12. Maddox
Maddox
Across the room, a couple players wave, and I call them over. Grace and I have been at it for over an hour, and my head is pounding. I want this interview over for many reasons, but mostly because it’s only a matter of time before she hits on the buried stuff.
Kevin saunters up to the table. “Thanks again for Friday night, Coach.”
“Mrs. Kerr says we’re legends now,” adds Jimmy, and the two of them laugh.
“It was a great game.” I smile before asking them about basketball and their classes.
She watches our exchange with a careful expression, cataloguing every smile, every shoulder clap, every nod thrown my way.
When the boys leave, her gaze has warmed. “They really like you.”
“They like winning. And pizza after practice on occasion.”
Something in her gaze lingers, not tender… observant. Like she’s recalibrating how she sees me.
Then she looks down, tracing the rim of her cup. “I do it for the truth and what’s right. And it doesn’t hurt that I like the digging. The puzzle.”
“What?” My brow knits.
“When you asked earlier about what I did to get this assignment?” She stops recording.
I almost want to release a sigh of relief, but I’m too caught up in wanting to know what she’ll say next.
“Oh, yeah. Go on.”
“That’s what I was doing. My job. This isn’t penance—coming here—more like giving me a time out. It’s important to me to uncover the truth and make sure that those responsible pay for their actions.”
My gut clenches at how close her words hit. Sweat beads at the back of my neck, but I’m not stopping this conversation. I’m riveted and want more. The better I understand what makes Grace tick, the better I can strategize how best to counterstrike.
Too caught up to read my uneasiness, almost as if she’s reliving something, she continues, “The story I was working on before coming here—it’s everything to me, I’ve spent years on it, but I got too close.
I poked the bear, and now the paper needs to keep me out of sight while they smooth things over… ”
She swallows slowly as if something is caught in her throat. “And I get it. Shit happens. Sometimes, I wonder why I bother.”
Because you care, I almost say, but that feels too revealing, too close to the truth I don’t let anyone touch. This is about her. Not me.
Instead, I duck to catch her gaze. “Maybe because, like you said, you still think the truth matters.”
She looks up abruptly, and for a second, the mask slips, a fierce, stubborn flare in her eyes reminding me of every good driver I’ve ever known.
Then it’s gone.
A couple of locals wander by our table and some more students, more congratulating and more wanting to talk about our win and the bus. For the most part, Grace stays silent, observes, expression thoughtful, some emotion I can’t name sliding across her face.
When things settle again, and it’s only her and me, she stares intently at me. “You’re good with them.”
“They’re good kids.” I glance over at a group settling into a booth.
“That’s not what I mean.”
I meet her gaze. “Yeah. It is.”
There’s a stretch where something thick and unspoken engulfs our silence. The scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee blurs with her perfume—clean, subtle, nothing like the spikey edges she tries to project.
“No. It’s more than that, more than just the kids… the town loves you. You’re a hero, but I get the impression it has nothing to do with your racing.”
Her finger traces a figure eight on the tabletop, then she glances up, nibbling on her bottom lip.
“Go on.” I shift uncomfortably, somewhat warmed by her observation, even though I know otherwise.
“You’re so modest.” Now, she’s sarcastic as she laughs. “Like I didn’t already say enough, your ego can do without the praise.”
Smiling, I press a hand into my chest. “Praise? I’m not seeking anything. You started this…”
“Fair.” She nods. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re admired and truly liked for who you are, and something tells me it’s always been this way. You’re a good person, Maddox Hartley.”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth—I couldn’t speak even if I had something to say.
She’s studying me again, recalculating every assumption she came in with, as if this conclusion she’s come to shocks her.
What the hell did she think of me before coming to Winslow Grove?
She taps the red record button. “Okay, just so I have it straight, take me through the timeline, from when you were discovered until now.”
I furrow my brow. “Can’t you cross-check that with your research?”
