I won.
Again.
But it doesn’t feel like a victory.
I watch her ride away, her dark curls whipping in the wind, her body leaning into the curves of her bike like she was born on it.
She moves like she’s part of the machine—fluid, fierce, untouchable.
And I stand here, helmet in my hand, feeling like I just lost something I never had.
She probably hates me.
She is probably cursing me under her breath right now, calling me every name she can think of.
I can almost hear her voice in my head: Fucking son of a bitch.
Cocky bastard.
I hate him.
I hate him so much.
And the worst part?
I deserve it.
I push my hand through my hair, feeling the sweat and dust stick to my skin.
The sun is beating down on the clubhouse lot, and the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline is thick in the air.
My bike is still humming beneath me, like it’s waiting for her to come back.
Like it knows something I don’t want to admit.
She’s gone.
She’s always gone.
And every time she leaves, she takes a piece of me with her.
I swing my leg over my bike and walk toward the clubhouse.
My boots feel heavy on the cracked asphalt.
The laughter of the other riders fades into the background, like I’m underwater.
I don’t want to talk to anyone.
I don’t want to hear Diego’s jokes or Sofia’s cheerful chatter or Carmen’s sharp comments.
I just want to be alone.
My feet carry me to the office.
My father’s office.
The one I can’t seem to let go of.
The door creaks when I push it open.
The smell hits me immediately—leather, cigar smoke, and something else.
Something that smells like him.
It’s faint now, after all these years, but it’s still there.
It lingers in the chair, the table, the old motorcycle parts stacked in the corner.
It lingers in the air like a ghost.
I close the door behind me and lean against it.
My eyes scan the room.
Everything is exactly how he left it.
His desk is cluttered with papers and photographs.
His jacket hangs on the back of the chair, faded and worn.
His motorcycle is parked in the corner, covered in dust.
I walk to his desk and run my fingers over the wood.
It’s smooth and warm, like he just touched it.
I can almost see him sitting there, his silver-streaked hair catching the light, his cold eyes softening when he looks at me.
He always had that look.
Like he was proud of me.
Like he believed I could be something more.
“You’re going to take care of this club one day, Leo,” he used to say.
“Don’t let it fail.
Don’t let them tear it apart.” I remember his voice.
Deep and rough, like gravel.
It always made me stand a little taller.
“And Aitana,” he’d add, a smile tugging at his lips.
“You take care of her too.
She’s special, that one.
She’s going to be something great.” I’d always laugh at that.
I’d roll my eyes and tell him she was just a girl, just a friend, just someone I had to put up with.
But my father would just shake his head and grin.
“Sure, son.
You keep telling yourself that.
But I see the way you look at her.” I never had a response to that.
Because he was right.
He always saw right through me.
I lower myself into his chair.
It creaks under my weight, and for a moment, I feel like I’m him.
Like I’m sitting where he sat, seeing what he saw, carrying the weight he carried.
I close my eyes and let the memories wash over me.
I remember being eight years old.
My father pulled me aside after a club meeting.
His hand heavy on my shoulder.
His voice is low and serious.
“Leo, I want you to be friends with Aitana.
She’s a good girl.
Her mother is a good woman.
They’re family now.
You understand?” I nodded, even though I didn’t really understand.
I just knew that my father’s word was law, and I didn’t question it.
But then he smiled.
That rare, warm smile that made him look like a different person.
“And who knows?
Maybe one day, you’ll make her your wife.
Wouldn’t that be something?” I laughed.
I laughed so hard I almost choked.
“She’s annoying, Dad.
She’s always bossing me around.
She’s got that attitude, like she’s better than everyone.” “That’s because she is better than everyone,” he’d said, winking.
“And you know it.
You just don’t want to admit it.” I’d rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face.
Now, sitting in his chair, I feel that same smile tugging at my lips.
But it doesn’t reach my eyes.
It can’t.
Because now I know what he meant.
Now I understand why he pushed me toward her.
He wasn’t just being sentimental.
He wasn’t just playing matchmaker.
He was trying to protect me.
He was trying to give me something to hold onto.
Something to fight for.
And I was too stubborn, too scared, too stupid to see it.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on the desk.
The photographs catch my eye.
My father and Rafael, young and laughing, their arms around each other.
My father and Maria, Aitana’s mother, smiling at the camera like they had no cares in the world.
And there’s one of me and Aitana.
We’re maybe ten years old, sitting on our bikes, our helmets dangling from our handles.
She’s grinning at me, her dark curls wild and messy, her blue eyes bright and mischievous.
I’m looking at her like she’s the most annoying person in the world.
But I remember that day.
I remember thinking she looked pretty.
I remember wanting to hold her hand.
I remember being too scared to try.
I sigh and run my hand over my face.
The exhaustion is settling into my bones, heavy and suffocating.
“You’re a fool, Leo,” I mutter to myself.
“A complete and utter fool.” I think about Aitana.
I think about the way she looked at me after the race.
The anger in her eyes.
The hurt.
The disappointment.
She thinks I’m cruel.
She thinks I’m cold.
She thinks I don’t care.
And maybe that’s my fault.
Maybe I’ve done too good of a job pushing her away.
But it’s the only way I know how to protect myself.
If I let her in, if I let myself care, then I’m vulnerable.
