Carter
Chapter twelve
"Don’t forget to lock up," he says, his voice a fraction tighter than usual. "And try to eat something that isn't cereal. Your mother would have had a field day with the optics of you looking malnourished even while the rest of us are in front of the press."
I flinch, the reaction cutting through me before I can bury it.
He doesn't bring her up often, but when he does, it’s a reminder of a person who treated my childhood like a photo op for the cameras.
She loved the high-stakes attention of racing; the only thing she loved more was being the one the cameras focused on while Dad was in the car.
"I resent that," I say, forcing a lightness to mask the irritation at her name. "Cereal is a sophisticated, multi-textured food group. Besides, there’s no press here to impress."
Marco lets out a low, easy chuckle from the passenger side.
He’s figured it out by now—when to push and when to back off.
Anyone who stuck around Dominic that long had to.
"Don't listen to him, Carter. I’ll make sure he drinks more coffee than nerves once we hit the paddock. We’ll be back after the checkered flag. "
"So you and Marco go down early for the setup and data-checks," I say. It’s not a question; I’ve watched this departure dozens of times before. I cross my arms, trying to keep from reaching out to stop them. "Everything going to be ready for scrutineering?"
"Always is," Marco says, throwing a reassuring wink my way. "We’ve got a car to build, and we need to get the garage set up before the circus officially arrives. Your old man is going to be the best-dressed coach on the pit wall."
"And the driver?" I ask, keeping my voice flat. I know the rhythm of race week—the talent doesn't move until the stage is set—but a part of me was hopeful the driveway would already be empty. "Dominic doesn't need to be there for the seat-fits? Or has he already left?"
Dad pauses, his knuckles tight where he grips the door handle. "He’s got mandatory media tomorrow afternoon into the evening. Sponsor appearances and the official press conference. He’ll meet us once most of the work is already done."
I hum, leaning my head back. "Right. Wouldn’t want him doing anything that looks like actual work."
"Carter," Dad warns gently.
"I know," I say, already waving him off, like I didn’t just say what I said. "I’m fine. Go. Do the thing."
He studies me for a heartbeat longer, then steps in, pulling me into a quick, firm hug that lingers just a second too long before he pulls back and shuts the door. "Text me if you need anything."
"I won't," I promise, through the rolled down window.
I watch the truck back out, dust curling up in the driveway like a closing curtain.
I should be heading back towards the pool house to do my homework, but my eyes drift toward the main house.
I haven’t been avoiding Dominic. Not technically.
In the weeks since him showing up at SHIFT, I’ve just been…
observant. I know he’s outside the pool house and in the pool by 5:00 AM, moving with a mechanical, relentless stroke that looks more like a penance than a workout.
By 5:42, he’s back inside for the sauna—exactly thirty minutes of high-heat recovery before he starts his neck-strengthening drills.
And sometimes, when the day drags long enough, he circles back—another stretch in the sauna, another set of laps under the dimming light—like he doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.
I only know this because I’ve had to pull several all-nighters for my assignments.
The pool house has a direct line of sight to the gym windows, and it’s hard to ignore someone who trains like the world is ending too early in the morning.
I tell myself I’ve mapped his habits so I can stay out of his way.
That it’s strategy. Proximity management.
It’s not because I’m still thinking about the strange interaction with him from work.
I’m definitely not replaying that cryptic "craving" comment on a loop after he ordered his food, trying to decipher if he was actually talking about the burger or if he was just being an arrogant asshole. I’m not thinking about the kiss on campus, either. That was a momentary lapse in judgment—an engine misfire that I’ve already mentally filed under mistakes to never repeat.
I’m just being thorough. Knowing your enemy is the first rule of the track, and Dominic Valerio is an enemy with a very loud, very distracting mouth. I click my tongue, irritated that he’s managed to occupy even a single percent of my brain capacity again.
The quiet lasts exactly three seconds.
Then, the first set of headlights crests the drive. I don’t even have to look to know the floodgates have opened. I just roll my eyes, a long, exhausted exhale escaping me.
"Of course," I mutter.
More headlights. Then a stream of them, rolling in like someone opened a cage.
