8. Maddox
Maddox
My truck idles in the driveway, but I don’t kill the engine.
Amy Crandall’s voice still rings in the cab—Coach Hartley is accountable—and it punches deeper than it should.
It’s a familiar weight, a reminder of the thin line between having things under control and letting them slip through your fingers.
One damn moment of being unprepared—not bothering to program the numbers pinned on my office bulletin board into my phone—and Grace stepped in like it was nothing.
I should be relieved, but the gratitude sits sharp in my throat, tangled with an embarrassment I can’t quite swallow. I’ve spent years trying to be the man who doesn’t falter, who doesn’t need a hand, never wanting to be the careless, selfish boy I once was.
And yet, tonight, standing by that dead bus, I felt the old cracks start to show, the doubt that maybe I haven’t changed at all.
The failures I usually keep buried—my dad’s accident, the mess that forced me off the racetrack, and the fallout of my relationship with Erica—they all feel a little closer to the surface than I’d like.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the seat as if it were that easy to erase this night.
I can still see Buchanan in the parking lot, blowing on her hands to keep them warm. Her eyes were so bright in the dark, and that citrus scent of hers was everywhere, threading through the cold air. Warm, grounding, and too easy to breathe in.
I can’t shake the look she gave me when I told her I didn’t need help. It wasn’t anger; it was hurt—or maybe recognition. Seeing me in a way I didn’t want anyone to. Maybe that’s what rattles me most.
And she didn’t even make a show of saving the night when others would have. Buchanan saw what needed doing and did it, steady in a way that pulls a thread inside me loose.
Fuck, and her standing there during Amy’s reprimand, checking on me without saying a word, sparks heat low in my gut. It’s hot enough to make me fidget. I shouldn’t feel this. I shouldn’t want to gravitate toward her when she’s nothing but trouble wrapped in soft curls and stubborn resolve.
Dangerous.
But I do. And that realization bands around my chest, tight and unyielding. And instead of thanking her or keeping my mouth shut, I lashed out and pushed her away for doing the right thing.
“Shit,” I mutter to the empty truck.
I cut the engine and get out, the gravel crunching under my boots. I’m exhausted, but sleep won’t come easy.
The alarm buzzes long before the sun climbs over the hills, and I’m not sure I slept at all. I kill the offending noise and stare at the ceiling, wishing I could rewrite the script of last night in the parking lot.
The bedroom is cold, the sharp mountain-air chill creeping into my bones. Mom’s already gone to her volunteer shift at the clinic. She’s been putting in overtime lately, like everyone else in town. We’re desperate for a new doctor or two, and the strain is starting to show.
The house smells faintly of lemon polish—her signature. She always cleans when she’s worrying, and lately, the place has been spotless. I know I’m the cause. My stress over the mounting repairs isn’t a secret.
It isn’t the cash that bothers me. It’s the ten years of neglect while I was away racing, adding up to more than simple upkeep. I need to get ahead of it before the house wins.
Reluctantly, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and scrub a hand through my hair. At least today is a step in the right direction. The guys are coming over to lay the new roof.
In the kitchen, the old percolator sputters to life, and a note waits on the counter in familiar, looping cursive:
Mads, casserole in the fridge for tonight. Congrats on the win. I’m so proud of you. Love, Mom.
I fold the slip of paper and shove it in my pocket. Her faith in me feels a little too generous this morning.
Sheets of unmarked fitness education quizzes from my various classes are still spread across the table. I flip through a few, but the words refuse to stick. I need to finish and log the results, but my head is a yard sale of thoughts I don’t want—mostly citrus-scented and stubborn.
Then my phone buzzes.
Marcos: Try not to embarrass us on this profile. Least you can do after leaving the team high and dry. Maybe the reporter should talk to Rickie—bet she’d have some stories.
I toss the phone on the table before I can send a reply that would come back to bite me.
Petty, spiteful prick.
He knows exactly which buttons to pound. Bringing up Erica, and calling her by her nickname, is his favorite way to remind me that my “heroic” retirement was a ransom payment.
Marcos still can’t wrap his head around it. He thought the ultimatum would break me—that I’d toss her to the wolves to keep my seat on the team. He never imagined I’d walk away from the track to keep her out of a cell.
Something tells me if he ever met Buchanan, he’d hand her a shovel and tell her exactly where to dig. He’d love nothing more than to see the reporter finish what he started.
At least I don’t have to see Buchanan for the next two days.
Despite being a colossal asshole to her last night, the weekend affords me a reprieve.
I don’t deserve the break, but I’ll take it.
Still, she isn’t going anywhere—not until she gets what she came for.
That terrifies me more than I’m willing to admit.
A sharp rap hits the kitchen door, and Oliver pushes inside, his arms full of heavy ropes, work gloves, and a pulley rig.
He drops the gear on the table with a heavy thud. “Think I got everything.”
I grunt something that passes for appreciation, though my head is still stuck somewhere between last night and Marcos’s text.
His gaze drops to the table, lingering on my phone. The screen hasn’t gone dark yet, and Marcos’s name shines next to the final, biting line about Rickie.
I flip the phone face down, but I’m too late.
His expression hardens, a shadow passing over his face. “What the fuck? Marcos still thinks he’s the king of your life, huh?”
