4. Carson

This is a little different from what I'm used to, that's for damn sure. But it's a high like none other when I walk to my car and see the full stadium—and I mean, completely and totally full. Not one seat is open, and the crowd is loud.

It's hot as hell here too.

Excitement is flowing through me as I get into the car, belted up and with my helmet on this time. My body grows heated for another reason besides the heat outside now, just thinking about Brayden's big body pressing up against mine. He was seething mad, but all it did was turn me the hell on.

I'll likely do it again just to get him to yell at me like that. I mean, don't worry, I won't hurt anyone or anything—well, maybe myself, but I'm tough. I always bounce back.

I hear the engines around me start up, and that familiar spark unlike any other races through me. I love the sound of an engine. Always have. Always will. There's nothing on Earth like that rumble for me. Does it for me every single time.

And when we take off around the track, I'm free. I don't worry about another thing in this world other than going for the win. For being the best. The fastest.

I know how to race, and it's admittedly an adjustment from dirt-track racing, but at its core, all racing is the same. The speed. The precision. The desire to win. It doesn't matter if the track is paved or dirt. It doesn't matter if you're on four wheels or two. The essentials are all the same.

Brayden may look down on me for starting out in dirt, but I'm a grinning fool as I pass him on the second lap. I'm going to show them all I belong here. No doubt in my mind.

I know what the hell I'm doing, damn it. I don't need Brayden to babysit me like it was implied at my contract signing. I'm not stupid. I know what they're doing. The Ace and the Rookie. They want to spin this for a story, but they don't really know me, and they don't know Brayden either.

It's not going to happen. We'd sure be explosive together though. There's no doubt about it. But he's such a stubborn motherfucker. He's never going to let that happen. On or off the damn track. Though it may have just been my hopeful imagination, but I swear I saw a spark in his eyes when he was spitting fire at me. When he was angry because I wrecked that car a little bit.

A hint of desire.

But I can't think about that now. Right now, I need to focus. Someone spins out ahead of me, and I have to go around them, which makes me lose my spot for a moment. But I'm going to catch back up.

I finish the race in twentieth place, but I'm not frowning when I climb out of my car. Hell no. My first professional race, and I kicked ass. I hung in there, and I'm proud of being number twenty to cross that finish line.

I'm only going to get better as I go on.

It's still a damn high as I look around the crowd and see signs with my last name on them. They're holding them high and screaming my name. Hell yeah. This is where I'm supposed to be.

I loved the dirt track and the smaller stadiums, getting up close and personal with the crowd. But this is checking off boxes I didn't even know I had. I fucking love the attention.

Most people will tell you it's not about the fame, that it's about the race. But I think they're full of shit. You can race anywhere. They love this part too. They love being admired and cheered for.

Brayden took second place, and I'm watching the smug son of a bitch as he does an interview, just grinning away—flirting with that camera and flashing those good looks. He's eating this shit up.

That's the thing I don't get. They say I'm too cocky. That I'm arrogant. But the way I see it, I'm just honest.

And honestly, I'm just damn good at what I do.