Chapter 5 #2
Reese took another sip of her beer and felt the carbonation burn all the way down.
The others were right—Sloane was the real deal.
And she’d read Reese like a book, even though she’d refused to see it in that moment.
Dependability. Consistency. All the places she came up short. Her jaw tightened at the thought.
Marissa reached for the bowl of popcorn in the center of the coffee table.
Actually, a repurposed nautical wheel painted gold beneath glass, because of course it was.
The hotel’s decor leaned hard into its theming, from the under-the-sea mural to the lamp made out of a starfish.
A little over the top, but somehow charming.
The academy wasn’t springing for the high-dollar F1 accommodations, which made sense, so they’d take the personality instead.
Reese caught sight of herself in the reflection of the coffee table and almost laughed.
Four women in matching sweatpants and hoodies, drinking soda and water in a heightened space meant for influencers. Perfect metaphor for their lives.
“All right, enough about Sloane,” Delaney said, grabbing the popcorn bowl from Marissa. “We need to talk about the real story. Which one of you actually cooks and can make something happen in these kitchenettes? Because we have weeks of travel ahead, and I’m not built to survive on takeout.”
“I’m a solid breakfast woman,” Cassidy volunteered. “Like, eggs and toast level. Not fancy. But I can work on sprinkling some cheese and crisping up the bacon.”
“I can order from an app like nobody’s business,” Marissa said. “That’s my skill set.”
“I’m a cereal girl,” Reese admitted. “It’s fast and doesn’t burn.”
Delaney pointed at Reese. “You’re the one with all the sponsors. Use your charm and get us a chef deal.”
“Please,” Reese said. “Half my sponsors are probably about to ghost me unless I win something soon.” The words slipped out darker than she’d intended, and silence followed.
Cassidy tilted her head. “Are you feeling extra pressure?”
Reese hesitated, then nodded. “You could say that.” She thought about brushing the topic off, defaulting to humor, but something about the relaxed energy in the room, no cameras, no handlers, made honesty easier. “I also had my one-on-one with Sloane earlier.”
That got everyone’s attention. Delaney leaned forward. “And?”
“And she thinks I need to get my head on straight.” Reese exhaled. “Basically, told me I’m inconsistent because I spread myself too thin. Sponsors, media, appearances, all the extra stuff.”
Marissa nodded. “I mean … I’m sure it’s hard. That caliber of juggling. It’s enough for me to focus on the race itself.”
“Here’s the thing, though. You’re not just a driver. You’re a brand, Reese,” Delaney said. “You’ve built something big. That’s impressive.”
“It’s exhausting,” Reese admitted. “Sometimes I forget why I even started racing in the first place.” The confession surprised her as it left her mouth. The others didn’t pounce or pity her, though. They just listened. That alone felt like a relief.
“We all get that,” Delaney said quietly. “It’s the noise. All of it. You’ve got to tune it out somehow. The season’s just starting.”
Cassidy smiled. “I know I just got here, but hear me out.”
“Hearing,” Marissa said, sliding a strand of dark curls behind her ear.
Cassidy sat forward. “Maybe this,” she gestured between them, “is how. No cameras. No press. Just us. It’s like therapy.”
“Four drivers, one golden popcorn bowl,” Marissa said solemnly. “We should form a pact.”
“A pact, you say?” Reese asked, amused despite herself. It seemed a little bit sponsored by Hallmark, but she was willing to keep an open mind. “Are we still allowed to say fuck?”
“Fuck yeah,” Delaney said. “Encouraged even.”
“Every city, every race weekend,” Cassidy said, her tone growing in excitement, “we meet up at whoever’s room has the least weird decor—”
“Impossible,” Marissa cut in. “They’re all weird.”
“The least weird,” Cassidy continued. “We drink something cold, eat something questionable, and talk about literally anything except lap times.” Her blue eyes shone with pride in her idea.
“Why not?” Marissa raised her water bottle. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” Delaney said. “Even if the food’s questionable.”
Reese hesitated, then smiled, the kind that felt real, not practiced. It didn’t even hurt her face. “All right. Pact accepted.”
“I’m calling us The Starting Grid. You don’t have to, but I am,” Cassidy said. She was certainly a confident new kid. “First race weekend and all.”
Delaney nodded along. “Why not? Everything good needs a name.”
“That’s why we call you Slow,” Reese said, only to be smacked hard in the face with a pelican throw pillow.
“All right. The Starting Grid. Who’s in?” Marissa asked.
All four cans and bottles clinked together, the sound small but steady. Reese leaned back against the couch, letting the conversation and low music fill the corners of the room. Tomorrow would come with pressure, expectations, and headlines. But tonight? Tonight was hers.