Page 4 of Law Maker
Sure, it was in the States. When I’d left Russell Land at sixteen, I hadn’t planned on going back. In theory, better options existed here—Forward Racing hadn’t qualified for the World Superbike Championship since Dad’s time. Kawasaki would probably pay more, but Dad hadn’t won trophies with them. Forward Racing opened doors for him, and it could open them for me.
“They want me,” I echoed. “Me.”
Ale unbuttoned his jacket—a telltale sign he was relaxing. “Your portfolio impressed them. And being Sergio Williams’s son only added to it. But you’re talented, Ash. In no time, teams here in Spain will fight for you. You’re not a nobody anymore.”
He wasn’t wrong. Jerez was close, with one hell of a track. Since graduating two years ago, I’d trained almost daily and raced in every championship I could, big or small. I’d met people, made connections, built a solid portfolio. But that wasn’t Dad’s path. And I’d sworn to follow every step he’d taken before the accident cut him short.
I was already late. Already behind. Dad died before he could train me like he’d wanted, and I’d lost time grieving, adjusting to the version of my life where he couldn’t be proud of my victories or call me out for my screwups. That version sucked.
And I was stuck with it forever.
Ale might think Forward Racing meant wasted time, but Dad would’ve been proud.
“I know I’m good,” I said. “But it’s not like a better offer’s on the table, is it? You said you’re still talking to Kawasaki. If they really wanted me, you’d be here with a contract.” My fingers slid through my hair, chest tight. “I can’t keep paying for everything, Ale. I’d need sponsors fast, and no big company’s knocking.”
Ale crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I’ll try harder, Ash. The South is what it is, but we have Madrid. Barcelona. Aragón.”
“I’m not saying you should try harder. You’ve already done plenty. And I do have an offer, right?”
“I just…” He shifted his weight, blowing out a breath. “I know you’re set on it because it was your dad’s first team, but there’s something that might change your mind.”
What could make me say no to the team I’d obsessed over for the last two years? I searched his face, but he sighed. “Forward Racing is changing owners. The deal isn’t finalized, but it will be in the next few weeks.”
“So you’re saying I risk being kicked out once the new owner takes over? Why would they want me then?”
“The team manager still fields riders and plans the budget. They need someone young and ambitious like you. I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
Ale was going in circles. My patience would vanish soon, the way daylight had over El Puerto de Santa María. He was lucky he was my friend—and the best agent I could’ve found.
I drew in the salty air. “Ale.”
He made a sound between a protest and a growl. “Russell Demeri bought Forward Racing. Your. . .”
Fury simmered through my veins. “Not fuckingmine. My mother’s. They’re not married, so he’s not my family.”
My voice was clipped, cold, but inside I burned. The man who’d replaced Dad was about to wreck my dream. Did he know they’d considered me? Did he buy the team because of Dad? My fists tightened.
Ale slung an arm over my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a sore subject. That’s why I didn’t want you too excited. You’re good, Ash—but so am I. Trust me. I’ll get you a deal with a Spanish team before summer.”
I believed him. But Russell had already taken my mother. I wouldn’t let him steal my father’s legacy too.
“I’d sign with Forward Racing for one season, right?”
Ale dropped his arm. “Yeah.”
“Tell them I accept.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “I’m going there next week. We can travel together—unless you need more time.”
Ale was branching out, setting up his agency in the States. Having him close would help. I needed someone loyal in my corner.
“No. Next week is fine.”
We walked back to Grandma’s in comfortable silence. When I stepped into the courtyard, Grandma’s and Dawson’s laughter faded. Javi must’ve been entertaining them with his jokes. The three of them looked up expectantly. Ale groaned, smacking his forehead. “Joder, Maricarmen, tu regalo.”Fuck, Maricarmen, your present.
“You’d better not get her something from a gas station,” I called as he sprinted toward the gallery.
Grandma chuckled. “Good intentions are what matter.”