I’m weak.
I’m everything my father taught me not to be.
“Don’t let them see you bleed,” he used to say.
“Don’t let them know you care.
That’s how they get you.
That’s how they break you.” But Aitana doesn’t want to break me.
She doesn’t want to hurt me.
She just wants me to see her.
To really see her.
And I do.
God, I fucking do.
I see her strength.
I see her pain.
I see the way she smiles when she thinks no one is watching.
I see the way she curls into herself when she’s hurt.
I see her.
I’ve always seen her.
But I don’t know how to show her that.
I don’t know how to tell her that every harsh word, every cruel joke, every taunt is just a defense mechanism.
A way to make her stronger.
A way to prepare her for the world.
She thinks I hate her.
She thinks I’m just her tormentor.
But I’m not.
I’m just a coward who doesn’t know how to love.
I push myself out of the chair and walk to the window.
The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
The Sierra Nevada is dark and silent, watching over Granada like a sleeping giant.
I think about Aitana.
I think about the way she rode away from me.
The way she left me standing here, alone and aching.
“One day,” I whisper to the empty room.
“One day, we’ll stop fighting.
One day, you’ll see that I’m not your enemy.
One day, you’ll see that I’m trying to protect you.” But that day seems so far away.
I think about my father’s words.
“You’re meant for each other.” I used to laugh at that.
I used to think it was a joke.
But now, standing here in his office, surrounded by his memory, I realize it’s the truest thing he ever said.
We are meant for each other.
Aitana and I.
Fire and ice.
Fighting and longing.
Hate and love.
We’re two halves of the same broken whole.
And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to prove that to her.
Even if she never believes me.
— Aitana My room is quiet.
Too quiet.
The walls are covered in photographs and posters—memories of a life that feels like it belongs to someone else.
My mother’s face is everywhere.
Her smile.
Her warmth.
Her love.
I hold her photograph in my hands, my fingers tracing the edges.
She’s young in this picture.
So young.
Her dark hair is flowing in the wind, and her blue eyes are bright and alive.
She’s laughing at something off-camera, something I’ll never know.
I remember that day.
We went to the beach.
Just the two of us.
She held my hand and walked me through the waves.
She told me that the ocean was like life—endless and full of surprises.
She told me to always ride the waves, not to fight them.
I was so happy that day.
I was so safe.
Now, that happiness feels like a distant dream.
Like something I saw in a movie.
I press the photograph to my chest.
The paper is cold and smooth, but I imagine it’s her.
I imagine she’s holding me.
I imagine she’s telling me everything is going to be okay.
But she’s not here.
She’s gone.
And she’s never coming back.
My father is getting remarried.
He told me today, right after the race.
I was still angry at Leo, still fuming, and he just dropped that bombshell like it was nothing.
“I’ve met someone, Aitana.
Her name is Isabella.
She has a daughter, Elena.
They’ll be moving in next week.” I didn’t know what to say.
I just stood there, staring at him, waiting for the punchline.
Waiting for him to say he was joking.
But he wasn’t joking.
His eyes were serious.
His voice was soft, like he was trying to comfort me.
“Nothing will change, mija.
You’re still my princess.
You’re still the heir to everything I’ve built.
I love you.
I will always love you.” I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to trust him.
But I couldn’t.
Not after everything.
Not after my mother.
Not after watching her slip away while he buried himself in the club.
I look at the photograph again.
My mother’s smile.
Her eyes.
“What would you say, Mami?” I whisper.
“Would you tell me to be happy for him?
Would you tell me to welcome them with open arms?” I don’t know what she’d say.
I don’t know if I’d listen.
I open the photo album on my bed.
It’s old and worn, the pages yellowed and frayed.
But the pictures are still there.
Still beautiful.
Still full of love.
I flip through the pages.
My mother at her wedding.
My mother holding me as a baby.
My mother teaching me to ride my first bike.
And then there’s one of us posing together.
We’re in the garden behind the clubhouse.
The sun is warm on our faces.
My mother is smiling at me, her hand on my shoulder.
I’m looking up at her like she’s the most important person in the world.
She was.
She still is.
I trace her face with my finger.
Her smile.
Her eyes.
The way she looked at me like I was the greatest thing she ever created.
“I miss you, Mami,” I whisper.
“I miss you so much.” The tears come before I can stop them.
They fall onto the photograph, blurring her face.
I wipe them away quickly, gently, like I’m afraid of hurting her.
I can’t forget her.
I can’t let her go.
But life is moving on without her.
My father is moving on.
The club is moving on.
Everyone is moving on.
And I’m stuck here, holding onto a ghost.
I close the album and hug it to my chest.
The leather cover is cool and smooth.
It smells like her.
Like roses and sunshine and love.
“I won’t forget you, Mami,” I whisper.
“I’ll never forget you.” I think about the future.
About Isabella and Elena.
About the attention they’ll get.
The love they’ll take.
The way my father will look at them like he used to look at us.
It hurts.
It hurts so much I can barely breathe.
But I won’t let them see me break.
I won’t let them see me cry.
I am Aitana Fernandez.
I am the princess of this club.
And princesses don’t show weakness.
I wipe my tears.
I take a deep breath.
I force my face into something calm and composed.
But my heart is still breaking.
And I don’t think it will ever be whole again.