The sea kept moving. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared. My eyes stung, just a little.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You tell him I said hi,” he said. “And that if he ever hurts you, I still remember how to swing a baseball bat.”
I laughed again, wet and uneven, but real. “I will.”
“Get some sleep,” he said. “You have a race to write about.”
“I do.”
“And Wally?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t disappear. Call again when you can.”
“I will,” I said. “Love you.”
“Love you too, kid.”
The line went quiet. I stayed on the balcony a while longer, watching the last light sink into the sea, and for the first time in weeks, the quiet didn’t feel like something I had to survive.
37
LINES IN THE SAND
The Circuit Zandvoortfelt different from every other track I’d entered since Monaco. The moment I stepped through the paddock entrance, conversations stopped mid-sentence when I approached. Eyes tracked my movement across the paddock with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for breaking news or major scandals.
Which, I suppose, was exactly what I’d become.
“Pulaski,” Mason Banning called out as I found my usual spot in the media center. His tone was carefully neutral, the way you’d address someone whose professional competence was suddenly in question. “How was your… vacation?”
The pause before ‘vacation’ carried enough weight to sink a yacht. Around us, other journalists pretended to focus on their laptops while obviously listening to every word.
“Restful,” I said, pulling out my notebook with hands that I hoped looked steadier than they felt. “Ready to get back to work.”
Sandra Baumgartner looked up from her computer, eyebrow arched. “I imagine work will be… different now. More challenging to maintain objectivity when you’re personally invested in the outcome.”
The accusation hung in the air like smoke. I’d covered sensitive stories before, navigated ethical gray areas, but never had my professional integrity been questioned so directly by colleagues I respected.
“My job is analyzing what happens on track,” I said, keeping my voice level. “That hasn’t changed.”
“Hasn’t it?” Mason’s expression was skeptical. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve got a pretty significant conflict of interest now.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed with a text from Jonathan:Free for coffee? Need to talk before practice starts.
I stared at the message, acutely aware that everyone around me was watching my reaction. Even checking my phone felt like admitting guilt.
“Excuse me,” I said, standing and gathering my things. “I’ve got an interview to conduct.”
Twenty Minutes Later - Meridian Hospitality
Jonathan was waiting in a quiet corner of the team’s hospitality unit, looking more relaxed than I felt. He’d changed from his media day polo into team gear, and somehow the familiar sight of him in Meridian colors made everything feel both more normal and more complicated.
“How are you holding up?” he asked as I sat down across from him.
“Define ‘holding up,’” I said, accepting the coffee he’d already ordered for me. “If you mean ‘functioning as a professional journalist,’ the jury’s still out. If you mean ‘not having a complete breakdown,’ then marginally better.”
