veins who'd kill for this track time, and I'm stuck with you—my own son, driving like a fucking moron on borrowed tires."
He shoved him back into the kart. Jaxon grunted. Metal dug into his spine.
"You're staying out here till you run a sub-1:05. I don't care if you pass out behind the wheel. You miss that target again—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Jaxon slid the helmet back on. Clicked the visor down.
One month later — Road America Kart Track
The weather hadn't changed, but Jaxon had.
He didn't flinch anymore when Curtis changed the caster mid-session without telling him. Didn't complain when the gearing felt off and the engine bogged on the exit. He just adjusted. Rebalanced. Found time where there wasn't supposed to be any.
The kart didn't drive clean. It wasn't supposed to. Curtis made sure of that. But Jaxon kept it alive in the corners, danced on throttle when it tried to snap loose, braked with his left foot when the fronts locked. He adapted.
Not because he was getting better — but because failure had been beaten out of him, one insult and bruise at a time.
Curtis stood at the fence chewing on a toothpick that had already been flattened between his molars, stopwatch dead in his hand. For once, he wasn't barking anything.
Jaxon pulled in. Shut it off. Climbed out slow, right hand trembling — not from nerves, from sheer muscle fatigue.
Curtis didn't look at him when he spoke.
"You got a passport?"
Jaxon blinked. "What?"
"I said," Curtis repeated, pulling a folded paper from the inside of his jacket, "you got a fucking passport?"
Jaxon shook his head, confused. "No, why—"
"You're gonna need one."
Curtis tossed the paper onto the folding table. Entry form. Foreign names. Foreign track. British Karting Championship logo stamped in the corner.
Jaxon stared at it. The words didn't land right.
"We're going to Britain?" he said, voice barely a whisper.
Curtis finally looked at him.
"England. Europe. Shit capital of the world. They run their little tin-can races over there like it's a religion." He lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. "Figured it's time they meet someone who learned how to drive for real. Someone built on American asphalt and spit."
Jaxon swallowed hard.
"When?"
"Two weeks." Curtis took a drag. "You're entered in the Junior class. Five rounds. New tracks. New kids. New politics."
He stepped closer, smoke trailing behind him like a noose.
"You think it's been hard here?" His voice dropped. "These Euro brats live in fantasy land. They grew up on clean data, factory engines, coaches who wipe their asses between sessions. You're gonna scare the shit out of 'em. Or you'll get chewed up and spit out like every other soft-bellied American who tried to play royalty on their soil."
Jaxon nodded. Slowly.
Curtis flicked the cigarette into the dirt.
"Start packing. And get your shit together."
He turned toward the truck, voice trailing over his shoulder.
"Last thing I need is you crying in the rain over some British prick named Henry."
LONDON HEATHROW – EARLY MORNING
The wheels hit the tarmac with a thud, and Curtis's first words over the drone of the reverse thrusters were:
"Christ, this place looks like it smells like boiled cabbage and disappointment."
Jaxon didn't answer. He hadn't said much since O'Hare. Twelve hours in economy next to Curtis, no sleep, knees to his chest — there wasn't much to say. His body still felt like it was somewhere over the Atlantic.
Curtis stood the second the plane stopped, elbowing past a woman in a business suit without apology. "Come on," he growled. "We got shit to pick up."
CUSTOMS — HOUR LATER
Two checked duffel bags. One battered Pelican case with spare parts. One helmet bag — carried on. Curtis had argued for fifteen minutes about not checking it. "That helmet cost more than your goddamn ticket," he told the desk agent. "If it goes missing, your airline's paying for a new skull."
They moved like ghosts through Heathrow — no smiles, no tourist awe. Just a mission.
Outside, the air was cold and wet. Curtis lit a cigarette before they even reached the rental car office.
"Rain every day, they say. Builds character," he muttered, dragging hard. "Bunch of bullshit."
FELTHAM INDUSTRIAL ESTATE – NEAR HEATHROW
An hour later, they rolled into the lot behind a logistics company specializing in motorsports freight. Their kart, tools, and gear had been shipped ahead by air freight, crated and strapped on a pallet that had landed two days earlier.
Jaxon stared at the wood crate, paint-chipped and dented from the flight. Curtis walked straight to it like a man checking on a weapon.
"Crate's still sealed," he said, cutting the straps open with a pocket knife. "If they so much as touched the wheelbase, I'll gut 'em."
Inside: kart frame wrapped in padding, engine in a foam-lined box, wheels bagged in pairs, spares zip-tied into milk crates. It was all there. Barely.
Curtis inspected every inch like someone was trying to screw him.
RENTED TRUCK – A DIESEL TRANSIT VAN
They loaded everything into a battered white Ford Transit with a fold-out ramp in back. The interior smelled like damp carpets and old oil.
Curtis got behind the wheel. "Drives on the wrong side, looks like a fuckin' plumber's van," he muttered, adjusting the seat back. "But it'll haul."
Jaxon sat passenger side, helmet bag on his lap.
"You see that license plate?" Curtis said, pulling out onto the narrow British road, grinding second gear. "That's the look of a country that lost every war but still thinks they own the world."
They drove northwest, out of the city, past roundabouts and stone walls, into the countryside. The rain had started again. Thin, cold. Relentless.
BRITAIN – EVENING
The narrow roads of the little town wound tightly past stone cottages with flower boxes, the sky graying with thick clouds. Curtis navigated the rented Transit through puddles and tight corners, low beams cutting through the mist.
They pulled into the parking lot of a tired-looking chain hotel. Brick facade, flickering sign, and just enough parking to squeeze the van in beside a luxury hatchback with decals and sponsor logos.
Curtis climbed out first, dragging his cigarette to its butt against the cracked asphalt.
"Better than sleeping in the van," he muttered.
Jaxon followed, backpack slung over one shoulder. The lobby smelled faintly of damp carpet and cheap cleaning fluid.
They checked in without ceremony — no smiles, no small talk. Curtis's wallet thudded on the counter. No upgrades.
The room was small, with peeling wallpaper and a heater that rattled like a tractor. The window rattled in the breeze.
Jaxon set his gear down quietly, staring out at the quiet street. The dim glow from a distant pub spilled over cobblestones slick with rain.
Curtis lit a cigarette at the window, watching shadows move across the street.
"Tomorrow," Curtis said, voice low, "we get you on the track. Show these kids what real racing looks like."
Jaxon nodded, but didn't say anything.
NEXT MORNING – EARLY
The sky was a flat gray, the rain just starting again as they packed into the van.
Curtis started the engine — a diesel growl — and they rolled out onto the slick roads.
The drive to the track was quiet, punctuated only by the scrape of wipers and Curtis's occasional mutters about the weather, the roads, and the damn Brits.
As they pulled into the paddock, tents and rigs already buzzed with activity.
Most teams were pristine — gleaming trailers, mechanics in matching gear, radios clipped to belts, hospitality tents with branded coffee cups.
In contrast, Curtis parked the van in a dusty corner, pulling out tools and unstrapping the kart.
Jaxon felt eyes on them — curious, some dismissive, a few grudgingly respectful.
Curtis spat on the ground and muttered, "Fuckin redcoats."