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Someone pounds on my trailer door, properly interrupting me. Heaving a breath of dismay because I’m certain I know who it is, I run my fingers through my hair and begrudgingly stand from a pushup position. He’s shaking the whole fucking trailer with his disgusting attitude. I swear I can feel his hatred of me through the walls. His presence in my life is like sludge that I can’t get off. The stain of my existence.
My face is flat, because it always is when he’s around. With him, I only have two expressions: boredom and anger. He deserves nothing else.
“It’s nice to see you’re putting in the initiative and starting your day early.” I scoff. Never ahelloorhow are you—always straight to the put downs. The reasons I’m up and can’t sleep are solely because of him. His insults and constant nagging are what have kept my mind running my entire life, causing me to drink enough to get my brain to shut up and let me get some sleep. It’s a terrible way to live for an athlete, but I push myself because nothing quiets me like being on the track.
“What do you want?” If he isn’t going to give me the courtesy of being a decent human being, then I’ll show him the same.
“Never one to waste time.” His words would be appreciative, should be, considering he’s so busy he’s never had time to be a proper father, but they’re yet again another admonishment as if he deserves for me to take my time with him.
He starts forward into my space. Without inviting him in, I move to the side to allow him room to pass. It’s barely enough, though, and he has to turn his shoulders to keep from hitting the wall. He stands in the middle of the small space, glancing around. I guess he expects me to offer him a seat.
I don’t, because he isn’t welcome to stay.
“We need to have a chat,” he tells me. I snatch my towel off of the counter and wipe my forehead, then neck, waiting for him to get to it. He eyes me expectantly and when I say nothing, he clears his throat, his aggravation with me rising, and says, “You’re riding has been… subpar lately.”
I don’t balk, no gasps or clenching of the fists. My entire life, he’s done nothing but criticize my riding. Hell, everything about my life. Nothing has ever been good enough, so I’ve perfected the art of keeping my reactions, specifically the negative ones, inside. I continue wiping the sweat from my body.
After a moment of realizing I have nothing to say, he carries on. “I’ve been talking to the team and they feel you aren’t putting in the effort it takes to be on the top of your league.”
Did they actually respond with that, or did he talk his way into those answers? My mechanic, Joey, and I have a great relationship, so I know those words never came out of his mouth. I can guarantee my dad didn’t even ask him because he wouldn’t get the response he was looking for. The rest of the team, however, are afraid of him, so they probably said anything to get him to go away and keep their jobs.
I don’t blame them.
I’m not looking directly at my dad, but I can see his annoyance in the way his eyes narrow and his lips tighten. “We’ve concluded that we need to see your efforts,” he says in a sharp tone.
Still, I give him nothing but silence. It’s probably not the most intelligent move and could avoid what he says next, but I can’t help it. This way of closing myself off when I’m around him, my way of protecting myself from the hurt his disgust with me causes, is unavoidable.
He shifts his position, lengthening his spine and lifting his chin to peer down at me. We aren’t large men, standing at under six feet, and he’s always hated that he isn’t taller than me. But when he pulls out his trump card, he feels the need to make himself appear taller. “Since you have nothing to say on the matter, then possibly this will get into that thick skull of yours. You win your race this weekend or you’re done with this team.”
The momentary pause of wiping my body before I catch myself is the only thing that lets him know I’ve actually heard him. As I force myself to continue with my disinterested clean up, my mind filters through every thought of failure I’ve had in my life.
I have to force my hands not to shake.
Win or I’m off the team.
He’s given me a fucking ultimatum. The entire weight of my racing career rests on my racetomorrow. A race against Lennox Ford… My chest hitches painfully with the idea. Retorts of anger lodge in my throat. My head swirls with a million thoughts of a bleak future, because that’s all I can see right now at this moment.
Outwardly, he gets nothing.
With a satisfied smirk, he starts toward the door. “Jean-Pierre will be happy to take your place.”
I hold back my growl at his taunt and let him exit my trailer. No words need to be said. He’s accomplished what he set out to do, and he knows it.
When the door is shut behind him, I turn in a fit of silent rage and send my fist cascading into the skinny, black stainless steel refrigerator. Pain sails through my knuckles, careening down my arm. Hissing a breath, I pull back my hand and shake it out, pissed with myself for giving him the reaction he desired even if he couldn’t see it. Now there is a dent in my fridge for everyone to see. That’s okay, come tomorrow, it will no longer be mine. Maybe I should destroy everything in here forJean-Pierre.
Fucking prick. I’m not sure what I ever did to deserve his treatment. Despite having an attitude and dealing with everything he’s put me through, I’ve been a good kid. Kept my head above water, made good grades, stayed out of trouble, and did everything I can to not be a disappointment to him. I’m at the top of my field, fulfilling his legacy and following in his footsteps.
But it’s never been good enough. I’ll never be good enough.
After my dad leaves, I have no appetite, but I know I need to get breakfast before practice. I can’t perform on an empty stomach. And that’s what I have to do, perform, or I’m off the team.
Still in my sweats and a ratty t-shirt, because right now, I can’t be bothered to look like the professional I am, I make my way to catering. Fuck it.
Fort Knoxis racing this weekend and I’m not naïve enough to believe that I’ll beat her. As much as it chaps my ass, she is my only actual competition, and she’s been on her shit lately, taking wins like she’s meant to be in the top position. The exact reason my dad is giving me this ultimatum.
A teenage girl is bringing his precious team down, making his son look like a chump.
I’m not surprised that I’m going to lose my place on my team, my backing, my racing career, because of her. Seems fitting.
