Chapter Twenty-Six
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Jax
He returned to Marina Bay with fire in his belly.
The grief over Nan hadn’t dulled—it had sharpened.
Every phone call with her voice thinner than the last, every memory of her porch, her garden, her stubborn insistence that he keep going, love, had turned into something harder.
He wasn’t racing for trophies anymore. He was racing for her.
For the promise he’d made on that winter beach: I’ll do everything I can.
Singapore hit like a wall of heat and light. Floodlights turned night into glaring day, humidity so thick it clung to skin like wet silk, the street circuit’s walls closing in with every lap. The paddock smelled of rubber, fuel, and anticipation.
Lucas was waiting in the garage—shoulder healed, grin wide, the same easy confidence that had once made him world champion.
Now he was back in a different role: number two, wingman, the guy who’d cover Jax’s line, take points when needed, and do whatever it took to get the team’s lead driver across the line first.
He clapped Jax on the back as they reviewed data, voice carrying over the mechanics’ chatter.
“Shoulder’s good?” Jax asked, glancing at the joint Lucas kept rolling experimentally.
“Better than good.” Lucas flexed it, no wince this time. “Mia says if I crash again, she’s benching me herself.”
Jax gave a small, real smile—the first genuine one in weeks. “Good to have you back.”
Lucas’s eyes narrowed, reading him the way only a teammate who’d shared debriefs and beers for years could. “You’re different. More focused. Like something or someone lit a fire under you.”
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They walked toward the cooldown room together after practice, the noise of the paddock washing over them.
In the cooldown room, Lucas leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
“Mia’s been asking if Aria’s coming to any of these,” he said casually. “She misses her—says they never got to finish that conversation about playlists or whatever girls talk about.”
Jax’s fingers stilled on his water bottle. He kept his voice level. “She’s busy. Album just dropped. Promotion, rehearsals, the whole thing.”
Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Right. Mia’s obsessed with False Start. Been playing it nonstop. Says some of the tracks sound… personal. Like maybe they’re about you.” He paused, half-teasing, half-serious. “You listened yet?”
Jax looked down at the bottle, peeling at the label with his thumbnail. “Yeah,” he lied smoothly. “Heard a bunch in pre-recording. She played them for me a few months back.”
Internally, he dismissed it. They’re about Min-Jae. That’s where her heart is.
Lucas watched him for a beat. “Mia thinks at least three are about you. She’s convinced.”
Jax forced a small laugh, dismissive. “Probably not.”
Lucas didn’t argue. Just took a sip from his water. “If you say so.”
They didn’t speak about it again.
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Qualifying went clean—pole position, the car hooked up perfectly through the twisty sectors, the night air thick with possibility. Lucas took P4—strong, no mistakes. In the cooldown room after, Lucas leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
“We’ve got this,” he said quietly. “For Nan.”
Jax looked up, throat tight. “Yeah.”
Lucas exhaled. “I remember when Mia left. Thought the world ended. Couldn’t get out of bed some days. You dragged me to the gym, made me eat, sat with me when I couldn’t talk. You were there. Every day.”
Jax looked away, jaw working.
“You never asked for anything back,” Lucas continued. “But I’m asking now. Let me be there for you. Be your second. Cover you, take points, keep the pressure on. Help you win this. For her.”
Jax met his eyes—steady, grateful. “I need that. More than you know.”
Lucas gripped his shoulder. “Then it’s done. Whatever it takes.”
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The race started under lights, the grid alive with noise.
Jax held the lead from the start, defended through two safety cars like the track was his to command.
Lucas ran clean behind—P4 into the final stint, holding off faster cars to protect Jax’s line.
When Jax crossed the line first, the radio exploded: engineers whooping, Marcus’s gruff voice cracking with pride.
Lucas came over the comms last: “That’s how you do it, mate. For Nan.”
In parc fermé, Lucas was waiting. He pulled Jax into a quick, fierce hug.
“Fucking brilliant,” Lucas said against his ear. “I bet she’s yelling at the screen back in Brisbane right now.”
Jax laughed—raw, real. “Yeah. She will be.”
They stood there a moment, the crowd roaring around them, flags and team banners waving in the floodlights.
Later, in the cooldown room, Jax stared at his phone—screen dark, no new messages. He thought about the songs he hadn’t listened to, the lyrics he was afraid to hear. Thought about Nan’s voice on the phone every Sunday, thinner but still sharp: Keep going, love. Bring that trophy home.
He would.
He had to.
The title was closer now.
He just had to survive long enough to win it.