The Rules I Broke

Sophie

If hell had a waiting room, I’m pretty sure it would look exactly like a motocross track in August.

The air smells like gasoline and hot rubber. Dirt clings to everything—my shoes, my jeans, the hem of the oversized hoodie I stupidly thought would protect me from the dust. Engines roar so loud the ground actually vibrates beneath the cheap metal bleachers.

And everywhere I look there are boys.

Loud boys. Mud-covered boys. Shirtless boys. None of whom seem to understand the concept of indoor voices.

I tug my hood a little farther over my head and check my phone for the sixth time in the last three minutes. No new notifications. Not that I expected any. Still.

Next to me, my dad elbows my arm.

“Eyes up, Soph,” he says over the sound of revving engines. “Micah’s heat is about to start.”

Right. Micah.

Because of course this whole dirt-covered circus revolves around him.

I sigh and shove my phone back into my pocket, glancing down toward the track where a line of riders straddle their bikes at the starting gate. Helmets on. Goggles down. Engines screaming like they’re trying to break free.

They all look exactly the same to me.

Except one.

Even without seeing his face, I can spot Micah instantly.

He’s the only one leaning casually against his handlebars like he’s bored instead of about to launch himself forty feet into the air on a machine designed purely for bad decisions. Black helmet. Black jersey. The number 06 across his back in white.

My stepbrother has always had a flair for drama.

“Look at him,” Dad says proudly. “Kid’s got talent.”

Talent. That’s one word for it. Another might be reckless.

“Mm,” I say noncommittally.

Dad gives me a look. “You could at least pretend to be excited.”

“I am pretending,” I say. “This is my excited face.”

He snorts.

I fold my arms and try not to look too miserable. Which is difficult when a clump of dirt hits the bleachers and sprays directly onto my shoes.

Fantastic. Exactly where I want to spend my Saturday afternoon: sitting in a cloud of exhaust fumes while my stepbrother competes in what is essentially competitive falling off motorcycles.

My dad calls it a sport. I call it a hospital bill waiting to happen.

The announcer’s voice crackles through the loudspeaker.

“Alright folks, we’re lined up for the next heat! Keep your eyes on number six—Micah Carter’s been dominating the track all season.”

Of course he has. Because Micah Carter is good at everything he actually cares about. Motocross. Parties. Girls. Making my life irritating.

The starting gate drops with a metallic CLANG.

Suddenly the bikes explode forward.

The noise is instant and overwhelming—engines screaming, dirt flying, the crowd yelling like this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in human history.

My dad jumps to his feet. “Let’s go, Micah!”

I stay seated.

Someone has to maintain a sense of dignity around here. But even I can’t help watching as the riders hit the first jump.

Micah launches into the air like gravity is just a polite suggestion.

For a split second his bike tilts sideways midair before he lands perfectly, dirt spraying behind him as he rockets into the turn.

The crowd roars. I roll my eyes.

Show off.

Still… annoyingly impressive.

Dad is practically vibrating next to me. “Did you see that?”

“Yes,” I say dryly. “He jumped. On a dirt bike. Truly groundbreaking.”

Dad chuckles under his breath. “You give that boy a lot of grief for someone who used to cry when he didn’t come to your middle school play.”

“That was one time,” I mutter.

And I wasn’t crying. I was… aggressively blinking.

Besides, that was before Micah fully embraced his life mission of being the most insufferable human being on the planet. Before the parties. Before the endless parade of girls who giggle at everything he says. Before he discovered the joy of calling me “Teacher’s Pet.”

The race ends in a blur of dirt and noise. And, predictably, Micah crosses the finish line first.

The crowd cheers again. I clap exactly twice.

Dad whistles loudly. “Atta boy!”

A few minutes later the riders start pulling back into the pit area below the bleachers.

Micah removes his helmet as he walks toward us. And unfortunately for my sanity, my stepbrother looks exactly like the kind of guy teenage girls write bad poetry about.

Dark hair damp with sweat. Crooked grin. Dirt streaked across his jaw like some kind of motocross war paint.

A group of girls nearby immediately start whispering. One of them actually sighs. I gag internally.

Micah glances up toward the bleachers. His eyes land on me. And that stupid grin widens.

Oh no.

He jogs up the steps two at a time, still carrying his helmet.

