Page 58 of Boss and Brat

“Slow down!” Carter yelled, even though he knew Ethan wouldn’t.

Ethan laughed—loud, bright, carried by the wind—and pushed harder.

Carter kept up, but barely. Ethan knew the terrain like muscle memory, weaving through old trails, cutting across dips and rises with a kind of wild grace. Carter felt his own grin tugging at his mouth despite himself.

They reached the old clearing—a rough oval of packed dirt—and Ethan skidded to a stop, triumphant.

“Told you,” he said, breathless, cheeks flushed.

Carter shook his head, laughing. “You’re a menace.”

“A fearless menace,” Ethan corrected.

“Yeah,” Carter murmured, watching him. “I noticed.”

They rode again, a few more laps, until Ethan slowed and waved Carter to follow him up a narrow trail. They parked ona ridge overlooking the lake, the water catching the sun like scattered glass.

Ethan killed his engine and sat there for a moment, staring out at the water. His shoulders dropped, the adrenaline fading into something quieter.

Carter leaned back on his hands. “You were good out there.”

“Yeah. I used to be.”

Carter waited. He could feel something coming—Ethan’s posture, the way he kept his eyes on the lake, the way his fingers tapped against his thigh.

Finally, Ethan spoke. “You wanna know why I stole the bikes?”

Carter didn’t move. “If you want to tell me.”

Ethan swallowed, jaw tightening. “We were all racing back then. Me, Alexander, Mateo. There was this one race—a big one. Only one rider would be picked to go to San Francisco. Real sponsors. Real money.”

Carter nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“My bike was… expensive.” Ethan’s voice dropped. “I took money from my dad’s safe for it. He didn’t know. And Alexander and Mateo—they thought I had an edge. They hated it.”

Carter already didn’t like where this was going.

“During a practice run,” Ethan continued, “they cornered me. Forced me off the track. I jumped before the bike hit the ground and burst into flames. Saved myself, but the bike was totaled.”

Carter’s jaw clenched. Hard. “They could’ve killed you.”

Ethan shrugged, small and bitter. “Didn’t care. They just wanted me out.”

Carter stared at him, anger simmering low and steady. Not at Ethan—never at Ethan—but at the idiots who’d treated him like that.

“So,” Ethan said, voice barely above a whisper, “the night before the race… I stole both their bikes. And I trashed them. Completely. Figured if I couldn’t race, neither could they.”

Carter let out a slow breath. “Hell.”

“Yeah.” Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. “I know it was stupid.”

“It was,” Carter said honestly. Then softer, “But I get it.”

Ethan looked over, surprised. “You do?”

Carter nodded. “Someone takes something from you—something you worked for, something you cared about—you wanna hit back. Doesn’t make it right, but it makes sense.”

Ethan’s eyes softened, something warm flickering there. “Thanks.”