“Yes.” She draws out the word. “But not everything online is accurate. I have a good sense of the sequence of events, but it helps to have it in your own words. I’ve got a concept in mind for how I want to pitch the layout to my editor, and I want to make sure I have the facts straight.”
“All right.” I shift in my seat, my legs going numb. “Will I get to see this concept?”
“Sure.” She smiles and juts her chin out. “Once the story runs.”
I let out a frustrated chuckle and shake my head.
“Okay. From the moment I could walk, I was obsessed with motorsports. Karting started at five, and around eleven or twelve, I was winning championships, getting noticed. That’s when things got serious.
” I pause, letting the memory settle before I continue.
“When I turned fifteen, I moved into junior single-seater formulas.”
“You mean F4?”
“Yeah.” I glance over at her, and she quirks a brow—I have a pretty good idea why.
“Hard to believe, I’m sure. Not to brag, but I was a natural.
Get me behind the wheel, and I can’t explain it—the car and I become one.
I loved every second of it. None of it felt like work.
But there are only around twenty F1 seats in the world, and to go any further than F4, I had to move to Europe.
And it was costly.” I rub at my chin, shaking my head slowly.
“I never dreamed about going any further.”
“But you did all the things. Followed the path of a contender.” She drops her voice, doing her best Brando, and something loosens in my chest when I laugh—more than I expected to.
“Yeah. I think it was my dad’s dream for me, if I’m honest. He wasn’t the type to push—he’d have wanted the choice to be mine—but given how easily I took to it...”
I trail off, pulled under for a moment. Him crouching beside a kart I barely fit into, hands patient on my shoulders. Then later, him and his friend Sid, a former Indy driver, backing me through the ranks, race by race, championship by championship.
Sid helped where he could financially, but Dad did crazy things to cover the rest. Things I didn’t fully understand until much later.
I still don’t know whether he thought racing was my dream and sacrificed everything to give it to me, or whether it was always his dream, the one that quietly drove every insane risk and every dollar of debt he left behind.
Grace doesn’t push, doesn’t fill the silence, and something about that steadies me.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “Scouts started approaching around fifteen, sixteen. I never engaged. I was flattered, sure, but F4 was as far as I was going to go.”
“Was Madrigal one of the teams?” I nod. “And how old were you when you signed? What changed?”
“Barely eighteen.” I take a measured breath and move past it—past the reason I left behind everything and everyone I’d ever known. I have no intention of sharing that. “They were offering a seat in their young driver program, starting with F3. I took it. Stayed with the team my entire career.”
I push through the rest before she can find a foothold in it.
“I retired at twenty-seven after two grand prix wins, came home last year, got lucky. Coach Bell was stepping down, and I applied for the head of the athletics department.” I grin, the tension in my chest easing now I’ve made it to the other side. “And there you have it.”
“Wow.” She scribbles something on her notepad and looks back at me. “Okay, this next question is simple—I should’ve started with it... Besides being a natural, why racing?”
My breath catches. It isn’t the question I expected, but it’s enough for any warmth from earlier in our conversation to evaporate, replaced by the always-lingering dread.
So far, the interview has covered how my current job was always my first dream. Then she wanted to know what it was like growing up in Winslow Grove—who she could talk to, what I was like as a boy, as a teenager, none of it career-focused. Then she shifted to what I saw for my future.
While I’d hoped we were done for today, I was still surprised by the ground we’d covered. Most reporters want the crash stories, the adrenaline, the fame. But Grace goes for the root. The beginning. The thing closest to the truth. What’s underneath it all.
I shift in my seat. “My dad. He built engines. Taught me everything I knew about cars.” I pause. “Except how to fix a broken-down school bus.” I huff out a pained laugh.
Her expression shifts to something gentle. Something understanding. “You loved it. The race.”
“Still do.”
“Yet you came back to your first dream. Teaching, coaching.” She tilts her head. “What about retiring? Did you love that part, too?”
And here it is. A muscle in my jaw feathers. “Is that the ‘simple’ question?”