Dad claps him on the shoulder. “Hell of a race.”

Micah shrugs like it was nothing, though he’s clearly pleased with himself. Then he looks at me. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator spotting prey.

“Well, well,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “If it isn’t Princess Sophie.”

I glare at him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” he says innocently. “You look thrilled to be here.”

“I am thrilled,” I deadpan. “This is exactly how I dreamed of spending my weekend. Sitting in the dirt watching you risk death for entertainment.”

He laughs. Loudly. Of course he does.

“You’re welcome for the free show.”

“Next time I’ll bring a book.”

Micah leans closer, lowering his voice. “You already did.”

He taps the textbook sticking out of my tote bag.

I scowl. “It’s called studying. Some of us have hobbies that don’t involve concussions.”

“Ouch,” he says with mock offense. “Careful, Soph. That sarcasm might ruin your good girl reputation.”

Dad shakes his head, amused. “You two done?”

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” Micah says at the same time.

He grins at me again—infuriatingly pleased with himself. Then he ruffles my hair as he walks past.

My. Hair.

I freeze in horror. “Micah!”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Relax, Princess.”

I stare after him, fuming as he disappears into the crowd of riders and cheering girls.

My dad chuckles beside me.

“You know,” he says, “he really does like having you here.”

I fix my hair angrily.

“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Because I would literally rather be anywhere else on earth.”

And unfortunately…this is only the beginning.

By the time Micah finishes loading his bike into the trailer, I’m about three seconds away from filing a formal complaint against the entire sport of motocross.

The sun is lower now, but the heat is still sticking to my skin. Dirt coats everything—my shoes, my jeans, the sleeves of my hoodie. I swear I can feel grit in places grit should never exist. Meanwhile Micah looks like he just finished filming a sports commercial.

Helmet tucked under his arm, sweat-dark hair falling into his eyes, dirt smeared across his cheek like some kind of rugged aesthetic choice.

Girls are still lingering near the trailer like moths around a very cocky flame.

I lean against the passenger door of Dad’s truck, pretending to scroll through my phone while one of them giggles at something Micah says. He says something back that makes her blush.

Of course he does.

Eventually Dad slams the trailer latch closed.

“That’ll hold,” he says.

Micah claps the dust off his hands and finally heads toward the truck. The girls disperse like disappointed fans when a concert ends.

He tosses his helmet into the bed of the truck and opens the back door.

Unfortunately for me, the back seat is already full of gear. Which means—Micah slides into the passenger seat. Right next to me.

Fantastic.

The door slams shut. The truck rumbles to life.

For a few blessed minutes, the only sounds are the engine and the faint rattle of the trailer behind us. Then Micah stretches his arms above his head with a satisfied groan.

“Man, that was a good race.”

“You almost flipped on the second jump,” I say without looking up from my phone.

“I didn’t almost flip.”

“You tilted sideways.”

“That’s called style.”

“That’s called bad life choices.”

Dad chuckles from the driver’s seat.

Micah turns toward me, offended. “You’ve been to like five races, Soph. You’re basically an expert now?”

“I don’t need to be an expert to recognize stupidity when I see it.”

He lets out a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

I finally glance at him. He’s smirking. Which means he’s about to be annoying.

“Admit it,” he says. “You were impressed.”

“I was not.”

“You watched the whole race.”

“I was making sure you didn’t die so Dad wouldn’t cry.”

Dad snorts.

Micah bumps his shoulder into mine. “You love watching me win.”

“I love watching you wipe out.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

He shakes his head like I’m a hopeless case. But I catch the tiny smile he tries to hide.

The rest of the ride home is mostly quiet, which I deeply appreciate. Until we pull into the driveway.

The moment the truck stops, I unbuckle and bolt for the front door. There is exactly one thing I want right now. A shower. A long, scalding, dirt-destroying shower.

I yank the door open and hurry inside.

“Sophie?” my stepmom calls from the kitchen. “How was the race?”

“Dirty!” I shout back while already halfway up the stairs.

Behind me I hear the front door slam. And footsteps. Fast footsteps.

Oh no.

I start moving faster. So does Micah.

“You better not—” I start.

Suddenly he barrels past me at the top of the stairs.

“You snooze, you lose, Princess!”

He reaches the bathroom first.

“No—!”

