The radio crackled. “Two laps remaining. Bring it home, Griffin.”
I grinned. Nah.
He’d love that, wouldn’t he? Julian Carter sitting up there in his ivory tower with the headset on, hearing me follow orders like some tame little company driver. Bring it home. Be neat. Be careful. Be theirs.
Not a chance.
If I wanted neat, I wouldn’t still be here. If I wanted safe, I’d have walked when he threatened my contract. When he tried to use my daughter as leverage.
No, I wasn’t bringing it home. I was going to win it so loudly he’d taste blood. Leave him standing on that podium knowing he’d lost the only driver he couldn’t manipulate.
I slammed through turn sixteen, the car twitching beneath me. Two laps from victory, one step from freedom, and every fiber of me screamed to drag this car across the line out of spite.
The car rolled into parc fermé under a blur of blue lights and noise. Mechanics were over the barrier in seconds, crew uniforms blending together in waves of black and blue and red.
I sat there for a second and just absorbed it.
Exhaustion and elation crashed through me. I almost couldn’t believe it. Al chatted to me over the radio confirming it, congratulating me, wishing me the best at Rekford, but I could barely hear him past my racing thoughts.
Six points. That was the difference between Jesse’s championship and mine. Six damn points.
The last ninety minutes and six points had made me a three-time world champion.
And Julian had done everything he could to sabotage it this year.
God, the sheer irony of that.
The heat still clung to me, heavy and alive beneath the fireproofs. Every inch of my body was coated in sweat and Violet would no doubt wrinkle her nose at the smell of me, but who the hell cared when I’d won?
For a moment, all I did was breathe.
Callaghan’s car rolled to a stop just behind me, and Nico pulled up behind him. Their engines ticked down in an exhausted sigh. One by one, everything went quiet, radios silenced and the chaos shrunk to white noise.
I finally unbuckled, threw the wheel up onto the dash, and climbed out. Tugging my helmet off, the first thing I saw was Nico pulling off his helmet, his grin wolfish even through the exhaustion. He looked lighter already, the way men do when they know this is their last fight.
Callaghan didn’t look at either of us. He sat a moment longer, visor still down, hands still tight around the wheel. Then he climbed out.
Surprisingly, there were no theatrics and no tantrums.
Nico and I shared a quizzical look as Callaghan walked straight past me toward the cooldown room without a word. We shrugged and waved to the crowd.
Nico fell into step beside me as we cut through the sea of cameras.
“You know,” he said, tugging at his gloves, “I could barely see your tail lights for most of that race.”
I snorted. “Old age catching up with you?”
He shook his head, grinning. “Old age and the fact that Axel’s been telling everyone he’s finally getting a new dog. One that doesn’t bark at strategy calls.”
“Good for him. Tell him to keep the leash somewhere safe. I don’t fetch.”
Nico barked a laugh. “Oh, he’ll find out soon enough. Though I’ve gotta admit, I’m glad it’s you taking my seat. Reckless bastard or not, you’re the right kind of problem to have.”
We reached the cool-down room and collapsed into the chairs. Water bottles waited on the low counter. I cracked one open and downed it in a single breath. The first swallow burned all the way down. Nico mirrored me, shaking his head with a chuckle.
“Got any advice for next season?” I asked, half out of curiosity, half to fill the silence vibrating between us.
Nico leaned back, expression thoughtful. “Get on Thiago’s good side early. He’s quiet, but once he decides you’re his person, that’s it. He’ll kill for you, or ignore you for eternity. No middle ground.”
