2. Maddox
Maddox
“Maddox—ack.” Katie jerks back from the ladder, arms flailing as a soggy clump of leaves hits the mud near her boots.
“Hand on the ladder.” My voice carries down from the edge of the roof.
She shoots me a dark look before clamping her fingers back around the metal rail. “Seriously? You almost nailed me.”
“Sorry.” I start down, boots slipping on the last rung. The sunlight is thinning and so is my patience with this roof.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were aiming for me.” She bats at my leg.
“I was aiming for the ground.” I hold up both hands, streaked with muck and pine needles. “But if you keep hitting me…”
“Don’t you dare.” Her tone shifts as her attention lifts overhead. “All right. What are we dealing with?”
“It’s bad.”
My younger sister winces. “How bad?”
“We need a new roof. Should’ve happened years ago. I’m surprised the laundry room’s the only thing leaking.”
“Mom doesn’t have that kind of money.” Her teeth catch on the inside of her cheek. “Raf and I don’t either. Maybe we sell the house, and Mom comes to live—”
“No.” My breathing slows, lessening the weight of elephant on my chest. “We’re not selling. I’ve got it.”
Unable to look at her, I wipe my palms on a cloth. The grime only spreads across my skin, stubborn and black. My gut tells me she already senses the truth—the words I’m choking back—but naming it might make her feel like she’s failing.
Since I came home, I’ve paid every bill and kept us afloat. In fact, I’ve been doing it since Dad died and the world as we knew it broke apart.
In a blink, I’m barely eighteen and losing my father all over again. Stepping up and doing what needs to be done is the least I can do. It’s penance for how I failed my family and, most of all, failed him.
“Mad, you’re doing more than enough. You came home. You’re living with Mom. I can’t let you do all the heavy lifting.” Her gaze flicks up to the warped shingles. “I hate the idea of selling, but—”
“We aren’t.” I brush past her. “Dad built this house; it’s our home. Besides, living here saves me money. If I had my own place, I’d be paying rent or a mortgage.”
Katie narrows her eyes, seeing clean through me with her cut-the-crap expression. She probably only has a hunch, but she’d be right. What I’ve sunk into the repairs on the house these past few months would be a healthy down payment on a whole damn new house.
Her gaze searches mine. “There’s no mortgage on the house?”
“Nah. Dad paid that off.” The lie sits bitter on my tongue, sharp and wrong, but I swallow it anyway.
I paid off the mortgage not too long ago. My mother knows, but Katie doesn’t know the half of it.
Maybe I’m protecting her from the truth. Or maybe I’m protecting myself. I can’t drag Dad’s mistakes into the open. Not his and definitely not mine.
My stomach clenches as old regret claws at my insides—the way I so easily ignored everything my father stood for. I ignored the lessons he spent a lifetime ingraining in us. My selfishness cost him his life. I won’t let the financial mess he left behind rewrite who he was, not if I can help it.
The screen door groans open, and Mom leans out. “Dinner’s ready.” Her gaze drops to my hands, and her brows pinch. “Maddox, wash up before you come to the table.”
Katie snorts as I shake my head. “I intend to.”
Satisfied, she disappears back inside.
“I love how she says that like you were planning on eating with gutter sludge up to your wrists.” She bumps my shoulder.
“It’s something you’d do.” I lightly shove her on my way in.
She swats at me, laughing, as we enter the house. I cross to the sink, but before I even touch the faucet, Mom swoops in and turns it on, soap bottle already in her hand. “Hold them out.”
I do, letting her douse my palms. Her hands move with the quiet satisfaction of someone who has been waiting for an excuse to mother me all day. I scrub three times until the grime gives way to clean skin and raw knuckles.
“Hey. Something smells amazing.” Raf strolls into the kitchen. “What’re we having?”
“Pot roast.” Mom kisses his cheek as she passes with a bowl of mashed potatoes big enough to feed an army.
