Chapter 22
THE LONGEST MINUTE
Two weeks later, Sloane arrived at the Red Bull Ring in Austria, the mountains rising steep and green beyond the barriers, the crisp air a welcome change from the paddock heat.
The track wound tightly through the hills, a contrast to Madrid’s wide, flowing turns, demanding precision and patience on every corner.
One wrong move and a driver would end their race instantly.
She moved through the garage with ease, absorbing the rhythm of the teams, the hum of engines, the scent of burned rubber always in the air.
It felt good to be back. More than that, it felt settled.
Somewhere along the way, she’d found her footing at the academy, no longer just surviving it, but belonging.
Plus, she was back in the throes of racing, the sport she loved with an intensity that had never dulled.
Even after the accident. She worked alongside her best friend, someone who could finish her thoughts before she realized she was having them.
And she was seeing a woman who, quietly and steadily, was becoming the center of her world.
She’d sent Reese off to work two hours earlier with a lingering kiss in the doorway of Sloane’s hotel room, the kind that promised there would be more later. They’d allowed themselves a semi-lazy morning first, lounging in bed, tangled sheets, conversation drifting everywhere and nowhere.
“I know you love sliced apples,” Reese had said, absently tracing patterns on Sloane’s stomach. “You eat them every afternoon. I’ve seen it. But what other fruits?”
“Grapefruit gets a bad rap,” Sloane replied. “People hate it unnecessarily. It just needs a sweetener.”
Reese sat up abruptly, clutching the sheet to her chest. “No, no, no. Tell me that’s not true. I don’t know if I can be with a grapefruit fan. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed.”
Sloane propped her head on her arm, smiling. “Look how cute you get when you’re outraged. Drop the sheet and do it again. I’ll even say it louder. Grapefruit is a stellar fruit!”
“You stop that right now,” Reese warned, grin betraying her. She let the sheet fall and crawled toward Sloane, unapologetically topless.
“What are you going to do about it? Grapefruit. Grapefruit. Grapefruit.”
“Oh, it’s on,” Reese said, sliding a thigh between Sloane’s legs and grinding into her. The onslaught of sensation, the pinpricks of pleasure, forced Sloane’s eyes closed. “And you’re wet. You do like grapefruit.”
“I think maybe it’s you naked. I like the way your breasts sway when you crawl.”
Reese must have appreciated that. Moments later, warm breath traced the inside of Sloane’s thighs, teasing, unhurried.
Reese took her time, tracing lazy circles with her tongue around Sloane’s center until her lips found Sloane’s clit and gently sucked.
Sloane rocked her hips, finding a perfect rhythm, reaching until the tension snapped and she came apart, gripping the sheets as pleasure tore through her—clean and bright, like a jet slicing through the night sky.
They’d lost the better part of an hour to each other, making up for time spent apart, finishing with Sloane taking Reese from behind—something that had become a favorite.
One of many discoveries. Being with Reese had taught her that she loved trying new things, especially with someone who was, impossibly, the hottest woman she’d ever met.
Confident in her body for days. And the funniest. The kindest. The list grew longer every day.
Now, Sloane stood at the pit wall at Redline Racing, eyes locked on Cassidy Simms as she began Lap 45 of the feature race. She’d moved from P11 to P6—all fought for and earned. No chaos. No safety car miracles. Just clean, continuous progress toward the front.
The thing was, Cassidy was patient in a car that rewarded discipline over bravado. She threaded through traffic without forcing moves. When she made mistakes, she learned from them and never repeated them. Raw talent, honed fast. She wasn’t driving at the car anymore. She was driving with it.
On Lap 47, Cassidy made her move. Late but controlled. A lunge that only worked if you knew exactly how much the car would give. It held and rotated beautifully. The pass was so clean it felt ordained.
Sloane smiled, more than a little impressed. “Fucking brilliant,” she murmured, earning a nod from the team principal.
