CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
◆◆◆
Lucas
The season had begun with cautious optimism that felt like lying to himself.
“You’re driving like someone who’s already lost everything,” Jax said bluntly, no preamble, no jokes.
Lucas stared at the dark asphalt, hands clasped between his knees. “Maybe I have.”
Jax exhaled through his nose, leaning back on his palms. “She’s gone, mate.
I miss her too—she kept you sharp, kept me from sounding like a complete dick in interviews.
Everyone liked her. She was good at her job, fair, didn’t take crap from anyone.
Made the place better. But she’s not coming back.
And you’re killing your own season trying to race like she’s still watching. ”
Lucas rubbed his face, exhaustion etched into every line. “I thought if I won… if I proved something…”
“You’d get her back?” Jax’s voice softened, no judgment, just quiet understanding. “She didn’t leave because you weren’t winning. She left because the whole thing broke her. Vegas, the headlines, the rumours—they tore her apart. You saw it. We all did.”
Lucas looked at him—eyes tired, red-rimmed. “I loved her.”
Jax nodded slowly. “I know. I didn’t know the full thing—not until it was too late. But I saw how you looked at her. How she looked at you. I liked her, mate. She was one of the good ones. Losing her sucks for all of us. But you’re carrying it different. And it’s showing on track.”
Lucas stared at his hands, knuckles still raw from the steering wheel. “I don’t know how to do this anymore.”
Jax was quiet for a minute, then said, “You don’t have to do it happy. Just do it. One lap at a time. One race. You’re still in this. Still got a car under you. Still got a shot. She wouldn’t want you throwing it away.”
Lucas exhaled. “I know.”
But knowing and doing were different things.
Jax clapped him on the shoulder—firm, steady. “Come on. Let’s get a drink. Not to forget—just to breathe. You don’t have to talk. Just sit with me.”
Lucas nodded. They walked back to the hospitality suite in silence, the paddock lights flickering off one by one behind them.
The next morning he woke early, hotel room still dark. He sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over her name. He didn’t text. Hadn’t in weeks. But he opened the last message she’d ever sent him—four words from Abu Dhabi, before everything shattered: I’m sorry, I can’t
He stared at it until the screen timed out.
He went to the sim that day. Pushed harder. Not because he believed in the fight anymore, but because stopping felt worse. The car responded—better lines, cleaner exits—but the joy was gone. It was just motion.
He told himself he’d get through the season. One race at a time. One breath at a time.
But every night he still checked his phone—hoping, stupidly, for a message that never came.
The track waited. The championship waited.
He waited too.
For something to feel like it mattered again.