Katie wraps her arms around her husband. “Hi, honey.”
“Katie Rae, my beautiful.” He kisses her temple.
“Hey, Raf.” I grab a towel and dry my hands. As I pull away from the sink, the glint of water catches my attention.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Mom, when did this faucet start leaking?”
“Hmm?” She waves me toward the cutting board, where the roast waits with a knife and fork. “Cut the meat, Maddox.”
I nod and slice into the tender roast, trying to block out how each drip tugs at me. “Mom, the faucet. How long’s it been doing that?”
Guilt digs its heel in—I live here, too, and should notice these things before they become problems.
“I don’t know, dear. Maybe a month.”
The fork and knife clatter onto the board. “A month? Mom, why didn’t you say something?” My gut sinks. “That explains last month’s water bill.”
“Maddox, please cut the meat. Otherwise, everything else will be cold.” Her frown deepens for a beat, then her expression softens. “You’re right. I should’ve told you sooner, and I apologize. You’re busy, and I hate putting more on your plate.”
“I appreciate that, but that’s what I’m here for.”
Her hand settles on my forearm, grounding me in a way I shouldn’t need.
“No, sweetheart. That’s not why you’re here.
” Her brown eyes bore into me. “You’re here to live your life.
We’re delighted you chose to come back to Winslow Grove, and I’m thrilled you’re living with me.
” Her grip tenses, needing me to hear her.
“I don’t want to be a burden. I meant to tell you about the leak, but it slipped my mind. You can look at it after we eat.”
She pats my arm and gestures toward the roast, her silent code for just finish carving, and I nod, getting back to it.
“Mom, we’re all here to help.” Raf drops into a chair at the kitchen table. “You can holler anytime. I’m happy to split the work with Mad.”
“Appreciate it.” I nod and finish plating the meat.
He means well, but Raf has his own house, a small fixer-upper, and his own list of things falling apart. This—taking care of Mom, the house, the bills—this is mine to shoulder.
Halfway through dinner, my phone vibrates across the counter, and the conversation stalls. Katie stares at me when I don’t grab the phone. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
“Nah.” I dig into another forkful of potatoes, willing the phone to stop. “I’ll call them back.”
The ringing cuts off, only to start again. Mom and Katie trade the same tight-lipped look, exasperation written all over their faces.
“This is silly.” Mom strides to the counter and snatches the phone. “Someone clearly needs to talk to you.” She squints at the screen. “It’s Ginny.”
My former assistant, although she acts like she still works for me.
For nearly a year now, Ginny has been forwarding every sponsorship pitch and appearance request that crosses her inbox as if my life didn’t change the second I came home.
She means well, even if she’s clinging to a version of me that ceased to exist the moment I left the track.
Fortunately, even retired, thanks to several significant sponsorships while racing and a shrewd investment advisor, I don’t need to entertain any of those opportunities.
Financially, I’m good. More than, even. I can take care of my mother and sister as well as live a comfortable life, even with hefty house repairs.
Mom hands me the phone, and the ringing snaps me out of my musings.
“Ginny, I’m in the middle of dinner. Can I call you back?”
“Maddox, finally.” Her voice tumbles out in a rush. “I’m sorry, but I just got a call from Marcos—”
She pauses, knowing he’s the last person I want to hear from, and the silence on the line stretches.
Marcos Madrigal. Former boss, team owner, and the billionaire who used to call us “family” right up until the moment I stopped making him money.
He’s still fuming because I chose retirement over his demands.
He doesn’t think my walking away was a mistake—he views it as an act of desertion worth punishment.
“What did Marcos want?”
The room quiets. Mom’s fork hovers, Katie’s mid-bite, and Raf studies me. I drop my gaze and roll my shoulders. They know we didn’t part on good terms.
They still have questions about my sudden exit, the vague press release about my retirement without any real reason for walking away at the peak. I gave them the version that keeps them sleeping at night.