She doesn’t look away. “It’s the obvious one.”
“There was a press release, and I gave a statement about why I was retiring. You’ve read it, I’m sure.”
“I did, and I don’t buy a word of it.” Her honesty leaves me thunderstruck, but she isn’t done. She leans in slightly, voice low, and states, “You’re hiding something.”
“Everyone hides something, Buchanan.” Not the best deflection, but it holds truth.
“Fair. But some secrets shape people. Decide things for them.” Her eyes stay on mine, direct, collected, too damn perceptive. “And I think whatever you’re hiding—or maybe protecting—is the reason you walked away.”
My pulse stutters hard and erratic.
She’s close.
Closer than anyone’s ever come.
Across the café, Nate calls out an order, breaking the moment, and I tear my gaze from her, needing a second to find my center.
A mother of one of the seniors on the team waves shyly from the door, and I lift a hand automatically.
Grace clocks the exchange. “See. This is what I mean. They adore you.”
“It’s a small town.”
“It’s more than that. That woman was practically glassy-eyed and blushing like she was in the presence of a star.”
I scoff and force a breath through my tight lungs. “Can we get back to the questions that actually matter to your piece?”
Her eyes thin for the briefest of moments, not hostile, not angry… knowing. She’s looking right into my soul.
“Maddox.” Her voice softens around my name. “That was one of the questions, and I’m going to keep asking it until you give me something I can use. The truth.” She straightens. “Okay, what about Erica?”
Fuck. Something uneasy twists in me. Like I’ve hit a wall at full speed with nowhere to swerve, no track left to escape onto.
How the hell did she link Erica and my retirement? Or maybe she didn’t, and she’s throwing things at me to see how I react?
“What about her? I thought this was about my career, not my personal life?”
“It’s all connected.”
“What do you want to know?” I’m deliberately cagey, uncertain what she knows, if anything, or what she’s getting at. I need more.
“You were high school sweethearts. Engaged when you left Winslow Grove but split soon after joining Madrigal.”
“That isn’t a question.”
“Well, what happened?”
“I don’t see the relevance.”
“Maddox, this is an in-depth feature into the man behind the championship. Everything and everyone that came into your life and influenced you to be who you are matters.” Her voice is neutral, factual, and I’m still at a loss as to what to do.
All I know is I do not want to talk about Erica. Not now. Not ever.
I look away for a few beats, mind racing through my options before my gaze swings back to her. “I think we’re done for today.”
She nods, stops the recorder, and gathers her notebook and pen. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Nearly falling off my chair, I’m not quite sure what to do with her immediate retreat. I’d expected, at the very least, a war of words, if not her downright refusal to leave until I gave her what she wanted.
I’m lost, but instead of taking the win, I don’t let it end there. “Grace.”
She pauses half-way to standing, eyes coming to mine. Expression impassive.
“For what it’s worth, you did good the other night. The kids were nervous, uncertain, and you made it easier.”
Something relaxes in her eyes—barely-there vulnerability that feels like a secret she didn’t mean to show. Shrugging, she offers a tentative smile, perhaps not sure if she should trust the compliment or gratitude.
“See you tomorrow?” The words are out before I can swallow them back.
I already know more time with her means more questions I won’t answer. But the alternative—pushing her away—lands too close to hurting her. I already did that and won’t do it again.
Not when she’s looking at me with a quiet steadiness that makes it damn near impossible to hold my ground. Even if walking toward her and not away is the opposite of self-preservation.
She hesitates, not uncertain, weighing something I can’t read, and nods. “Tomorrow.”
Then she turns toward the door. Her blonde hair catches the overhead light as she moves, and everything else—voices, dishes, the whole damn café—disappears behind the pounding in my chest.
The door swings shut.
And just like that, something hits me—critical, unwelcome, and a beat too late to do anything about it.
She’s going to ruin everything I’ve buried.
Not with her questions.
Not with her phone.
With the way she sees straight through me.