The door slams. The lock clicks. I stand there in stunned silence. Then the door cracks open just enough for Micah to lean his head out.

His hair is damp with sweat.

He flicks his hand.

Tiny droplets of sweat fly directly onto my face.

I recoil in horror. “MICAH!”

He grins. “Relax. It’s just athlete sweat.”

“I am going to disinfect my entire body.”

“Better hurry,” he says cheerfully. “Might take a while to wash all this victory off.”

The door slams again. The shower turns on. I stare at the door like I’m considering committing a crime.

“I hate you!” I yell.

His muffled voice comes through the door. “Love you too, Soph!”

I spend the next twenty minutes sitting on the hallway floor glaring at the bathroom like a vengeful gargoyle.

Dinner that night is… tense.

Our kitchen table is small enough that ignoring Micah is physically impossible.

Dad sits at the head of the table. My stepmom, Karen, sets a bowl of pasta down between us.

“Alright,” she says cheerfully. “Family dinner.”

Micah leans back in his chair, freshly showered and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

His hair is still damp. Which means he got hot water. All of it.

I stab a piece of pasta with unnecessary aggression.

Dad notices immediately. “Something wrong with the food?”

“No,” I say.

Micah smirks. “It’s the shower situation.”

Karen sighs. “What happened?”

“Micah stole the bathroom after the race,” I say. “And flicked sweat on me.”

Dad tries—and fails—to hide a laugh.

Karen gives Micah a look. “Micah.”

“What?” he says innocently. “I needed a shower.”

“You deliberately antagonize her.”

“She started it.”

“I did not start it!”

“You insulted my riding.”

“Because it’s terrifying!”

“Because you’re dramatic.”

“Because you’re reckless!”

Dad holds up a hand. “Okay. That’s enough.”

We both stop talking. But only because we’re glaring at each other.

Karen points her fork at us. “You two are going to eat dinner like civilized human beings.”

“Yes, Mom,” Micah says sweetly.

I roll my eyes.

For about thirty seconds there is peace. Then Micah glances at my tote bag sitting by the chair.

“Did you bring homework to the track?”

I stiffen. “Maybe.”

He grins. “You’re such a nerd.”

“At least I’ll graduate high school.”

“Ouch.”

“Maybe you can race professionally when you fail algebra again.”

Dad coughs to hide another laugh.

Micah leans forward, eyes narrowing. “I passed algebra.”

“With a C.”

“A passing grade.”

“Barely.”

“Sophie,” Karen says warningly.

I clamp my mouth shut. Micah smirks. Then he mutters just loud enough for me to hear—

“Teacher’s pet.”

I kick his shin under the table. He jerks.

“Sophie!”

“Sorry,” I say sweetly.

Dad sighs. “You two are exhausting.”

Karen nods. “Honestly, you bicker more than an old married couple.”

Micah and I both recoil immediately.

“Absolutely not,” we say at the same time.

The table goes quiet for a moment. Then Dad chuckles. Micah shakes his head and goes back to eating. I focus very hard on my pasta. And if I accidentally glance at him across the table once or twice…

Well. That means absolutely nothing.

By the time I finally get the bathroom to myself, I’m determined to wash every single trace of the motocross track off my body.

Twenty minutes later, mission accomplished.

My hair is twisted into a messy bun on top of my head, and I’ve changed into a loose cropped sweater that slides off one shoulder and a pair of black leggings. Clean. Comfortable. Dirt-free.

Finally.

My room smells faintly like lavender from the candle on my desk. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The exact opposite of the chaos from earlier. I sit cross-legged on my bed and grab my phone. Ethan answers on the second ring.

“Hey, Soph.”

His voice is warm, familiar. Comforting.

“Hi,” I say, already smiling a little. “What are you doing?”

“Just finishing some stuff for student council. We’re finalizing the fundraiser plan.”

Of course he is.

Ethan Hayes: class president, future valedictorian, human embodiment of responsibility. Which, honestly, is kind of my type.

“That sounds thrilling,” I tease.

“You’re jealous of my exciting life.”

“Extremely.”

He laughs softly. “So how was the motocross thing today? Your dad still forcing you to go to those?”

I flop back against my pillows dramatically. “It was awful.”

“Awful?”

“Dust everywhere. Loud engines. Boys yelling like they’re in some kind of primitive ritual.”

“That sounds… intense.”