That was racecraft. That was growth. Cassidy wasn’t just surviving the academy anymore. She was becoming a problem for the others. And Sloane, who had seen hundreds of talented young drivers flame out for lack of adaptability, knew this when she saw it.
Cassidy Simms wasn’t done climbing. Not today. Not ever, if she kept learning like this.
She passed Veronica on her way out of the paddock. “Simms,” Sloane said, nothing more, the look doing the rest.
“I know. I saw.” She shook her head. “I took a chance on that one. I had no idea how nicely it would pay off.”
“That’s why they hand you the big bucks, Vance.”
Veronica’s eyes sparkled. “Why, thank you, Foster. But they could honestly pay me a little more.”
“I have a feeling it’s coming.” The attention on the academy had exceeded everyone’s expectations, and Veronica was the woman of the hour. As she should be.
“How’s Reese?” Veronica asked, sliding a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Sloane paused and recalled their last conversation that morning, when Reese was gutted not to be heading off to race that day like her friends at the academy and her teammates at Laurens. “I think she’s restless. She misses the action.” She shrugged. “Selfishly, it buys me some breathing room.”
Veronica gestured for her to walk, guiding them away from curious ears. “You’re not relishing the idea of her driving in an F1 race.”
“I’d be thrilled to see her behind the wheel, living her dream,” Sloane said quietly. “And absolutely terrified at the same time. I keep telling myself it’s a problem for Future-Sloane.”
Veronica gave her a look. “Is that going to work long-term? If you want this to last, you probably need to talk to Reese about it.”
Sloane exhaled slowly. “Probably not. But every time I think about that conversation, my heart rate spikes and I start checking where all the exits are.” Her jaw set, body going rigid. The thought of something happening to Reese was unbearable.
Veronica studied her as someone who understood the cost. “That fear never goes away,” she said finally. “You just decide it’s worth it. We’ve all been there.”
Sloane nodded, gaze drifting back to the circuit where the echo of engines still hung in the air.
“Still,” Veronica added lightly, “if Reese is restless, she’s right where she needs to be. Drivers hate waiting. It’s a good thing. Means they’re hungry.”
Sloane smiled despite herself. “She’s starving.”
“Talk to her.”
“And ruin all this?” Sloane murmured. “I care too much about her. Feels selfish.”
“Well, you’re not.”
“Ms. Vance?” The documentary crew that followed Reese hovered nearby. “Could we grab you for a second?”
“Sure.” Veronica turned back to Sloane. “We’re not done.”
“I wouldn’t presume.”
Alone again, Sloane checked her watch. The F1 Grand Prix would be starting soon. She wanted to catch the race, cheer for her girlfriend’s team, and, just for today, take comfort in the knowledge that Reese would not be behind the wheel.
There were only so many pit walks, sponsor obligations, and polite media smiles a person could endure before the edges frayed.
Reese was there. She watched her teammates climb into the car, yet again, with a familiar ache, adrenaline humming uselessly in her bloodstream.
Waiting, it turned out, was harder than failing.
The academy’s sprint race was in progress in Austria that morning.
She’d grabbed a prime spot to take in the action, enjoying cheering for her friends between obligations.
Marissa was flying, leading the pack with Danielle hot on her heels.
With Delaney in P3, the race was shaping up to be an exciting one with the win up for grabs.
Halfway through, Samara tapped Reese on the shoulder.
They’d been following her that morning, grabbing footage of a day in the life of her new reserve role.
“Can we do a quick Q and A with the race happening in the background. We’ve got a setup over there if you’re willing. Five minutes.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Reese said, reluctant to be pulled away from the action and not wanting to miss a pivotal overtake. “But we have to be quick. It’s just getting good over there.”
They got her set up in record time, and, honoring her request, Samara jumped right in.
“You do a lot of fan interaction for Laurens. What’s the one thing you hear from the fans the most?”
Reese didn’t have to think about it. Her smile came easily, spreading before she even realized it was there.
“I hear from so many young girls who now believe they can grow up and be an F1 driver, too. And if my presence helps spark that belief, then I can’t imagine wanting anything more.
