Page 22 of Endo

It’s just me, the bike, and the road.

“Three... two... one…”

The flare gun shoots, and I’m off, the engine screaming beneath me as I shift into gear. I can feel the power of the bike surging forward, and for a split second, it feels like I’m flying. But then the competition hits, and I realize—I’m not ready for this.

The other bikes zoom past me, the riders handling their machines like they’ve been doing it for years. One of them—a tall guy in a black leather jacket with a red stripe down the side—passes so close I almost feel the air shift as he cuts me off. The noise from his engine roars in my ears, but all I hear is the pounding of my heart, the screech of my tires as I fight to keep control.

I try to push myself, to keep pace with them, but it’s like they’re in a different league. Their bikes are faster, their movements more fluid, while I’m stuck jerking and jolting, barely keeping my wheels from slipping out from under me. The track is unforgiving. The turns are sharp, the asphalt rough. Ican hear the tires of the other riders squealing as they slide through the corners with ease, while I’m desperately trying not to lose my grip.

The crowd’s noise is growing, and I realize I’m not just racing against the others—I’m racing against myself. I’m fighting to stay in this, to not look like the amateur I know I am. I should’ve trained more, prepared better, but I didn’t. I didn’t listen to them. I didn’t want their help. And now I’m paying the price.

I take a turn too wide, the back wheel spinning out from beneath me. I fight to regain control, and for a moment, I think I’m going to crash, but somehow, I pull it back. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely keep a grip on the handlebars, but I force myself to focus.

Another rider—a guy in a black helmet with neon yellow accents—whips past me, and I can feel the whoosh of air as he speeds by. I’m not even close to keeping up. But the rush is there, an adrenaline shot straight to my veins, and for a fleeting moment, it makes the fear feel a little lighter, a little easier to bear.

I take a deep breath, my vision blurring as I round another corner, and it hits me: What if I just... didn’t make it? What if this was it? What if I crashed, just for a second, and in that moment of pain and loss, I could be with Cruz again? The thought is chilling, but it’s there, hovering at the back of my mind, offering a strange comfort. I shake my head, trying to clear it, but it lingers. The thought doesn’t make sense, but it’s there.

The finish line comes into view, and I push myself harder, trying to make up for the lost time, but it’s too late. I cross the line, barely holding onto the bike, and my stomach drops as I realize—second to last.

I pull off the track and roll into the makeshift pits. My helmet feels heavier than it should as I slide it off, my breath ragged, mylegs shaky as I dismount. Revel is there, waiting, his grin wide, his arms open for a hug.

“You did it, Lena! You actually made it through without eating asphalt! I’d call that a win,” he says, clapping me on the back with a big, sarcastic grin.

I want to smile, want to let his praise sink in, but it doesn’t feel right. I didn’t win—I didn’t even come close. But for a moment, that doesn’t matter. The rush of the race is still buzzing in my veins, and my heart’s pounding like I’m still out there on the track. I didn’t take first place, but I got what I needed. For a fleeting second, I felt closer to Cruz, like I was back with him, riding beside me. The void he left behind feeling just that little bit less empty. But as I try to process the mix of emotions swirling inside me, the voices of the others cut through the haze.

The team is already gathering around me, their faces a mix of concern and frustration, and the weight of their stares feels like a thousand pounds pressing down on me. Talon’s expression is unreadable, but the way his jaw is set and his body is stiff, I know he’s angry. Thorne’s eyes are cold, narrowed, and calculating, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The rest of the Demons stand behind them, watching with various degrees of judgment and worry.

“What the hell was that?” Talon demands, his voice low and menacing. “You just looked like you were waiting for a crash out there.”

I open my mouth, ready to argue, but the words get stuck in my throat. The race is still playing out in my head—the near-crashes, the fear, the rush. It’s hard to process it all in one go.

I don’t have a chance to speak before Draygon pipes up, his voice rough and cutting through the tension. “Being a backpack doesn’t make you a racer, Lena,” he says, his tone harsh, but there’s an underlying concern buried beneath it.

My stomach tightens. I know they’re right. I was reckless, unprepared, and I can feel that shame creeping up, threatening to swallow me whole. But before I can respond, Bexley steps forward, her petite frame like a sharp contrast to the looming tension. Her long dark hair catches the light as she looks at me with a mix of empathy and frustration. She’s always been able to read me like an open book.

“We’re just worried about you, Lena,” she says, her voice soft, but there’s a sharp edge to it. “We miss you. Why didn’t you just come to us? If you wanted to race, we could’ve helped you. The guys would’ve prepped you, got you ready. You didn’t have to do this on your own.”

The words hit me harder than I expect. I’ve been pushing them away for so long, shutting them out. I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. They’re right. I could’ve reached out. I could’ve let them help.

“I know,” I mutter, the frustration bubbling under my skin. “I’m sorry. But sometimes it feels harder being around you guys. Like... like it’s too much, you know?”

I see their expressions soften, a flicker of understanding passing between them. Reign, who has been standing quietly off to the side, steps forward, his usual cocky grin gone. There’s no humor in his expression now, just determination and something that feels almost protective.

“I’ll help you,” he says, his voice firm, but not unkind. “I’ll train you. If you want to keep racing, you need proper training. I’ll help you get there. No more running solo.”

I blink, thrown off guard. “How? The season’s about to start, and you’ve got a race to prepare for.”

He shrugs, but there’s a brief flicker in his eyes, something I don’t quite catch. “I’m not racing. Haven’t been cleared,” he says, his voice smooth, but there’s a hint of something behind it.

The others exchange looks—quick glances that I’m not supposed to catch—but I do. I feel the weight of their unspoken thoughts, the way they all seem to share the same silent conclusion. But no one says anything. It’s like they’ve agreed to keep it to themselves for now.

I don’t press it. I don’t need to know why. I’m just relieved, in a strange way, that he’s offering to help.

“Fine,” I say, my voice still laced with reluctance, but there’s a sense of resolution in me now. “I’ll take your help. But just so you know, you’re not getting off easy. You’re gonna have to teach me how to ride better than I did today.”

Reign’s lips twitch, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, Lena. You’ll be doing laps around these guys in no time. Just wait.”

As I nod, agreeing to what I know is the right decision, I can feel the weight of the tension starting to ease. It’s not gone, not completely, but it’s lighter now. The hostility that was crackling in the air between us starts to fade, and for a second, it feels like we might be okay.

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