Chapter 45 Gameover #2
One of the junior techs—Carter, maybe? I can barely focus—steps forward, his young face twisted with desperation.
"Richard, this is your dream . Everything you've poured into this team, into this season. The sponsors alone have invested millions. We've come so far. Next year, we might not even—we might not get another shot like this."
"I don't give a fuck about the dream!" Richard's voice cracks like a whip, making the tech stumble backward.
His arms tighten protectively around me, and I can feel the tremor running through him—rage and grief and fierce protectiveness all tangled together.
"Our driver—" he pauses, his voice breaking slightly, "—our pack member , just lost one of her pack mates. The love of her life."
Her.
The pronoun lands in the space between them, shocking in its openness after months of careful masculine presentation.
But Richard doesn't correct himself, doesn't take it back.
"Adrian Castellanos," Richard continues, his voice gaining strength, "didn't just throw money at this team.
He believed in us when no one else would.
He poured tens of millions into this dream, yes, but more than that—he made sure Rory was fed, hydrated, safe.
He stayed up running simulations until three in the morning.
He fought for every sponsor deal, used every connection in his considerable arsenal to get us here.
And he did all of that without telling any of us who he really was, without demanding recognition, because he wanted HER to shine. "
I can feel tears pressing hot against my eyelids, but I blink them back furiously.
"You think I give a fuck about losing one championship?
" Richard's laugh is bitter, sharp-edged.
"We'll have plenty more to come. The money means nothing—we'll find new sponsors.
The fame?" He scoffs. "That's just a fairytale high that eventually crashes and burns.
But our team? That's our strength. When one of us is down, we're all down.
That's what makes us different. That's what makes us worthy of this shot in the first place. "
The garage has gone silent again, but it's a different kind of quiet now.
Listening. Absorbing.
"Adrian Castellanos," Richard says, his voice dropping to something raw and painful, "would have been one of our top drivers years ago.
Would have been champion already if his former team hadn't crucified him, abandoned him when he needed support most. They destroyed his career over accusations that were never proven, drove him out of the sport he loved because it was easier than fighting for him.
He never got to fulfill his dream. So he helped us reach ours instead. "
Richard finally releases me, but his hands remain on my shoulders, grounding.
His eyes sweep the garage, meeting each person's gaze in turn.
"The LEAST we can do is honor his legacy by pulling back from this race. We'll come back when we're ready to give it our all—when we're not running on grief and obligation, but on the passion and dedication that got us here. That's what he would want. That's what we owe him."
The silence that follows feels different. Heavier. Several team members are nodding slowly, and I can see a few suspiciously bright eyes, people blinking back tears.
But Jenny isn't one of them.
"No." Her voice cuts through the moment like a scalpel. "That's not what he would want at all."
All eyes turn to her. She's standing with her arms still crossed, her expression hard behind those designer frames. Her Beta scent has gone sharp and medicinal, like a hospital corridor.
"This is respectful sentiment, Richard, truly." Her tone is measured, clinical. "But it's also completely counter-productive and, frankly, insulting to Adrian's memory."
I feel Richard tense beside me, his Alpha instincts bristling at the challenge.
"We came this far," Jenny continues, stepping forward with the confidence of someone who's absolutely certain they're right.
"Adrian invested million…literally millions…
getting us sponsors. Ordering the best equipment from German manufacturers.
Spending hours watching simulation data on the sidelines.
Every single resource he had went into making this dream a reality.
And you want to honor that by... what? Quitting? "
"It's not quitting," Marco interjects, his voice tight. "It's grieving. It's being human."
Jenny's laugh is sharp and dismissive.
"Being human doesn't mean throwing away everything he worked for. The most human thing we can do, the most honoring thing, is to get out there and WIN. To prove that his investment, his belief, his sacrifice meant something."
"You're talking about him like he was just a bank account," I say quietly, finding my voice for the first time since Richard's speech. "Like all he was worth was the money he brought."
