Carter
Chapter twenty-six
The roar of the fans in the grandstands is a physical weight, a rhythmic thumping that vibrates through the soles of my shoes long before the engines even cough to life. The sky is a mocking, brilliant blue—the kind of clear that makes yesterday’s torrential gray feel like a fever dream.
On Sunday morning, the garage isn't a workspace; it’s a theater.
I’m hunched over the rack on the left side of the garage, my fingers moving in a practiced, frantic dance. I’m deep in the gut of it, securing the connectors that feed Dominic’s every twitch, every brake-pressure spike, and every gear shift back to the pit wall.
A few feet away, Dominic is a statue of Nomex and carbon fiber. He’s already half-suited, the top of his fireproofs tied around his waist, exposing the tight, black cooling vest beneath. He’s waiting, watching a mechanic adjust the device on his helmet.
“Forgot the spare visor tear-offs,” the guy mutters, patting his pockets. “Don’t move. I’ll be thirty seconds.”
He jogs away, leaving a pocket of sudden, heavy silence between us.
I don't look up. I pick up a microfiber cloth and start polishing a sensor that’s already spotless.
I can feel him. Even without looking, the air in the bay seems to pull toward him, charged with the leftover static from yesterday’s fallout.
“You weren't at the team dinner last night,” Dominic says.
His voice isn't the gravelly mess it was yesterday. It’s smooth, leveled out, and terrifyingly calm.
My hand stays clamped over the sensor, the cloth gone still. I focus on a tiny scratch in the metal, counting the seconds before I answer.
“I wasn’t hungry,” I say. I keep my back to him, reaching for a zip-tie I don't actually need. I can hear the lie in my own voice—it’s thin and brittle.
“Liar.”
I hear the shift of his weight, the soft scuff of his boots on the concrete. “I looked for you.”
The air in the bay seems to stall. My fingers seize around the plastic tie, the sharp ridges digging into my skin. I looked for you. The words are a soft, blunt strike, and I can practically feel the intensity of his gaze boring into the space between my shoulder blades.
My mind stutters, trying to make the math work.
Dominic doesn't "look" for people. He doesn't even look for his own race engineer half the time unless there’s a trophy involved. He’s the phantom of the paddock—a guy who treats team dinners like community service and mandatory sponsor events like a slow-speed technical failure. He’s made an art form out of being physically present but emotionally a thousand miles away.
“Landon said you weren’t feeling well,” he continues, his voice dropping into a lower, more territorial register.
My father’s name hits me like a physical shove. Using his name so casually, as if they’re co-conspirators in my whereabouts, feels like a sudden, sharp insult.
He has no right to track my exits, and he certainly has no right to use my father as a back-channel to find me.
I spin around, the cloth bunched in my fist. “I was busy, and I don't need you checking in with my father to see where I am. You aren't the center of every decision I make.”
His arms crossed over his chest. He isn't scowling today. Instead, his eyes are bright and his mouth is quirked into a devastating, slow-burn smirk.
He didn’t actually care what my father said. Or maybe he did—maybe he’d actually spent the night looking for me—but it doesn’t matter. He didn't even want an answer; he just wanted to see if the mention of my dad would be enough to make me break my silence.
I feel a flush crawl up my neck—not from embarrassment, but from the realization that I just walked straight into the trap. I fell for the bait like a rookie, and he’s enjoying every second of the catch.
I take a slow, deliberate breath, forcing my fingers to loosen their grip on the cloth. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. I straighten my spine, my shoulders lifting as I find my footing, and I meet his gaze with a level of clinical detachment I don't actually feel.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, my voice dropping into a sharp, quiet edge. “Finally decided to join the team for something? You actually sat through a group meal without looking like you were being held against your will?”
“I decided it was time to be a team player,” he says, his voice shifting an octave as his eyes track the movement of my hands. “You should be happy. Isn't that what you wanted? For me to stop being a disaster?”
“I want you to be professional,” I retort, my voice gaining that sharp, protective edge. “I didn’t realize that required a supervised dinner. Just don’t expect a gold star for doing the bare minimum of your contract.”
Dominic doesn’t flinch. If anything, the smirk deepens, turning into something almost indulgent. He inches closer, taking a single, lazy step into my space.
“Careful, Shortcut,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating with a faux-wounded gravity that makes my skin prickle. “You’ve got a real edge today. It’s almost like you missed me.”
