Chapter 26 #2
Sloane had told Reese a hundred times that races were won in small decisions, not bold declarations.
Watching Reese make those little, disciplined choices should have felt like triumph.
But it didn’t. Why? Because if Reese could do this, if she could thrive here, then she truly belonged in this world, the very one that had Sloane so far back on her heels that she felt like she might fall over at any moment.
Behind Reese, Marco Faz began to close in.
The gap shrank to tenths of a second. Marco had never been good at patience, plus he was hotheaded and sexist as hell.
Sitting behind anyone irritated him, but sitting behind his teammate, who was female, would be intolerable.
Sloane could scarcely blink, watching his proximity to Reese.
“Fuck that guy.” She walked a few steps to her right and then back again.
To make things worse, the rain intensified, thick enough now that spray rose in sheets behind the cars.
She knew firsthand how difficult it would be to see the track, adding tons of guesswork into the mix.
Even Sloane couldn’t follow the action of the race clearly, and she had perspective.
She squinted as the straightaway disappeared into a white corridor, visibility collapsing with every passing second.
Marco tucked into Reese’s slipstream. Dammit.
Sloane’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to do this. They were both running in the points, the season was long, and they were teammates. There was no prize for bravado in fucking standing water. Why would he risk both cars?
The two red Laurens surged forward, nearly fused in the haze. For a moment, they were indistinguishable, twin flashes of color swallowed by spray as they barreled toward Turn 11.
Sloane stepped closer to the monitors without realizing she had moved.
She told herself it was fine. Drivers went wheel-to-wheel in worsening conditions every year. She had done it herself. It required precision and trust. The cars vanished into the corner, and Sloane lost them. She swallowed and waited.
Then the garage gasped.
Sloane swiveled her focus. On the broadcast screen, a red car snapped sideways in a violent arc. The rear stepped out, overcorrected, and the car rotated through the spray like something knocked loose from gravity.
For half a heartbeat, both Laurens cars occupied the same blurred space. There was no visible number. No clear identifier of who was who. Just color and chaos. Sloane couldn’t process just what she was seeing.
The timing tower flickered as the system recalculated. One Laurens entry shifted. Then both did. For two disorienting seconds, the data seemed to hesitate, and Sloane couldn’t tell which name belonged to the spinning car. God, help her. Please. Oh, please.
Her breath stalled in her chest. She knew this sensation, when your body understood something your brain hadn’t accepted yet.
The spinning car hit the wall.
The sound came through the broadcast a fraction later, hollow and violent.
Sloane gripped the back of an engineer’s chair, securing herself as her vision tunneled. She didn’t ask which driver it was because she couldn’t form the words. The question lodged somewhere beneath her lungs, heavy and unmovable.
On the GPS tracker, the two dots that had overlapped began to separate. One continued forward. The other stopped.
Someone said, “Car 24 is out.”
Marco. That was Marco. Marco was car twenty-four.
Relief struck so intensely it felt almost painful. She bent at the waist and held the position as she floated back into herself.
“Hey, she’s okay. She’s still going,” Shanelle said, spotting Sloane in distress and moving to her from the pit wall. She placed a hand on Sloane’s back until she straightened and nodded, grateful for the reassurance.
But the relief was incomplete. Reese was still out there, driving in worsening rain, threading a car through the same standing water that had just swallowed her reckless teammate, and it was Sloane’s job as her girlfriend to stand here and watch.
She tried to draw in a full breath and realized she couldn’t.
The air felt thin, insufficient. Her body had already decided this was happening again.
On screen, Reese’s onboard camera flickered up. Rain streaked across the visor. Her breathing came steady over the engine noise.
“Reese. You okay?” Damon asked.
“I’m good,” Reese said over the team radio. “Continuing, but what the fuck was that?”
“Just focus on this lap.”
“You got it.”
It helped to hear her voice.
Sloane’s pulse still hammered against her throat, and a faint tremor moved through her hands.
She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, grounding herself the way she’d practiced in therapy.
She reminded herself that she was not in a cockpit.
She was not trapped in smoke and fire. She was standing on solid ground in a brightly lit garage in England.
But her body refused to fully believe it.
