They Called Me a Junk Heir, I’m a 3x Champion

My name is Max Clayton. I'm the only son of the family that runs the Blazing Flame Team on the Southern Circuit. Everyone in the scene knows me as the young heir of the Clayton family. When people say that title, the end always lifts up a little, thick with sneering contempt. Why? Because I'm already eighteen, and I still don't dare to ride a motorcycle. Every single person on the team knows it. That the young heir is a total waste of space. My sister, Isabelle, is the only female rider in the entire Southern Circuit crazy enough to brake late into turns even in pouring rain. She's poured every last cent of her prize money into the team, and every drop of her energy into me. She'd tug me over to the bike, teaching me the same basics over and over again. "Max, you're just scared. Fear's something you can fix. C'mon, sit on it first, I'll help you start it up." I'd stare right back at her, feet glued to the ground. The spark in her eyes would dim, bit by bit, until it was almost gone. Then she'd turn around, scrubbing her face roughly with her sleeve. She thought I couldn't see. But I saw everything. I wasn't scared. I just didn't want to. I still had all my memories from my past life. In that life, I was also called Max Clayton. I was a world-class motorcycle engineer and pro rider. I'd won world championships, led R&D for three factory teams, passed out sleeping in wind tunnels more times than I could count, and set lap records at the Nürburgring Nordschleife. I'd turned myself into a perfectly tuned machine, spending my whole life fighting for every thousandth of a second, chasing speed and pushing limits. I ended up dying on the track, too. Not in a crash, but from sudden cardiac arrest. One second before I crossed the finish line, my heart just thudded to a stop. I was thirty-seven that year. No family, no friends. The last call in my phone was from my team manager, nagging me to turn in a technical report. Tired. So f*****g tired. That's why in this life, I just want to be a slacker. Live a quiet, easy life—scroll through my phone, sleep in as late as I want, make up for all the sleep I missed in my past life. But I forgot one thing. The title "young heir" isn't a golden ticket. It's a pair of iron shackles. My dad is Gabriel Clayton, founder and head coach of the Blaze Racing Team. Twenty years ago, he started out running a tiny roadside repair shop. He built Blaze with his own two hands, turning it into a legend across the Southern Circuit. He doesn't fuss over me 24/7 like my sister does. Every time he comes to see me, he's got a specific purpose. He'd hold his phone out to me, the screen showing a recording of an idling engine, sound waves jumping across the screen. "Max, listen to this. Tell me what's wrong with it." This was from a bike he'd been tuning recently. He never talked through his technical judgments with anyone else. Only with me. He never held back around me. I'd glance at the screen once, tapping a specific waveband lightly with my pinky finger. His eyes would light up like fireworks as he'd ask, "Right here? You sure?" I'd nod. Three days later, he'd come tell me that the high-RPM knocking issue plaguing that bike was exactly in the frequency range I'd pointed out. After that, every time he stopped by, he'd bring new recordings, new data logs, new tuning plans. He'd slide his phone across the table to me, I'd point out the key problem spot, and every single time, that familiar bright spark would flare back to life in his eyes. Then, he would finally work up the nerve to ask the question that was always burning at the back of his mind. "Max, would you give riding a motorcycle a try? Just once, that's all I ask." He dropped his voice so low he might as well have been sneaking around doing something he wasn't supposed to. I stared right back at him, saying nothing. The light in his eyes was snuffed out in an instant, like someone had just blown out a candle. One second it was glowing bright, the next there was nothing left but a thin wisp of smoke. He closed the door soft as a whisper when he left. But his sigh lingered in the hallway, dragging on and on, like it would never fade. I knew damn well if my Grandpa Steven wasn't still alive, holding thirty percent of the original founding shares of the Blazing Flame Team, I'd have been tossed off this little rich boy throne ages ago. My second uncle, Liam, ran all the commercial development and sponsorship outreach for the team, and he was one of the most powerful shareholders on the books. His son, Fred, was two years older than me, and he'd already won the junior national motorcycle championship when he was only thirteen. At every family gathering, everyone fawned over him like he was the center of the universe. Then there was my third uncle, Gavin, who was in charge of the team's daily operations. He'd landed the hosting rights for two national races the year before, and his voice carried more and more weight at board meetings these days. Every time those two looked at me, I couldn't help but think of those predatory short-selling firms from my past life, circling their prey, just waiting for the perfect chance to pounce. How long could a total waste of space like me hang onto the heir position, anyway?