Music hits first—a deep, aggressive bass that vibrates through the soles of my feet.
Colored lights flicker to life around the main house, washing the pool in electric blues and purples.
People spill out of cars—half of them probably groupies or students from the university—already loud with anticipation.
I stare for a beat, then scoff, heading for my place of residence. Subtlety has never been a Valerio trait, and apparently, while the team is heading off to start a season, Dominic is staying behind to burn the house down.
I retreat into the pool house and shut the door with a satisfying smack. I tell myself I have an assignment due by midnight tomorrow. I tell myself I am an adult with priorities who can tune out the predictable hedonism of a party.
I last a few hours, and it is a miserable, upward climb.
The first hour is a battle against the sensory bleed.
The bass doesn't just stay loud; it grows teeth, vibrating through the legs of my chair until my very bones feel out of alignment.
Every time a cheer erupts from the patio, my pencil skids across the page.
Then, the power flickers—a momentary blink as someone presumably plugged in a light rig that the pool house circuit wasn't built for.
My lamp dies, leaves me in the dark for a few seconds of pure, mounting fury, and then hums back to life with a high-pitched whine that sets my teeth further on edge.
Then comes the invasion.
My nerves are already frayed to a single thread when the door handle rattles.
I look up, heart jumping, just in time to see a very flushed, very eager couple stumble into the pool house.
They don't even look at me; they’re too busy trying to occupy the same skin, heading straight for the sofa like they own the place.
"Out!" I snap, standing so fast my chair screeches against the floor.
The guy blinks at me, his shirt half-unbuttoned, looking genuinely offended that I’m inhabiting my own home. "Whoa, chill. We just needed a room."
"Get a car. Get a bush. Get out of here," I snarl, practically vibrating with rage.
I herd them out, slamming the door and sliding the deadbolt home. I mentally scold myself for forgetting to lock it like Dad reminded me. My hands are shaking as I sit back down, the room now feeling fragile and violated.
The third strike is the spill.
I’m forty minutes into rereading the same sentence for the tenth time when the vibration from a particularly heavy bass drop rattles the shelf above. A small jar of paperclips tips over, showering my open notebook in a metallic hail.
I don't scream. I don't move. I just pin my attention to the silver mess scattered across the analysis of my work.
Finishing the task of picking clips off the page one by one, my head begins to throb in time with the kick-drum. Then, a sudden thump hits the glass.
The jump isn't subtle—the pencil snaps right in my grip.
Spinning toward the door, heart punching hard against my ribs, I expect another interloper or a shattered pane. But it’s just a beach ball. It bounces weakly off the glass and settles against the siding, a bright, plastic mockery of my attempt at peace.
I stare at it for a long, vibrating beat.
I close my notebook very, very carefully.
"That’s it," I mutter, my voice dangerous. "He’s dead."
I step outside and am immediately swallowed by the crowd. The air smells like expensive cologne, spilled gin, and the frantic energy of a pre-season blowout. I weave through the bodies, holding myself rigid, scanning for a familiar, brooding silhouette.
No Dominic.
Near the edge of the pool, I spot a cluster of girls draped in designer linen, their laughter sharp enough to cut glass. I decide to approach them.
"Where’s Dominic?" I ask, my voice projecting over a remix of a song I already hate.
The conversation stops mid-beat. Four pairs of eyes rake over me, starting at my scuffed sneakers and ending at my hair—uneven, messy, and giving away exactly how long I’d been pulling at it.
They don't see a threat; they see a stain in the aesthetic.
One girl shifts, subtly blocking my path toward the house with a polished shoulder, her gaze hardening with a territorial "don't even try it" look.
She doesn't answer; she just turns back to her friends, dismissing me before I can even blink.
I scoff, a short, sharp sound of pure disbelief. I don’t have time to explain to a group of females in over-priced clothes that I’m the last person on earth who wants to "try it" with their host.
I already know what that feels like—nope. Not going there again.
I stomp off, pushing deeper toward the house. I shake off a stray hand that tries to grab my wrist and dodge another carrying a tray of shots. Near the sliding glass doors, I spot a guy leaning against a pillar, wearing a team jacket—the matte black of Dominic’s colors.