Seth

The engine roared beneath him, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his body. The helmet hugged his head tightly, the visor narrowing his vision to the strip of track ahead. Wind slammed against his chest, trying to slow him down, but he leaned in harder, daring it to push back. His gloved hands tightened around the handlebars, the throttle twisted to its limit. The bike surged forward, a beast under his control, every muscle in his body coiled and focused.

The others were behind him-just specks in his side mirrors. Exactly where they belonged. Victory wasn't just the goal. It was the only outcome. The only thing that mattered. Failure was a whisper he refused to hear. His father's disappointed voice hovered at the edge of his mind, a shadow he couldn't shake.

The sharp scent of burning rubber seeped through his helmet, a perfect blend of power and adrenaline. The tires screamed as he took the corner hard, skimming the edge of control. For a moment, the thought flared-What if I lose?-but he crushed it, twisting the throttle harder, feeding the bike more power. He owned this track. He owned this race.

The finish line was seconds away, the blur of asphalt pulling him in like a magnet. His pulse hammered in his ears, faster than the engine's growl. Sweat soaked the lining of his helmet, heat radiating off his body, but none of it registered. Pain, exhaustion, fear-none of it existed. He was speed. He was fire. He was unstoppable.

He crossed the finish line first. The crowd exploded into cheers, a wall of sound that crashed over him. Triumph surged through his veins, fierce and fleeting. But beneath it, a cold shadow lingered. The roar of the crowd couldn't drown out the one voice that always cut through: his father's.

He pulled off his helmet, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the sea of faces. For a split second, he wondered if this was enough-if he was enough. But the thought vanished like smoke. He had won. That was all that mattered. For now.

"Nice race," Tom's voice sounded behind him. "But you could've taken that last inside corner better. Do it right next time."

Seth scoffed. "You do realize I won, right?"

"Crossing the finish line first doesn't make you invincible, Seth," Tom replied, his voice rough with authority.

"I always cross the finish line first. Every time," Seth shot back, his glare pinning his manager in place.

Tom stretched his neck, hands on his hips. "You need to tone it down. Your stubbornness and overconfidence are going to be your downfall."

Seth stared at him, unmoved. Without another word, he climbed back onto his bike and sped off, a cloud of smoke trailing behind him.

The cloth glided over the sleek, black frame of his motorcycle. Seth stood shirtless in the summer heat, the sun warming his skin as he meticulously cleaned his most prized possession. It was the height of summer now, but tomorrow, he'd be heading north. Back to the cold.

He sank into a camping chair beside their RV, drawing a deep breath that settled low in his chest before he exhaled heavily. After months of constant travel and relentless racing, the thought of getting away from Tom for a while was a relief. No more nagging. No more shouting.

Tom had been his manager for years-strict as hell, always pushing, always demanding. No matter how hard Seth fought, how fast he rode, it was never enough. Praise hung just out of reach, like a prize he was never meant to claim.

Tom wasn't just his manager; he was supposed to be his father. But the day Tom chose the title of "manager" was the day Seth lost the title of "son."

"Have you started packing?" Tom asked, cracking open a beer and dropping into the chair beside him.

Seth pulled his cap over his eyes, shielding them from the sun. "Relax. We're not leaving until tomorrow."

"I often wonder what you'd be without me," Tom said, his tone grating.

"I think we both know I'd be just fine," Seth replied, his voice flat.

Tom sighed, shaking his head. "You're a cocky bastard who hates to lose. Lucky for you, I've managed to turn that into something useful."

"Lucky for you that fat paycheck keeps rolling in every month," Seth shot back, his words edged with bitterness.

Tom didn't reply, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. Silence that spoke volumes.

"Have you finally given up on that ridiculous project of yours?" Tom asked, his voice dripping with condescension.

Seth felt his temper rise, a different kind of adrenaline flooding his veins. He shook his head slowly, a sly smile curling his lips. "Actually, I'm heading there tomorrow. Back to the town I grew up in-to sign the deal."

"You've got to be kidding me," Tom snapped, his voice tight with disbelief.

A sharp laugh escaped Seth. It felt good to see his father rattled, to remind him who was really in control of his life.

"The stable is bo-"

"Fuck off, Seth. If you screw this up, no investor will ever take you seriously again," Tom interrupted harshly.

Seth's jaw clenched. He hated when his father cut him off, hated even more when he tried to dictate his life. It wasn't his fault that Tom had chosen to live vicariously through his son.

"I'm doing this," Seth said, his voice steady. "That town needs a motocross track, a place to build a real racing community. I'll make it happen-my way."

Tom buried his face in his hands, rubbing his temples. "I give you six months."

"Thanks for the conf-"

"Six months before you give up or fail miserably," Tom interrupted, standing abruptly and walking away.

~*~*~*~*~

The motorcycle's engine purred beneath him as he sped down the open road. Trees blurred by on either side, the wind whipping through his skin. He took a sharp turn onto a gravel path, the bike kicking up dust as he adjusted his speed.

He wasn't sure how he felt about returning to the town he'd left ten years ago. Back then, he'd left to chase the sport, to take racing seriously. His downtime between seasons had always been spent in warmer places, far from the cold north, chasing new tastes, new experiences.

But now he was back. He would spend the next few months on a stable property-a bizarre twist of fate. A tangle of excitement and dread coiled in his chest. The thrill of building something new, something his, mixed with the fear of being trapped somewhere he couldn't ride.

The gravel road was framed by white fences and towering trees, giving it an almost storybook quality. He rode on until the path opened into a large courtyard. Killing the engine, he parked the bike and pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his tousled hair.

He looked around, finally able to envision his plan. A sprawling motocross track, complete with jumps, sharp turns, and steep hills. His eyes landed on the large white house beside the stable. Its wraparound porch and tidy yard would serve his vision well-perfect for meetings, even accommodations when the motocross community took root.

As he headed toward the stable, his gaze snagged on a small red house further down the road. It looked ready to collapse-paint peeling, windows boarded up. He couldn't wait to tear it down.

Inside the stable, a large bulletin board covered one wall, pinned with flyers for events, riding camps, and lessons. The sharp scent of hay, manure, and horses filled his nose, stirring an unexpected nausea.

"Can we help you?"

The voice was sharp, feminine, and cut through his thoughts like a whip.

He turned slowly. "I'm Seth Harlow," he said, his voice calm. "The new owner of this property."

Two women stood before him. One was a brunette. The other had long, wavy dirty-blonde hair and striking hazel eyes. She stepped forward, her gaze fierce as she extended her hand.

"I'm Freya Lynn-stable manager and your worst nightmare."

Her words hit like a slap. His jaw tightened, and a flicker of something dark and restless flared in his eyes.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to shut her up or hear what she'd say next.