The safety car bunched the field, and the garage erupted into a flurry of strategy discussions. Sloane heard none of it clearly. She was watching only Reese and the tilt of her helmet, the steadiness in her hands, and the absence of desperation.
As the race resumed, Reese did not force the issue. She let others overcommit. She positioned the car carefully. She climbed into ninth without spectacular or unnecessary big moves.
By the time the checkered flag fell, the Laurens garage exploded into celebration. A ninth-place finish in those conditions with a new driver was enormous. Reese had finished in the points her first time out. It was a huge victory.
Sloane remained still for a beat too long, feeling as though she’d driven the race herself. Her muscles were tight, her chest aching with the aftershock of adrenaline.
Then she forced herself forward.
When Reese climbed from the car, rain-matted hair clinging to her forehead, her grin was incandescent and disbelieving. It was everything. She looked straight toward the garage and found Sloane immediately.
Sloane moved to her and opened her arms before she could overthink it, and Reese moved straight into them, in one piece.
She held Reese tightly—more tightly than she meant to—and felt the solid warmth of her through the damp race suit.
Tears sprang into her eyes, and she sent up a silent thank you to the universe for returning Reese to her.
She savored the dependable rise and fall of her breathing. The undeniable proof of her aliveness.
Reese pulled back slightly, studying her face.
“You okay?”
The question was gentle, layered with concern beneath the triumph.
“I’m so proud of you,” Sloane said, and she meant it with everything in her. “Do you know what an accomplishment this was?”
Reese’s eyes lingered. “You’re shaking.”
Sloane hadn’t realized she was.
“I’m fine,” she answered, but the word felt like it was built out of cardboard.
The rain had passed. The track was already beginning to dry.
But inside her, nothing had settled at all.
Reese had just finished her first Formula 1 race and the world felt slightly unreal, as if someone had turned the saturation up too high and forgotten to dial it back.
Beer tasted better. Laughter came easier.
Even gravity seemed optional. If this was what success felt like, she understood why people chased it so recklessly.
The Starting Grid had joined her and Sloane at the Laurens gathering at a local pub, The Fox and Hound, which was more than enthusiastic about hosting.
“Anything you need, you just yell for Sal,” a woman with luxurious red hair piled upon her head told them. She had an English accent that Reese thought came right out of a movie. “Because I’ll probably be having a pint with all of ya. Not every day we get a team into the pub.”
“Are you racing fans?” Reese asked.
“Is wombat poop cube-shaped?”
Reese paused. “I don’t know. Is it?”
The woman clapped her on the back. “It bloody well is! Cheers to ya. I’m sending over another beer.”
The pub filled fast, noise layering on itself.
Marco was noticeably absent, but that was okay with Reese.
Laughter, boots on wood, glasses clinking, the low hum of people who were pleased to have something worth celebrating.
No one had expected her to finish as high as she had.
Reese was floating. But every few seconds, her attention drifted back to Sloane like a reflex she didn’t yet understand.
Sloane stood near the bar, pint in hand, posture relaxed enough to pass inspection.
She smiled easily when someone congratulated her, nodded along when Marissa launched into an animated retelling of Turn 4 like she’d personally wrestled the corner into submission.
But there was something off. A tightness Reese couldn’t name.
Like Sloane was braced against something only she could feel.
Reese’s phone buzzed. Cassidy again. She’d blown up her phone during the race, leaving Reese to return to a literal running commentary from her own personal phone cheerleader. It was awesome.
Cassidy
I screamed so loud my neighbor knocked.
Cassidy
IN THE POINTS.
Cassidy
YOUR FIRST F1 RACE.
Cassidy
I AM YOUR PROUD PROBLEM CHILD.
Reese smiled to herself, thumb flying.
You okay? You sound feral.
Cassidy didn’t hesitate.
Cassidy
FERAL WITH PRIDE.
Cassidy
I’m framing this weekend.
Cassidy
I don’t even care if I’m on the couch for another couple of weeks anymore.
Reese locked her phone and slid it into her pocket just as Delaney bumped her shoulder.
“You realize,” Delaney said, lifting her glass, “that you’ve officially made the rest of us look bad.”