The nickname—and the sheer, staggering arrogance of the suggestion—hits me like a spark to dry fuel.
“I didn't miss you. I enjoyed the silence,” I snap, but even as the words leave my mouth, I see the light flare in his eyes. I fell for it again. I gave him the reaction he was fishing for.
I huff a breath, dropping the cloth onto the rack.
It feels childish—this petty back-and-forth, the sniping, the forced wit.
After the way the world seemed to tilt on its axis yesterday in the dark, this feels almost ridiculous.
But as I look at him, I realize that’s exactly why we’re doing it.
Snapping at each other is safe. It has boundaries.
It’s a return to the version of us that doesn't involve heavy confessions or hollowed eyes.
I decide to lean into it further. “You don’t actually care that I’m mad, do you? You’re just bored. You’d rather have me biting your head off than ignoring you, because at least then I’m looking at you.”
The smirk falters for a fraction of a second—a glitch in his programming.
For a heartbeat, the cocky facade thins, and I see a flicker of the man from yesterday: the one who was drowning in the rain, the one who had actually spent his night scouring a room for someone who wasn't there. He was worried. He was hurt. And he’s using this team player act to bury it.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, his voice losing the playfulness, turning into something low and unreadable.
“I think you’re a professional at redirection,” I say, shifting my hip. I’m doing it too—using my sarcasm to keep him at arm's length. “What’s next? Are you going to tell me you actually enjoyed the company? Or that you’ve suddenly developed a passion for mid-tier catering?”
A sharp, cheerful whistle echoes through the bay.
“Whatever the argument is, I’m on Carter’s side,” Luka announces, strolling into the space with two steaming paper cups. He doesn't even look at Dominic, who immediately stiffens, his entire posture locking back into that practiced aloofness.
Luka stops next to me and wordlessly hands me one of the coffees. The heat of the cup seeps into my palms, grounding me.
“Morning, Hayes,” Luka says, giving me a wink that’s a little too bright for this early. “Don’t let the talent ruin your caffeine buzz.”
The tension doesn't vanish—it just goes underground, humming beneath the floor of the room like a live wire waiting for the next storm. I take a sip of the coffee, keeping my eyes on the black liquid, and refusing to acknowledge why Dominic is currently leveling a small sneer on the back of Luka’s head.
“Of course you are,” Dominic says, his voice like the scrape of a tire against a concrete wall. It’s a dry sound that carries absolutely no warmth.
The mechanic from earlier, jogs back, holding a pack of visor tear-offs. “Got ‘em. Sorry, Dom, the lockers were a mess.”
He starts to move toward his helmet, but Dominic reaches out and intercepts him, his movements stiff. “I’ve got it. Go check the tire pressures on the rear left. I saw a fluctuation on the monitor.”
“You sure?” the mechanic asks, hesitant. “I can just—”
“I said I’ve got it,” Dominic snaps. The finality in his voice is a shutter slamming shut. The mechanic nods quickly and disappears into the bustle of the back-line.
I watch as he tries to hook the device tether to the side of his helmet.
His fingers fumble, the casing clicking aimlessly against the metal.
It’s a simple action, something he’s done thousands of times, but today his hand is locking up.
I can see the frustrated tremor in his wrist —the fallout he keeps pretending he can still outrun.
My heart sinks. The wall I’ve been trying to build all morning—the one made of sarcasm and professional distance—starts to crumble at the edges. I don't see a driver being difficult; I see the way his thumb is failing to find the latch, a direct result of the numbness I know is creeping up his arm.
It isn’t a technical failure. It’s a human one. And knowing that makes my instinct to troubleshoot feel like a heavy, quiet ache in my chest.
“Here,” I say, stepping forward and setting my coffee down. “You’re going to cross-thread it if you keep forcing it.”
I reach for the helmet, my hands already moving into the space between us, but before I can make contact, a hand lands on my shoulder. It’s warm, solid, and entirely too casual.
“I’ll do it, Carter,” Luka says. His voice is easy, designed to soothe, as he sidesteps into the narrow gap to separate us. He doesn't move his hand; instead, his thumb brushes the fabric of my team shirt in a slow, familiar drag. “Go finish your coffee. I can handle this.”
The shift in the air is violent. It’s the feeling of a vacuum seal breaking.