It’s become a theme, and I don’t mind it at all.
In fact,” she added softly, “it fills me up every single time.”
“I love hearing that,” Samara said, taking a moment to enjoy the sentiment. “Now let me ask you about the day that—”
Behind her, the world detonated.
The sound came first—an explosive crack of metal on metal, followed immediately by a deep, concussive boom that punched the air from Reese’s lungs.
She was confused. Her brain couldn’t keep up with her senses.
Heat washed over her back as a plume of fire erupted trackside, bright and violent, sending debris skittering across the asphalt.
Screams tore through the crowd. Reese spun just in time to see a car cartwheel through smoke, flames licking hungrily at shattered carbon fiber before it slammed to a halt in a cloud of sparks.
For a moment, everything froze. No numbers, no colors, no recognition—just the sickening certainty that someone she loved was in that wreck.
Her pulse roared in her ears as marshals sprinted past, extinguishers raised, and Reese stood rooted in place, heart hammering, unable to breathe until she knew who hadn’t climbed out.
“No, no, no,” Reese murmured, her eyes scanning the scene for any kind of information.
The fire didn’t die down. It fed on something, flames curling higher as the car sat twisted against the barrier, one wheel still spinning uselessly.
Marshals swarmed it, yellow flags snapping, but no one was moving inside the cockpit.
No hand. No helmet. Nothing. Reese took an unconscious step forward, Samara’s hand catching her elbow as the crowd noise dissolved into a low, terrified roar.
Her brain began its cruel inventory—Marissa was leading.
Delaney was P3. Cassidy had been behind them.
Where was Cassidy? She hated herself for the way the question landed like a verdict.
Seconds stretched past reason. The fire finally faltered, smoke rolling low and black as marshals hesitated, then leaned in, working fast, urgently.
Reese’s heart hammered so loudly she couldn’t hear the commentary anymore, only the sharp, frantic command of her own thoughts: Move.
Please move. But the cockpit stayed sealed, the car lifeless in a way that felt wrong, and the absence of motion became unbearable.
Then the marshals reached in—and pulled a body free.
Cassidy came out limp, her helmet lolling forward, arms slack as they hauled her from the wreckage and laid her carefully on the track.
No sound. No attempt to sit up. Reese’s stomach dropped through her shoes as medics rushed in, shielding Cassidy from view, hands moving with brisk, practiced efficiency that only made the silence worse.
It was a bad dream. It was all of their worst nightmares.
Only it was coming true right in front of them.
Reese stood frozen, breath shallow, unable to look away, knowing that for far too long, Cassidy hadn’t moved at all.
In that moment, Reese didn’t do anything heroic.
She didn’t run. She couldn’t. Her feet felt welded to the concrete as medics worked around Cassidy’s still form.
The red flags came out, and the circuit fell into a stunned hush.
Someone was talking to Reese—Samara, maybe, or a team liaison—but the words slid past her without landing.
Reese’s hands shook, useless at her sides, and she curled them into fists just to feel something solid.
Her first instinct was to count. Breaths.
Seconds. The rise of Cassidy’s chest—was there one?
—and when she couldn’t see it, panic clawed up her throat.
She forced herself to stay where she was, knowing she wasn’t allowed on the track.
She’d only be in the way. That knowledge didn’t help. It just made her feel smaller.
Then training kicked in. Not driving training, but survival training.
She reached for the radio clipped at her waist with clumsy fingers, thumb hovering before she pressed it, because saying it out loud would make it real.
“Who was that?” she asked, voice tight, stripped of bravado.
The pause on the other end stretched too long.
Reese swallowed hard and added, quieter now, “Tell me who it was.”
When the answer didn’t come right away, Reese turned away from the wreck so she wouldn’t break apart in front of the cameras.
She pressed her forehead briefly to the cool concrete wall and breathed through the terror one shallow inhale at a time, waiting for news, for movement, for anything that might tell her whether the silence she was standing in was temporary or permanent.