Carter
Chapter fifteen
“Wait, why are we stopping?”
I leaned forward between the two front seats of the truck, squinting through the windshield. The familiar brick buildings of campus were bathed in a strange, artificial glow that definitely hadn't been there when I’d finished my morning classes.
Then again, I could have missed a literal alien invasion today.
I’d spent more hours than I should’ve vibrating with a very specific brand of irritation, thanks to a series of cryptic texts from an unsaved number.
I didn’t need a contact name to know it was Dominic.
His ego has a very distinct digital footprint.
At least, I was ninety percent sure it was him. Or maybe eighty. I scowled at the darkened screen of my phone before shoving it into my pocket and choosing to ignore the messages.
“I thought the plan was food and then home,” I said, looking from my dad to Marco.
“We just finished at SHIFT. You got your burger, you saw that the grease trap at my work is still making that dying-whale sound, and now we should be on the highway.
Why are we at the quad? There isn't even parking here.”
My dad didn’t answer. Instead, he developed a sudden, pathological interest in a speck of dust on the dashboard. His hand reached up to scratch nervously at his temple, and he went completely non-verbal—the universal sign that he was bracing for impact.
I sat back, my eyes narrowing as I took in the valets and the heavy velvet ropes cutting through the center of campus. “What is this?”
“I told him the burger wouldn't buy us enough time,” Marco said from the driver’s seat.
He didn't look guilty; he looked like someone watching a slow-motion car crash for the entertainment value. He tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel. “Your dad didn’t think you’d come if you knew the destination. ”
“So you trapped me?” I slumped back into the bench seat, crossing my arms with enough force to probably crack my own ribs. “You used a double-bacon-cheeseburger as bait? That’s low. Even for you two.”
“I really did want the burger,” my dad muttered, his voice barely rising above the hum of the engine. “And I did want to see the booth you’re always complaining about... but there’s this thing. For the circuit. On campus tonight.”
“Unbelievable.” I groaned, staring at the back of his head. I looked out the window again at the massive transport trucks and the familiar, sleek branding of the Formula series that had taken over the quad. It looked like a miniature paddock had sprouted overnight on campus.
“I bet you didn’t even mind the delay at the diner because you were too busy flirting with Margaret at the register,” I added, my voice dry. “I saw that, by the way. Twenty minutes of my life I’ll never get back. It was tragic, Dad. Truly.”
Marco let out a sharp, delighted bark of a laugh. “See? I told you she was onto you. You can’t distract her with grease and salt when there’s a professional racing grid being assembled in her backyard.”
My dad’s ears went a vibrant shade of pink. He finally turned around, his expression a messy cocktail of apology and "please don't yell at me."
I shot myself back up, bracing my hands on the headrests to loom between them. “Start talking. Both of you. Why is there a high-society circus in the middle of my university?”
“Mandatory team appearance,” Marco answered, shifting into his mentor voice, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
“The team is calling it a 'strategic outreach' event. We’re here to look the part, shake the right hands, and act like the season is going exactly as planned. The whole grid is expected to show—no exceptions.”
I looked at my dad, my eyebrows nearly hitting my hairline. I knew exactly what ‘the whole grid’ meant. It meant Dominic Valerio.
“And you thought following him into another spotlight was a good idea?” I asked, my voice dropping. “After the last event? After he stood there and let those vultures treat you like a liability?”
“It’s professional, Carter,” my dad said softly. He reached out as if to pat my hand, then thought better of it when he saw the look on my face. “We have to show a united front. He’s... he’s the lead driver. If he’s there, we’re there. He’s making an effort to show the team together.”
“He’s making a scene,” I corrected, my chest tightening.
I looked at my dad— at the way his mouth flattened into that familiar line of quiet endurance—and I felt a surge of old, bitter anger. He was doing it again. Rolling over. Making excuses for someone who had already shown him exactly who they were.
He’d done the same with my mom—letting her back through the door time and time again because he was terrified of the silence she left behind.
Now, he was doing it with Dominic. He was so desperate to feel the vibration of a track under his feet again that he’d overlook the fact that Dominic had fed him to the wolves before.
