THE COMPETITION

The last time I wrote a letter I was sixteen. The last time I expected to receive one back? Never.

I stare at the envelope containing the first letter I’d ever received. Thick and brown with one single logo. My eyes snag on the logo and has refuse to move.

My heart is thumping so furiously in my chest, I could taste the blood rushing to my head. In my hands, I hold the envelope that will either make or break the company.

Father has called at least three times per hour to find out if it arrived. My brothers have been a little subtler, but a buzz of nervousness choked me every time their names popped up on my phone screen.  

At long last… I have it.

Marcus stirs beside me, I don’t look away from the envelope, I can’t.

He gasps, even when I haven’t said much to him about it, he knows how important it is to get one of these envelopes.

“How did it…?” his eyes dart around us, as if searching for something in the dim room.

“Sylvester must have brought it up.” I answer. The man has worked for the family for so long, he knew not to waste a minute delivering something this important.

Marcus’s lips stretch into a huge grin.

“This calls for a celebration.”

“We don’t know the contents yet.”

His smile wavers, eyes returning to the envelope I’m holding delicately. He clears his throat.

“Isn’t the answer obvious?”

It isn’t. How could it be? The whole of my family heritage, the company, people’s livelihood– all of it is riding on this. They could reject me. It’s been years since I was on the track.

  I have stats and medals to prove myself. But in this industry, you don’t take breaks. A break can end you.

“Damien Delta! You’re bleeding!!” Marcus’s high screech pulls me out of my head. And true to his words, two shiny drops of blood stains the envelope. I know where it’s coming from, but Marcus is new to this. He grabs me roughly by the chin, tipping my head up. I recoil from his touch, head snapping to him.

 “What did I say about touching me above the waist??”

His eyes are wide with surprise. He need not be. He knows the rules. Following them is the only reason he’s lasted this long.

"Your nose is bleeding.” he says, tone lacking confidence.

I climb out of bed, taking the envelope with me, I head for the bathroom.

“Damien, I didn’t… I’m sorry.” he calls out, following from behind me.

Shutting and locking the door behind me, I stand in front of the sink mirror. Twin streaks of blood make their way out of my nose. Bending over the sink, I wash it out before lifting my head up to stop the flow.

“You should go to the hospital…” he falters, then he sighs.

“What am I saying, you won’t go. Call a doctor or something. It’s not normal to start bleeding out of nowhere.”

He has no idea.

And I intend to keep it that way.

My eyes return to the envelope. The SLAT logo stares back at me, taunting me.

I peel it open with shaky hands, bloody nose be damned. Red stains the brown as the envelope peels open.

I’m sure I’m not breathing when it peels open.

I imagined doing this everyday while I worked out, pushing myself to my limits, I imagined I’d do it slowly, eyes drinking in the letterhead. It’s not every day a racer gets a response from SLAT themselves.

Reality is different.

I skim over the letterhead, chest tightening until I find the words.

“CONGRATULATIONS, YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO COMPETE AT THE SLAT….”

My head spins so fast I grab the sink for support. The hand holding the letter squeezes it as if trying to prove to myself that this is real life. In all the times I imagined getting the letter, I didn’t dare imagine I’d get in.

I did it.

I’m in.

A breath leaves me, and so does my strength. My muscles that had been bunched up for weeks, softens, the very thing I’d called Marcus here for.

My family would be pleased to hear we’re in. Everything is going to be okay again. We’re fine. The Delta Company that was unable to pay any good enough driver to take our cars to the competition, bringing me out of retirement… we have to win this.

I have to win.

D-1 has to make a comeback.

Marcus’s face is ashen when I step out of the bathroom, biting his lip as he waits for me to give my order.

“I got in.” I say instead.

I can’t dismiss him now. There’s no time to sift through people to find someone I can stand being in the same room with, much less share a bed with all of my rules.

 “I told you. The answer is obvious.You’re D-1, SLAT couldn’t keep you out of their tracks if they tried.”

They could.

They didn’t care about popularity, the glam the industry has become. SLAT cared about the race, the art of it. And best of all, they had the money people believe Delta Industries has.

Marcus’s smile dims.

“You will go for the camp.”

I nod. “That’s what it entails, should I accept it.”

 I send my acceptance letter quickly via email this time.

The second letter I’d write since I was sixteen. I’m not sure why they insist on writing letters, but it’s SLAT, the biggest racing competition in the world.

Whatever they want, they get.

“Which means… we won’t get to see each other.” he says this with a stricken look on his face, it makes me pause. I was clear with my rules. He knows what this is.

 “Marcus.” I say.

He blinks numerous times. Then puffs out a breath.

I don’t get to hear whatever it is he has to say because my phone rings immediately. Benson Delta flashes on the screen and I swipe accept.

“We got in,” my father says, no inflection in his voice. No way to tell he’s excited that I saved the company and family.

I did.

I don’t say that.

“However, we’re not the only ones who made it in.”

Of course.

It’s the race of races. Every racer worth his shit will be out here.

“I expect to be the only one that makes it out. There’s only one winner, and it will be a Delta.”

A sharp inhale catches in my throat.

I feel it, a hot crawling sensation that starts in my chest, I find myself leaning towards the phone, as if trying to burrow my way towards more praise from him.

“SLAT just announced the competitors, your mother is waiting to see your face.”

It’s quick, but it’s SLAT. Everyone who got in must have sent their acceptance immediately after.

I turn on the TV in time to see a face and a set of stats that makes me stand upright.

My blood run cold.

My father must see it the same time because he mutters a curse for his nemesis under his breath and questions the same time I do,

“The Kane’s sent their son as well??”

I stare at the screen.

“Harrison Kane is competing??"