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

Chapter 2

It was Thanksgiving family dinner that day.

The whole clan was gathered at the old family home for the meal, and I was slouched in the corner, shoveling rice into my mouth.

"Max." My second aunt, Fatima, set down her utensils and looked at me with a sickly sweet, fake-as-candy smile. "You're already eighteen this year, how come you still don't dare to ride a motorcycle? Fred won the junior division championship when he was only thirteen. Why don't you learn a thing or two from him?"

I kept my head down, focused on my rice, and ignored her.

Fred was sitting across the table, decked out in the team racing uniform, his hair gelled into perfect, unruffled place.

He put down his utensils too, and looked at me with that rehearsed, performative politeness only adults drill into kids. "He just doesn't like riding. My dad says that's what they call a late bloomer."

"Late bloomer?" Helena, Gavin's daughter, snort-laughed out loud.

Three years older than me, she'd been coddled like a princess her whole life and never thought twice before running her mouth.

"I know a kid in my class who didn't dare ride either. It turned out he had a mental disorder when they got him checked at the hospital. Max, maybe you should go get tested too?" she added with a smirk.

The whole table burst out laughing. Even the logistics staff standing off to the side had their heads bowed, shoulders shaking with suppressed snickers.

I lifted my head from my bowl and glanced at all of them. They looked like nothing more than a handful of stupid sparrows chirping and squawking at my feet.

Boring. And straight-up childish.

My older sister was sitting right next to me, her knuckles white where she was squeezing her chopsticks so hard. She opened her mouth to say something, but Fatima cut her off before she could get a word out.

"Oh, Isabelle, honey, don't take this to heart, okay? Max's just a slow starter. He'll grow out of it in a few more years. We elders will just have to be patient with him, that's all."

That fake, sugary 'understanding' tone of hers stung way worse than any direct insult.

My sister didn't bother responding. She just dropped a piece of pork rib into my bowl.

When we got home that night, she pulled me down to the garage, and we sat there for ages.

"Max," her voice was soft, tentative, "can't you just make an effort for once? Even just touch the bike once, that's all it takes. Do you have any idea what people are saying about you behind your back? Do you know how much pressure Dad's under at the board meetings? Grandpa told me last week that if you still don't dare touch a bike this year..." she trailed off.

A hot, wet tear splashed onto the back of my hand. After all, my heart wasn't made of stone.

That night, I almost swung my leg over the bike seat. But that last sliver of hesitation I was holding onto got completely shattered by what happened the next day.

I had no idea just how bad things had gotten behind closed doors.

That afternoon, I was playing games in the lounge right next to Dad's office. The door wasn't fully closed, and bits and pieces of the conversation from the other side drifted through the c***k.

Liam spoke first. His tone was steady, unhurried, every single line sounding like it had been rehearsed to perfection beforehand. "Gabriel, you've seen this season's results. We didn't even c***k the top five in the Southern Division ranking races. Four sponsors bailed on us, and the other two are just sitting on the fence waiting to see what happens. Drivers have either quit for good or are sidelined with injuries—we don't have a single person fit to race right now. At this rate, we're gonna lose our spot in the annual finals next month before we even get to compete."

The office went dead quiet; the only sound in the room was Liam's voice.

"Liam's right," Gavin chimed in. "The operations side isn't looking any better. The organizers are already re-evaluating our eligibility to host next year's tournament. If we lose that hosting right, the whole foundation of the team is gone."

No one said a word for a long beat.

Then Liam spoke again, his voice lower this time, but every single syllable cut clear through the c***k in the door to my ears. "Gabriel, we're not trying to force your hand here. We're just asking you to think about what's best for Red Blaze. If you keep clinging to control like this, you're not doing Red Blaze any favors—you're killing it."

"So what's your plan?" That was my dad's voice. It sounded deep and steady on the surface, but I could hear the tight, strained edge under it, like he was forcing every word out through clenched teeth.

"We put together a proposal for you. You can keep the title of team owner, no problem. But you need to step down from the head coach and team manager positions. Gavin and I will take over jointly for a three-year transition period. Those three years, you can take Max abroad, focus on getting him treatment, no distractions. Once he's better, we'll hand the team right back to you."

It sounded airtight. But everyone with half a brain knew what a load of crap that was. You know what happens once you give up control of a team? Getting it back three years later? Yeah, right. In your dreams.

The office went completely, eerily silent after that.