Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Mom… we’ve been good. Really good. Better than I thought we’d be. But…”
“But what?” she prompts gently. My dad works on his steak, pretending he’s not listening.
I take a sip of my water and set the glass down. “I still love her. I never stopped. But I’m scared, okay? Scared of going all in again and having it fall apart.”
That is not a hard admission for me to make to my parents. There’s nothing I can’t tell them, except maybe about that time in middle school when we broke into the principal’s office and super-glued everything down on his desk.
“Just like you were scared to get back into the car?” Dad asks pointedly, proving he was listening. “But you did it anyway.”
I blink at him. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” Mom asks. “You took a risk to come back to racing because you love it. Why wouldn’t you take a risk on someone you love just as much, if not more?”
The truth in her words settles across me like a weighted blanket. I’ve spent months pushing through my fears to get back on the track, but when it comes to Bex, I’ve been holding myself in reserve.
Playing it safe.
Maybe too safe.
“You’re a fighter, Nash,” Dad says, his tone softer now. “Don’t let fear keep you from something—or someone—who’s worth fighting for.”
I nod slowly, their words sinking in. “I hear you and you’re not wrong. But I think Bex needs to work through her stuff right now, then maybe we can have a deeper discussion about us.”
“Excellent,” my mother says, holding up her wineglass. Dad and I pick ours up, and we all tap them in the middle. “Here’s to our son’s new career and new… well, old… love. May you get all the happiness you deserve, dear boy, and know that we couldn’t be any prouder of you than we are now.”
I take a sip, settle back into my chair and look between my parents. They’ve been married thirty-two years. “How did you two make it work for so long?”
“I learned to say ‘yes, dear’ without really thinking about it. Once that became a natural response to your mom, our relationship never faltered.”
My mom swats at my dad’s shoulder, and he laughs. “Matt Sinclair… you’ve never once said ‘yes, dear’ in your life.”
“Yes, dear,” he intones, and she swats him again. They laugh, and I watch their easy banter and adoring looks while they tease each other.
Fuck… I want that again.
I’m going to have it again.
CHAPTER 21
Bex
The monitor in front of me blurs slightly, my eyes unfocused as I stare at the data scrolling past. Numbers, tire temperatures, sector times—they all swim together in a meaningless haze. I rub at my temples, trying to summon clarity, but the tension pressing down on my shoulders is relentless. The garage is buzzing with activity outside the strategy room, but the sound feels muted, like I’m underwater.
The flight back from Melbourne was a blur of exhaustion and regret. We left Monday morning on one of the private charter jets leased by Titans Racing, the sun barely cresting over the horizon as we took off. It was a long journey—twenty-one hours in the air, broken only by a quick refueling stop. I tried in vain to sleep on the plane, but I kept replaying the race, over and over again. Crossing time zones always messes with my head and leaving Australia and landing in England on the same day, despite being in the air for almost an entire rotation of the earth, made it worse. By the time I arrived in Guildford Monday evening, the sky was dark, and I felt like I’d been run over by a freight train.
Tuesday morning though? I was the first to arrive today and I haven’t left my desk in almost three hours. Many took the day off to rest and relax, but staying at home and twiddling my thumbs seemed wasteful.
The aftermath of Melbourne’s race has been haunting me. Nash’s P3 finish was absolutely a cause for celebration, and nothing has made me as happy in a very long time as seeing him up there getting his due. But the pall of Matthieu’s disastrous result overshadows everything, and it’s all I can think about. My risky call to put Matthieu on soft tires and attempt an undercut backfired spectacularly. He fell out of the top ten, and his post-race tirade in the garage is still fresh in my mind. I flush hot just thinking about the humiliation.
A sharp knock on my door jolts me from my thoughts and Hendrik strides in, his expression as sharp as a blade.
“Hendrik… how can I help you?” I ask, standing from my desk.
He casually sits down in one of my guest chairs and motions for me to take my seat again, which I do.