Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Perfectly irritating timing has always been Kelley’s specialty.
When I reach the Fairmont, she’s positioned in the hotel lobby like she’s royalty, complete with adoring audience and strategic lighting.
Of course she’d be here now, when I’m reeling from what just happened with Nico and my lips still taste like him and I’m replaying that kiss, still feeling the hardness of his body against mine, and I’m totally fucking confused about what he wants and what I want.
No. That’s a lie. I know exactly what I want, and that’s the problem.
Focus on the race.
Not on the tug of Nico’s hands in my hair. Not on how my heart accelerated when he touched me. Not on the fact that I still feel his lips on mine, warm and deliberate. Christ. That man and his mouth are branded into my brain.
I make the mistake of glancing at Kelley.
“Petrina! Darling!” She’s just loud and dramatic enough to draw attention, and obviously was waiting for an opening from me. “I’ve been so worried since I heard about your car!”
Trust my mother to maximize every moment of manufactured concern. And who the hell told her about that?
I start to dodge past her little court, but the media loves a story and my mother loves to make them up.
“Ms. Hayter!” One of her pet journalists steps forward. “A comment about your mother’s concerns regarding the problems with your car?”
Christ. Is that even a real question?
But Kelley’s not done with me. She gestures for me to join her. Which I do not and will not. “Petrina, I’ve been waiting for you to discuss a wonderful makeup sponsorship I’ve been arranging for you. A mother-daughter opportunity. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Fun? Like a lobotomy sounds fun? I keep walking. “Kelley, now isn’t the time.”
“Can you confirm the makeup sponsorship your mother’s arranging for you?” a second reporter calls out.
Then another sycophant asks, “Petra, how does it feel to be called the prettiest driver in motorsport?”
I stop and stare at that idiot. The absolute bloody nerve. As if my appearance has anything to do with my ability to drive a race car.
Dad’s voice cuts through the stupidity. “My daughter’s had enough media attention today.”
He appears from the direction of the hotel bar and several journalists step back. The ones who’ve been in F1 longest recognize his authority and are smart enough to know which side of Coy Hayter they should stay on.
“Coy.” Kelley’s smile turns brittle. “I was just explaining to these nice people how concerned I am about Petrina.”
“Really. Did you tell them how you managed to get banned from the media pen this afternoon?” His tone stays pleasant.
“Or how security escorted you from the pit lane?” His smile mirrors hers in insincerity.
“Or perhaps how you tried to force your way into Nitro’s garage until your own husband had to remove you? ”
Wait. What?
“I was attempting to see my daughter.”
“No, you were attempting to create drama.” Dad steps between her court and me. “Give it a rest, Kelley. The media got quite enough footage of your maternal concern today.”
Several journalists wince.
“Now, my daughter needs rest before tomorrow’s race. Unless anyone wants to explain to the FIA why they’re harassing a driver in her hotel?”
At that, photographers and reporters scatter faster than backmarkers.
Kelley’s perfect control cracks. “You can’t keep me from my daughter, Coy.”
As if I’m a child and not standing right here.
Dad shakes his head. “That’s been your doing for twenty years, Kelley, not mine.”
He guides me toward a lift. It dings and we enter. Thankfully, it’s empty. Dad leans against the wall and eyes me. “Care to explain why you’re returning so late? Or should I pretend I didn’t see Nico Belmonte taking the service road behind you?”
Bloody hell.
The space is too small for this conversation. He watches me and I know that he knows that I know that he knows everything but wants me to tell him anyway.
“I went for a run.” Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.
“Mm.” He massages his right wrist. Arthritis is part of the legacy of his own racing days. “And El Conejo just happened to be exercising in the same area?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And we were just talking.”
“You were talking. With the same driver who took that interesting line in sector 3 during sprint qualifying? Who’s been watching you like gravity shifts when you’re around?”
“It’s not...” But how do I finish that sentence? Not what? Not happening? Not important? Not absolutely terrifying how much I want to kiss him again?
The lift stops at our floor. Thank God.
We reach my room, but Dad’s silent as I fumble with the key card—twice—before I get it to work. The light turns green and the door lock clicks.
“Petra Lison Meris Hayter, as your father and your team principal, I need to know if Nico Belmonte’s becoming more than just another driver to you.”
There it is. Coy Hayter getting right to the point. No flowery encouragement, just shoving my nose right into what I’ve stepped in.
My stomach drops like I’ve crested a hill at speed. Heat crawls up my neck, and I cross my arms, then uncross them because that’s too defensive. “He can’t be.” I shake my head. “It’s not an option.”