Reese snorted. “Well, that didn’t take much.”
“Oh, please,” Marissa cut in, grinning. “In this morning’s race, I was graceful. Elegant. Untouchable.”
“Untouchable because no one could catch you,” Delaney said. “Which is rude, by the way. Work on that.”
Marissa raised her brows. “That’s racing, Baby D.”
Reese laughed, but her eyes flicked again to Sloane. She was talking to Damon now, smiling, head tilted, listening intently. She looked present and engaged. And yet, when Reese caught her eye, the smile sharpened, brightened, like a light turned up deliberately.
There it was again.
Reese excused herself from Delaney and Marissa and crossed the small space between them.
“You good?” she asked casually, leaning in just enough to be heard.
Sloane’s smile came instantly. Too instantly. “I’m great. You were fantastic out there.”
Reese narrowed her eyes playfully. “You already said that. Two or three times.”
“And I’ll say it again,” Sloane replied. She took a sip of her beer, gaze drifting somewhere over Reese’s shoulder, like she was tracking something invisible.
Reese followed her line of sight without thinking. Nothing. Just noise and warmth and the aftermath of a good day.
“You’re not actually here,” Reese said, quieter now.
Sloane looked back at her, surprised. “What are you talking about? I am.”
“No,” Reese said. “You’re performing. It’s not like you.”
Sloane’s mouth twitched. “Is that a driver’s assessment?”
“Call it instincts,” Reese said. “They’re pretty reliable.”
Sloane raised a shoulder and let it fall as the propped-up smile faded. Her eyes said that she didn’t have the words or understanding to explain. Or maybe it was that she was holding it in for the sake of Reese’s celebration.
She could fix that part. “I have a wild idea. Let’s get out of here,” Reese said.
“Spend some time together and unwind. We can go back to the room and talk.” Because all she wanted in the world was to be there for Sloane in whatever she was feeling, to hold her and make it clear that she wasn’t alone.
More than anything, she just wanted things to be okay again.
“No. Today isn’t about me. You drove an amazing race and should get to celebrate with—”
Then Shanelle’s voice cut in from behind them.
“If I could grab your attention, everybody. I think we should all raise a glass to Reese Maddox,” she called, raising her glass. “First F1 race. First points. Zero damage to the car.”
“That last part’s a goddamn miracle,” Delaney said loud enough for most to hear.
Laughter rippled through the group.
Reese nodded and tipped her beer in acknowledgment of Delaney’s point. “Couldn’t have done it without my charming critics,” she said.
“Cheers to Reese,” Shanelle said, glass held high.
The rest of the pub raised their glasses before turning back to their private conversations. Marissa leaned in. “And let’s hear it for how you defended Turn 7.”
“I can second that,” Sloane said. Then, after a pause, “That was the moment I stopped breathing.”
Reese blinked. “You what?”
Sloane waved it off quickly. “Momentary lapse. Occupational hazard.”
With Marissa and Delaney having a conversation of their own, Reese stepped closer to Sloane and tilted her head. “You should have told me.”
Sloane met her gaze then, something unguarded flashing through before it disappeared. “This doesn’t get easier,” she said, carefully. “Watching. Wanting to step in. Knowing you can’t.” The fear behind Sloane’s eyes was now clearly visible.
Reese felt that land somewhere deeper than expected, because now what? “I thought you were managing.”
“I was,” Sloane said. She took another sip, then set the glass down. “I think.”
The noise around them surged again. Marissa laughing too loudly. Delaney arguing about tire preferences. Sal yelling from behind the bar about last call for food. Life was pressing in.
Reese leaned closer, voice low. “You don’t have to be used to it tonight. I’m sure this is going to be a process.”
Sloane’s smile returned, softer this time. Realer. “You did beautifully, Reese.”
Not you’re right. Not it’s going to be okay. Just that.
Reese nodded, accepting the praise, but she didn’t miss the way Sloane’s eyes drifted again, distant, already bracing for the next weekend, the next moment when control would be tested all over again.
Reese took a pull from her beer, joining the celebration, but the thought stayed with her. This wasn’t just about racing anymore.
And whatever this thing was between them, it was going to ask more than either of them was likely ready to give.