"I'm talking about him like someone who would be devastated to see you throw away this opportunity." Jenny's eyes, sharp and calculating behind her lenses, fix on me. "Do you really think Adrian would want you to quit? After everything?"
The words hit harder than they should, finding all the soft places I've been trying to protect.
"That's enough—" Richard starts, but Jenny talks over him.
"He's—" she corrects herself, a flash of something crossing her face too quickly to read, "—he was your Alpha for what?
A few weeks? You're not even bonded." The words are brutal in their clinical precision.
"I knew Adrian Castellanos for fifteen years.
I watched him race when he was still a rookie, before scandal destroyed his career.
I supported him through all his technical accomplishments after he was forced out.
I've been in this industry for thirty years without recognition—just like he contributed so much and everyone turned a blind eye unless he opened his pockets. "
She takes a step closer, and I can smell the bitterness wafting off her now, cutting through that medicinal scent like poison.
"Us racing today? That's the only way to truly validate his legacy. To prove that everything he invested—financially, emotionally, professionally—actually meant something. That it wasn't just wasted on a team that couldn't handle the pressure when things got hard."
"This isn't up for argument," Richard says, his voice dropping to that dangerous Alpha rumble that makes everyone's hindbrain sit up and pay attention. "We're not racing today. Final decision."
"This is FUCKING INSANE!" Jenny's composure finally cracks completely, her voice rising to a near-shriek that echoes off the garage walls.
"When the public hears about this, when our sponsors hear about this, it'll ignite a frenzy of disappointment!
We'll be blacklisted! Everything we've built will crumble because we couldn't handle one tragedy! "
"Hearing about Adrian's death is going to be more concerning than missing one race," Marco argues, his Beta practicality cutting through the hysteria. "People aren't monsters. They'll understand."
"You don't know that!" Jenny whirls on him, and I see something wild in her eyes now, something desperate. "You don't know how this industry works! I KNOW BEST HERE! I've been navigating these waters since before any of you even knew what Formula One was!"
"You're acting like you still have a fucking crush on him," Marco says flatly, and the temperature in the garage drops ten degrees.
"Is that what this is about? You rejected him years ago when you thought he was some poor gambler with a death wish, only to realize later he was from a billionaire family.
And by then he'd already moved on and tossed you aside.
This isn't about racing—it's about your ego. "
Jenny's face goes white, then red, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "I'm a Beta," she hisses. "It's not like I had a chance with him to begin with. Alphas don't bond with Betas—everyone knows that."
"Yeah, no shit," Marco fires back. "But did that stop you from trying? From making his life hell when he wouldn't give you what you wanted? From—"
"At least I didn't set him up for failure with that stupid tag modification!" Jenny's voice cracks on the words, raw and wounded.
My head snaps up. The world seems to slow down, sounds becoming muffled and distant except for the thundering of my own heartbeat.
"What?" Marco's voice is deadly quiet.
"That prototype system," Jenny continues, her voice rising with each word, spinning out of control.
"That 'innovative' tracking modification that mysteriously malfunctioned during his qualifying runs.
That 'accident' that got him investigated for stun driving.
I told him it would work! I SHOWED him the simulations!
It was supposed to be revolutionary—my design, my innovation.
But of course, when it failed, everyone blamed HIM.
Said he was trying to sabotage the race, that he'd modified the car illegally. "
"Jenny." Richard's voice is a warning growl.
"And you know what?" She's almost laughing now, the sound edged with hysteria.
"I perfected it. It actually WORKS now. I can prove it.
All those accusations, all that destroyed career and reputation, it was based on a prototype that needed refinement.
If people had just LISTENED to me, if they'd given me the chance to fix it instead of destroying him—"
My hand moves to my pocket.
My fingers find the shape of my phone, smooth and warm.
And beside it, something smaller. Rectangular.
The recording device I'd turned on the moment I walked into the garage.
The click when I press the button is soft, barely audible over the garage noise and Jenny's increasingly frantic justifications. But I hear it. And from the way Richard's eyes cut to me, sharp and sudden, I know he heard it too.
Everyone heard it…