My dad didn't just hand out olive branches to people who were busy lighting matches; he offered them more kindling if it meant he got to stay in the heat. He always forgave too easily if there was a chance it could buy him back his life, and it usually ended with me being the one to pick up the pieces of a pride he’d sold for pennies on the dollar.
“Right,” I hissed. “Everyone is just so eager to be his props.”
“He’s the face of the team,” my dad said, his voice pleadingly reasonable as he looked out at the crowds gathered near the entrance.
I didn't wait for him to finish the rest of his thought. I shoved the door open, the night air rushing into the cab.
“He’s a nightmare in a firesuit,” I muttered, thinking of the way he looked when he was playing the hero for the cameras. “And I’m sure he looks just as arrogant in whatever carbon-fiber-priced outfit he’s wearing tonight to pretend he has a heart.”
“Carter! Where are you going?” my dad called out as I hopped down to the pavement, the door swinging shut with a heavy, final thud.
“I’m going to do what you’re supposed to do at a carnival.
I’m going to find the games!” I shouted back over my shoulder.
I didn't even look back at them as I started toward the blinding neon glow of the quad. “I heard there’s a clown at this circus, and I’m pretty sure he’s already wearing a Valerio name tag! ”
I heard Marco let out a low, pained whistle behind me, and my dad started to say my name again, but I was already gone, weaving through the crowd.
The main part of campus had been transformed into something that felt like an overpriced fever dream.
It was a high-octane carnival—a collision of local fairground kitsch and the sterile, terrifyingly expensive world of professional racing.
To my left, a row of massive transport rigs were parked like slumbering steel giants, their polished chrome catching the floodlights for the "photo ops" the fans were currently swarming.
People were lining up just to touch the side of a trailer.
To my right, the "circus" was in full swing.
There were balloon dart booths lined with overinflated prizes and shooting galleries that promised "team prizes," all of it wrapped in the same primary colors as the grid.
It was cheesy, deliberate, and clearly designed to make people forget that these same drivers usually spent their time in air-conditioned suites avoiding the public.
Everything was loud, everything was black, and everything was trying way too hard to be charming. It felt less like a celebration and more like a sleek, dark vacuum designed to suck the air—and the money—right out of my school.
The area was a sea of merch. It was impossible to turn a corner without bumping into a student in a "Valerio" hoodie or a local fan wearing a shirt with his silhouette arched over a steering wheel.
It was like a virus had swept through the campus, turning everyone into a walking billboard for the guy who somehow managed to be both my biggest problem and the one I kept circling back to.
I wandered for a while, unimpressed by the sheer scale of the hero-worship. The more I walked, the more I felt like static cutting through a carefully curated signal. I was the only person here who wasn't staring at the entire thing with wide, dewy eyes.
I drifted toward a booth labeled The Apex Toss—essentially a glorified ring-toss where the bottles had been replaced by miniature plastic pylons and the rings were shaped like tiny steering wheels. It was peak marketing, and it was humiliating.
I stared at the little plastic things, a hard something twisting beneath my ribs.
A sign propped against a stack of crates announced that five rings would cost five dollars.
I should have kept walking. I should have gone to find a quiet corner of the library to hide until my dad was done playing pretend.
But my hands were shaking with a restless, frenzied energy that needed an outlet.
I didn't want a prize, and I certainly didn't want to support the "Valerio Brand," but the idea of hurling something as hard as I could at a target was suddenly the most appealing thing I’d heard all night.
It was cheaper than therapy and more socially acceptable than screaming.
I was reaching into my pocket for a few crumpled bills, already picturing exactly whose face I was going to imagine on those pylons, when a hand—too steady, too familiar—reached past me and dropped a crisp hundred on the counter.
I exhaled a long, ragged sigh, as the worker set the rings onto the counter. I turned to face him, my eyes snapping to his. “I don’t need you to buy anything for me. I have my own money.”
Dominic didn't move. He just leaned back against the frame of the booth, crossing his arms over a black team polo. The fabric pulled tight across his chest, and he looked down at me with a slow, devastating confidence that made the air in the space feel twice as thick.