Chapter 18
Kip
Days later, we’re both too busy to breathe.
At least, that’s what I tell myself every time I spot Hutch’s bold handwriting scrawled next to his name on the garage sign-in sheet.
Media day rolls straight into simulator sessions, which domino into sponsor briefings, and by the time evening hits, I’m so wrung out I fool myself into thinking the quiet is what I want.
I’ve made an art of avoiding him. Easy enough when I’m supposed to be in three places at once. Easier still when I keep replaying that night in the motel and convincing myself it was nothing. Heat-of-the-moment madness we both misunderstood.
Except Hutch keeps turning up.
Not in obvious ways. Not dramatic. Just popping into the PR office with a perfectly reasonable, incredibly annoying excuse.
“Hey, Kip, do you still have that spare batch of media schedules? Ben spilled coffee on his.”
Or, “Has communications updated the sponsor talking points? Mason wants to run through them with the pit crew.”
Or, “Have you seen the new helmet mock-ups? I swear someone said they were in here.”
Turns out there are a thousand tiny, plausible reasons to swing by PR if you really want to. And Hutch apparently really wants to.
I look up from my laptop as he appears in the doorway again. Three days in a row now, no matter how “busy” we both are. My pulse reacts before my brain can tamp it down.
He’s holding a folder this time. New tactic.
“Carmichael,” he says as if this isn’t the fourth flimsy pretext he’s used this week.
And all I can think is if I’m really trying to avoid him, I’m doing a spectacularly terrible job.
He steps into the office, jaw stubbled, hair damp from the garage, looking so good it’s honestly rude, and pulls a stack of laminated cards from the folder. “Got the press room passes. Someone said PR needed them.”
“Someone?”
He blushes, and it’s too fucking adorable. “I may or may not have overheard Elodie and volunteered to bring them upstairs.”
“Media control handles those, not PR.”
“Right,” he says, shoving the cards back into the folder.
We hover in too-long silence.
“So why bring them here?” I ask finally.
“Maybe I wanted to check on you.”
“I’m fine.”
His eyes track my face. “Sure.”
“Put them down,” I say.
He sets the folder on the edge of my desk, but his hand doesn’t fall away immediately. It drags, like he’s giving himself one last second to decide something. Then he straightens, shoving both hands into his pockets the way he does when he’s trying not to touch anything. Or anyone.
“You don’t look fine,” he says quietly.
“I didn’t realize you were doing visual assessments now.”
“True. As I recall, that’s your area of expertise.” He waggles his eyebrows, and my heartbeat stutters at the memory of him splayed naked on the motel bed, begging me to explore him with more than my eyes. “But it’s not complicated. I know what you look like when you’re good.”
“And when I’m not?”
His gaze doesn’t move. “This.”
I clench my jaw. “You should get back to the garage.”
“Maybe,” he says. “If you actually wanted me to.”
I open my mouth, no idea what I’m about to say, only that it’ll be the wrong thing, but a brisk knock on the open door derails it.
“Kip?”
Grady’s voice. We jump apart like we’ve been caught with our hands in the cookie jar.
Grady strides in, sunglasses still on even though we’re indoors. “There you are. Media briefing in ten. You ready?”
“Yep,” I say immediately. “Just sorting something out.”
Grady glances from Hutch to me then back again, taking in Hutch’s posture, the folder on my desk, and the thick, charged silence still clinging to the air. One eyebrow lifts, subtle, but not subtle enough.
Hutch clears his throat. “I was just leaving.”
“Right.” Grady folds his arms. “I’m sure you’ve got about ten fires to put out in the garage.”
Hutch nods at me. “See you later, Kip.”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Not with Grady’s gaze burning a hole in the side of my head.
Once Hutch is gone, Grady waits exactly two beats before speaking.
“So, you and Hutch …” He lets the sentence dangle, casting bait into the water and waiting for me to bite.
“There is no me and Hutch,” I insist.
“Tell that to him. Based on how many times he’s found a reason to come up here since your little adventure, I think he’d disagree.” Grady leans back on his heels, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his face. “Did something happen between you two out on the road?”
“No,” I say too quickly. There’s no way I’m going to kiss and tell.
Especially when—unlike me—Hutch isn’t as open with his sexuality.
Hell, until a few days ago I didn’t even know for sure that he was into guys.
The last thing he needs is me throwing our—whatever it was—into team gossip circulation.
“Not unless you count a wrong turn and a meltdown.”
Grady makes a dry, skeptical snort. “Right. And Ferrari’s got the best strategy on the grid.”
I shoot him a glare. “Drop it.”
He doesn’t. Not right away. His expression shifts from playful into something more sincere. “Kip, if something did happen, you know it’s fine, right?”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He rolls his eyes. “Dude. Look at me and Ben.”
My stomach lurches. “That’s different.”
“Why? Because we’ve been together longer?” He shakes his head. “No one on this team gave a shit when we made it official. Not one person. Hell, half of them were relieved because it stopped us from sniping at each other during debriefs.”
I can’t help the ghost of a smile. “Debatable.”
“My point,” he says, stepping closer and lowering his voice, “is that nobody cares who anyone around here is dating. Or not dating. If you and Hutch, I don’t know, figured something out on that trip, no one’s going to blink.”
I look down at the passes on my desk, throat tight. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Grady agrees, his tone gentler now. “But don’t tie yourself in knots on our account. You’ve got a whole team that will back you no matter what. Me and Ben included.”
I swallow hard, something unsteady moving behind my ribs.
Grady nudges my shoulder. “Just saying, if you want him, you don’t have to act like you don’t. The rest is his call.”
He straightens, switching back into media mode with a clap of his hands.
“Now come on. We’ve got cameras waiting to misquote us.”
I follow him out, trying not to think about how much I wish the rest really was that simple. Just ask him. Clear the air. Problem solved.
Except that would mean putting words to something Hutch hasn’t, and maybe doesn’t want to. It would mean risking the look on his face if I’ve read all of this wrong. And once I admit how much I want him, there’s no walking that back.