If they knew the truth, it would hurt them both—for not telling them, and for the choice I made. All the years I spent holding the line, shielding them from the fallout, would feel like they were wasted. My silence is the only thing I still control and the only thing that still protects anyone.
“The final interview has been arranged.” Papers shuffle on Ginny’s end. She’s stalling, an old habit when she has news I’m going to hate. “The reporter is Grace Buchanan. Five-thirty Thursday afternoon. I sent the details.”
“This Thursday?” My shoulders lock. “Can’t we cancel?”
“It’s in your retirement deal.” She exhales, bracing for the inevitable pushback.
Right. The damn concession.
I needed out, and Marcos knew it. He could have let me go with a handshake, but instead he spent weeks boxing me in, upping the pressure until I was gasping for air. This profile isn’t about the sport or a win for the team. Nope.
His voice creeps into my head, oily and paternal. Maddox, one last contribution for the team. It’s the least you can do for all the fans you’re letting down. Your team.
He always knew where to stick the knife and didn’t care about the fans. What he cares about is the millions he’s losing with my exit.
When I retired, a two-time champion at twenty-seven, he wanted me to stay so he could keep his trophy on a leash. I was poised to win again and had years of racing ahead of me. But I dared to do what was best for my family, and now, he takes any opportunity to make me pay for it.
“You remember agreeing to it,” Ginny murmurs.
“Yeah, and it was supposed to be within three months of my retirement.”
“I know, and we tried.” She sounds as defeated as I feel. “You have to do this.”
This interview has been rescheduled three times within the past year. After the first cancellation, I tried to get out of it, hoping for a loophole that would let me walk. Marcos was smart enough to word the contract just so.
It’s almost as if every delay was planned—one more way for him to drag things out and keep me under his thumb.
“Fine.” I rake a hand over my jaw, the stubble scratching my palm.
“There’s one more thing.” More paper rustles on her end. “Grace Buchanan asked for your number. Or email.”
“No.”
“I figured you’d say that.” Another beat of hesitation. “She just… insisted. Said things would be more ‘efficient’ if she could go directly to you.”
Efficient. Perfect. She’s that kind of reporter.
“You did the right thing calling me.” I lean back in my chair, the elephant stretching across my chest. “I might be out of the sport, but I’m not opening that door. You handle the communication. That’s your job.” My next breath sharpens at my slip. “At least for a little while longer.”
She lets out a small sniff—the sound of her professional pride clicking back into place. “Exactly what I told her. If she wants you, she goes through me.”
“Thanks, Ginny.” I shift the phone against my ear, the heat from the device lingering along my jaw. “Really. Everything you’ve done… I appreciate it.”
The line goes quiet for a breath, long enough for my words to land. I’ve said it before, but tonight it feels more final.
“Have a good night.” Then I end the call and set the phone down on the table.
I reach for my water glass, but before I can take a sip, the phone vibrates again. I don’t even have to look to know who it is. Ginny’s on top of things and would’ve closed the loop with Marcos’s office the second she hung up with me. The screen glows with a notification.
Marcos: Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself, champ. I’d hate for the fans to think you’re being held hostage.
The glass clicks against my teeth as I take a hard swallow. He’s not even hiding the taunt, the overt reminder that every minute I spend answering questions is a minute I’m pinned.
“Everything okay, Mads?” Mom’s voice cuts through the static in my head.
“Fine.” I slide the phone into my pocket, the weight a cold reminder I’m still on a leash. “Just some loose ends on work stuff.”
I pick up my fork though my appetite has vanished. Marcos is enjoying this, and I’d love nothing more than to blow off the interview, show him he no longer controls me, but I don’t run from obligations. Not anymore.
Dad lived his life by a code, and so do I. Be responsible. Show up.
I steady my hand on the table, my breath pushing hard against my ribs. I won’t let anything slip with this reporter. My family and life as I know it depend on it.