I shrug, though the muscles in my neck are tight enough to snap. “He’s just chirping. Like always.”
“You weren’t kidding. He’s a bitter prick, Mads. He’s been looking for a reason to twist the knife since you walked away.” He saunters over to the counter to fix a cup of coffee. “Don’t let him get in your head. But what’s that shit about Rickie?”
He studies me for a long beat, his silence heavy. I don’t want to lie—it’s exhausting, and it’s not who I am—but the truth is a minefield.
Oliver knows how pissed Marcos was about my decision to retire and my history with Erica, but not how the asshole could use her against me.
Erica grew up in Winslow Grove; we all went to the same high school, and Rickie and I were engaged when we left town. Then, not even two years after I hit the circuit, we broke up. I didn’t have the stomach to tell anyone back home why, and honestly, it wasn’t my story to tell.
Erica may have destroyed us, but I wasn’t going to be the one to destroy her. She was doing a fine enough job of that on her own. Besides, for a time, I still thought there was a chance to save her.
“It’s a long story, Ol. Not mine to tell.” I rake a hand through my hair and cast a glance out the window, watching the morning mist cling to the trees.
“Did it have anything to do with why you and Rickie ended?”
“Marcos had nothing to do with the breakup. But he knows the details, and because he’s pissed I left the team, he’s taunting me with it.”
“And this is something you wouldn’t want Grace to find out, right?” He’s fishing.
I don’t miss the disappointment in his gaze at hearing Marcos knows more than he does about the end of my relationship with the woman who was supposed to be my forever. I can’t blame him. We’re best friends.
If I needed to bleed out to someone, Oliver would be the one. But I’m not sure where I’d start or how much I could say without spilling every gory, fentanyl-laced detail.
A corner of his mouth lifts, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s letting me off the hook. “Heard the team pulled out a solid win last night.”
Thank fuck for the change of subject.
A reluctant warmth crawls up my chest. “They played hard.”
“Heard about the bus trouble, too.” His brow ticks up.
I take a long pull of coffee, letting the bitterness settle my nerves. Of course, the news has already hit the town grapevine. Not wanting to talk about it, I erect a wall, and always aware, he gives me another out. “Wren wishes she’d been there for the win. For all of it.”
Wren would’ve known who to call without blinking.
A low, wired awareness climbs through me, and I redirect before Oliver can read anything else off my face. “How’d the trip to Helena go?”
He brightens, that signature Winslow spark firing to life. “Huge success. The city’s backing another Bright Horizons branch. They’re rolling out funding next quarter.”
“That’s incredible.” I offer a genuine nod. Wren lives for this—giving foster kids a shot at a future.
His smile broadens. “You should’ve seen her. She had the room eating out of her hand.”
The image comes too easily—the fire in her eyes when she believes in something. I force my gaze away, toward the table and the general mess of my life.
“Where’s your mom?”
“Prospect. She’s visiting Ruby.” Prospect is about forty minutes from here and Ruby’s a friend who owns and runs her own bar.
Kellen strides in, boots muddy and hair damp. He’s wearing the same crooked grin he’s had since high school—the one that got him labeled the town’s bad boy long before he earned the reputation.
The three of us were thick as thieves in elementary school, but high school changed the math. Oliver had his reasons for the distance, but for me, it was simpler: Kellen chased trouble, while I was chased by responsibility.
Things have been different since I’ve been back. Kellen’s a father now, trying to navigate what that looks like without being with the mother. He’s more present, more willing to help, and that counts for something.
“Boys.” He drops a toolbox by the door with a heavy clatter. “Gotta hit the head.” He disappears down the hall, whistling a low, tuneless melody.
Oliver leans against the counter. “Hey, Mads. Do you still talk to Rickie?”
I stiffen. “I haven’t talked to her in months.”
“When was the last time?”
“Shortly after my retirement, about a year now.”
The thought loosens something in my chest. If someone had told me ten years ago I’d be relieved to go a year without hearing from Erica, I’d have called them a liar. But I am. We’re finally, mercifully, done.
“How’s she doing?” He won’t let it go.
I shrug, the movement stiff. “Fine, I guess.”
“She still in Spain?”
A rough exhale blasts out of me. “Don’t think so.”
He studies me, his curiosity finally winning over his tact. “What happened between you two, Mads? I get you can’t tell me everything, but I’ve had a hard time wrapping my head around it. In high school, you were inseparable. Everyone thought—”
“What are you now, the reporter?” I cut him off, aiming for a light, teasing tone, but a sharp edge cuts through anyway.
His eyes widen, brows lifting in a slow arc. Message received.
Before the silence can get too heavy, footsteps thump down the hall, and Kellen reappears, wiping his hands on his jeans. I clap my palms together, the sound echoing too loudly in the small kitchen.
I nod toward the gear on the table. “Come on. Let’s get these rigs set up before the sun gets too high. We’ve got a lot of roof to cover.”
Kellen dips his chin, unfazed by the tension, and grabs rolls of flashing. Oliver watches me for one more beat, his expression unreadable, then heads out.
I follow them through the door, and the cool morning air hits my face. But even the mountain chill can’t wash away the sour taste Marcos left behind—or the nagging fear that some secrets are too heavy to keep buried forever.