Dad studies me for a long moment. “Why not?”
“Because—” But I don’t know how to finish that. The teams? The championship? Because I’m terrified? Because Kelley’s downstairs reminding me exactly what happens when you let people matter?
“You know what’s interesting about you, Pet?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “You calculate every risk on track in the blink of an eye. Brake points, tire deg, fuel loads. You make perfect decisions under pressure.”
I wait for the but.
“But off track? You’ve already decided the answer before you’ve even looked at the data.”
“Dad—”
“Get some sleep.” He steps back. “Tomorrow’s going to be challenging enough without adding exhaustion to it.”
“That’s it? You’re just leaving it there?”
His smile is slight. “You’re a champion, Petra.
You don’t need me to tell you what to think.
” He starts to step back, then pauses. “Though for what it’s worth?
Anyone brave enough to take on Graham Pritchard without concern about the Bettertons is a fine fellow in my book.
Bonus points for being brave enough to take on my daughter. ”
Then he’s gone.
I close the door and lean against it.
Why not?
Dad’s question sits in my chest like unburned fuel.
I push off the door and grab my gear bag, hauling it onto the bed. Cin packed it after qualifying, like she always does. Everything clean and ready for tomorrow because Jacintha’s been doing this for a decade and she’s never once got it wrong.
I unpack it anyway.
Helmet cleaned and dried, visor attached, tear-offs layered exactly how I like.
Balaclava rolled tight as a scroll beside it.
Earpieces cleaned and looped neatly. Gloves folded together, socks rolled and tucked into my right racing shoe.
I pull the worry stone from the left shoe, the smooth zoisite cool in my palm, and set it aside.
Everything’s perfect. Of course it is.
I repack it all. Same order. Careful not to get fingerprints on the tear-offs.
Most drivers let their team handle their helmets, but I’m superstitious about mine.
I have to have my race helmet prepped and with my kit every night before I get into the car.
Cin knows this and the team accommodates me.
Just like they do other drivers and their quirks.
We all have rituals. This is one of mine, like the worry stone in my boot.
I know this routine so well I could do it blind.
Every piece has its place because every detail matters.
Control what I can control.
Except I can’t control the fact that my lips still taste like Nico Belmonte.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my thumb over the worry stone, and stare at the repacked bag.
“Why not?”
Because of the teams. Obviously. Because of championship implications and conflict of interest questions and every headline that’ll frame me as the woman driver who got distracted. Or worse, the one who needed a male champion in order to stay relevant.
“Shit.”
This is my shot at history, the goal I’ve spent my whole life aiming for, and I can’t afford to lose control and fuck it up.
But Nico Belmonte is not a controllable variable.
Christ. I press my fingers to my mouth, and it all rushes back. The heat of him. How he’d looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. How my body had responded before my brain could throw up its usual defenses.
Still… why now? Why this weekend, when we’re both fighting for podiums and the championship’s heating up and—
“Stop.”
I’m doing it again. Catastrophizing. Questioning motives and looking for the trap.
But when has Nico ever played head games? Never. He doesn’t need to. He’s a four-time world champion who drives like physics is just a suggestion. If he wanted to mess with my head, he’d do it on track where it counts.
So if he’s sincere...
The worry stone grows warm in my fist. I used to think if I just controlled every detail—every piece of kit in exactly the right place, every variable accounted for, every risk calculated—I could protect myself from being blindsided by people who say they care but really just want to use me for their own benefit.
Yet standing in the dark with Nico tonight, letting him kiss me, knowing I wanted him—none of that was calculated.
Or safe.
But it felt more right than anything has in years.
My phone buzzes. I startle and glance at it.
Darling, I only want what’s best for you. Let’s talk tomorrow? xoxo
I delete her message without responding.
Twenty years of Kelley “wanting what’s best” and I’ve learned exactly what that means. Manufactured concern. Strategic appearances. Everything calculated for maximum attention.
The opposite of Nico standing in the dark with me, admitting something that made him vulnerable.
I set the phone face-down and pull out tomorrow’s race notes. Focus on what I can control. Brake points and tire strategy and making history.
But the worry stone is hard and warm between my fingers, and Dad’s question won’t stop racing around inside my head.
Why not?
I don’t have an answer. Not yet.
But maybe that’s the real problem. I’ve been so busy protecting myself from the risks that I haven’t stopped to consider which ones might actually be worth taking.