“And Micah won,” I add with a sigh.

Ethan chuckles. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not when it makes his ego even bigger than it already is.”

“I thought you two were getting along better lately.”

“We are not getting along better,” I say immediately.

There’s a pause.

“Did something happen?”

“He flicked sweat at me.”

Ethan laughs out loud this time. “Okay, that’s pretty gross.”

“Exactly. And then he stole the shower,” I continue. “Which I desperately needed because I was covered in dirt thanks to his ridiculous hobby.”

“Sounds traumatic.”

“It was.”

Ethan hums thoughtfully.

“Well,” he says, “maybe I can rescue you from your suffering.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a movie playing at the theater tomorrow night. I thought we could go.”

My mood instantly brightens.

“That sounds nice.”

“It’s that mystery one you wanted to see.”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Seven works.”

“Good.”

There’s a comfortable silence for a moment.

Then he says softly, “You sound better now.”

“I am better now.”

“Good.”

We talk for a few more minutes about school and upcoming tests before hanging up.

When the call ends, I stretch my arms over my head and slide off the bed. The house is mostly quiet now. Dad and Karen are watching TV downstairs. Which means Micah is probably—

The faint metallic clink from the garage answers that question.

Of course.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I wander down the hallway, down the stairs, and toward the garage door.

When I push it open, warm night air drifts in through the big open garage door. And there’s Micah. Standing next to his bike under the overhead light. Shirtless.

Of course he’s shirtless.

It’s hot outside, sure, but I’m pretty confident he also enjoys the fact that half the female population loses brain function when he does that.

His back is to me as he leans over the bike, tightening something with a wrench. Sweat glistens across his shoulders. A dark tattoo curves across one shoulder blade, disappearing slightly toward his spine. Another one sits along his ribs on the side I can see when he shifts.

I clear my throat.

“Do you ever stop working on that thing?”

Micah glances over his shoulder. “Do you ever stop judging it?”

I lean against the doorframe. “I’m genuinely curious.”

He turns back to the bike.

“I felt something tweak during the race.”

“That sounds… bad.”

“It’s not bad.” He twists the wrench. “Probably just the rear suspension settling weird on the second jump.”

I blink. “…What?”

Micah smirks slightly. “The shock might be compressing unevenly.”

“You’re speaking another language.”

He chuckles under his breath.

“Basically I’m making sure my bike doesn’t try to kill me next race.”

“That seems like a reasonable goal.”

“See?” he says, glancing at me again. “You do support my hobby.”

“I support you not dying,” I correct.

“Close enough.”

For a moment, it’s… nice. Quiet. The hum of summer insects outside. The faint smell of motor oil. Micah working. Me leaning against the doorframe. Peaceful. Which means it can’t possibly last.

Micah straightens up and grabs a rag to wipe his hands. Then he glances at me again. Slowly. Suspiciously.

“What?” I say.

He tilts his head slightly. “You look different.”

My stomach tightens.

“…Different how?”

“Clean.”

I glare. “Very funny.”

“No, I mean it,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Didn’t recognize you without the dirt.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Wait.”

I pause reluctantly.

He gestures toward my sweater. “That your boyfriend’s?”

My eyes narrow. “No.”

“Looks like something a boyfriend would give you.”

“It’s mine.”

“Hmm.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Micah leans casually against the bike, folding his arms. “Nothing.”

“Micah.”

“Just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

He grins. “If Ethan knows his girlfriend’s walking around the house looking like that.”

I look down at myself.

Oversized sweater. Leggings. Hair in a messy bun. I look completely normal.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re annoying.”

“That too.”

I push off the doorframe. “Goodnight, Micah.”

“Night, Soph.”

I make it halfway back to the house before he calls after me.

“Hey, Princess!”

I stop. Very slowly turn around.

“What?”

His grin is infuriating.

“You’re welcome for the entertainment today.”

I stare at him. “You flicked sweat on me.”

“Character building.”

“You stole the shower.”

“Motivation.”

I take a deep breath.

“One day,” I say calmly, “karma is going to destroy you.”

Micah just laughs.

And unfortunately…it’s the kind of laugh that makes my stupid heart do a tiny, confused little flip. Which is ridiculous. Because Micah Carter is the most annoying person on earth.

And I absolutely refuse to ever like him.

Ever.