Chapter 2

Wade immediately chimed in beside him, his face fierce.

"Jake Carter, don't push your luck! Mason's willing to let you play support for him. That's him showing you respect!

"If you dare ruin Mason's race on the track, I'll make sure you're finished in this sport!"

I looked at the helmet under Mason's foot. A crack had already appeared across the visor.

It was the helmet my father had once worn.

Slowly, I loosened my fists, bent down, and reached for it.

Mason pressed harder, pinning it in place.

"Beg me." He smiled arrogantly, as if looking at a beaten dog.

"Kneel and beg, and I'll give this piece of junk back to you."

I lifted my eyes and looked at his smug face.

"Mason Vale, you'd better pray that tomorrow, your taillights stay on in front of me."

I yanked hard and pulled the helmet out from under his foot.

Mason's foot slipped. He stumbled and nearly fell.

Humiliated, he pointed at my back and cursed.

"You little bastard! Are you threatening me?"

I didn't turn around. I held the helmet and walked straight out of the locker room.

Behind me came Wade's furious roar.

"Jake Carter! You're suspended from training! Tomorrow, you stay on the bench!"

"Just like your dead father, you'll always be useless!" Mason sneered.

"Take the brand-new slicks off Jake Carter's car and put them on Mason Vale's," Wade ordered loudly from the pit garage.

I had just reached the entrance when I heard that order, shameless to the core.

Several mechanics exchanged looks. No one moved.

Old Hank, the senior mechanic, held a wrench in his hand, his brow knotted.

"Coach Barrett, that tire set was tuned specifically to Jake's data. It won't suit Mason's car." Hank tried to reason with him.

Wade's eyes bulged. Spit sprayed across Hank's face.

"Am I the coach, or are you? If I tell you to change them, you change them! Why so much nonsense?

"Mason's last year's champion. The best resources go to him first. That's the team's rule!"

I strode over and pressed down on the wrench in Hank's hand.

"Those tires are mine." I stared at Wade, my voice cold.

Wade froze for a moment when he saw me, then puffed out his chest and put on his coach's authority.

"Yours? The team paid for them. Since when are they yours?

"Jake Carter, I'm warning you. You're already suspended from training. Go back to the dorm and reflect on yourself."

I ignored him and turned toward Mason, who was sitting on the sofa in the lounge area.

Mason had one leg crossed over the other, holding an iced Americano, watching the drama unfold at his leisure.

When he saw me looking, he raised his brows provocatively and waved his phone.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I took it out. Mason had posted a private story.

The photo showed him sitting on the hood of my race car, one foot planted on my new tires.

The caption had only one line:

"Sent off the old loser. Now sending off the little loser."

The post was visible only to me.

Looking at those words on the screen, I felt the blood rush to my head.

Twenty-eight years ago, on the day my father crashed, Mason had stood with the same condescending posture and watched my father get carried into the ambulance.

"Your dad deserved to be paralyzed. Losers breed losers."

Those were the exact words he'd said to me in the hospital hallway when I was five years old.

I put away my phone and slowly walked up to Mason.

"You can take the tires." I looked at him, my voice utterly calm.

Mason scoffed and set down his coffee.

"At least you know your place.

"But even if we put four rusty iron rings on my car, you still couldn't beat me."

He rose and leaned close to my face, his eyes full of naked malice.

"Jake Carter, you were fast in qualifying.

"But remember this. Speed doesn't matter on a racetrack. The winner is the man who crosses the finish line alive."

He reached out and patted my cheek. The force wasn't heavy, but the insult was extreme.

"Your father didn't understand that back then. That's why he rotted in a wheelchair."

My hand shot up and seized his wrist.