The ten drivers were all dressed up in smart-casual attire, looking like models and heading for the table next to ours. I focused on my food, even though most of my dining companions were unashamedly watching the new arrivals and whispering amongst themselves.
At the head of our table, Jamie got to his feet and bumped fists with Jax and Ren, greeting them like old friends. As the pit-lane reporter for Pulse, he had near-daily contact with most of the drivers, so I supposed he was friendly with some of them.
I glanced over my shoulder just as Volkov took his seat… the one directly behind mine.
“Fuck’s sake,” I hissed to myself. If I reached back, I’d be able to touch his chair.
“Too close for comfort, eh?” Caroline asked, doing a terrible job of hiding a smirk.
“Something like that,” I replied. I tucked into my food and tried not to think about Volkov’s hot, firm body pressing me against that car. Or about how the very next day he’d had a terrible race.
I kept my eyes on my bowl and my mouth full, praying no one else would bring up the story.
Thankfully, they didn’t. Whether it was professional courtesy or fear of being quoted out of context, the conversation slid back into safer waters—race predictions, weather complaints, hotel horror stories.
“That room in Suzuka?” someone groaned. “I could touch both walls without getting out of bed.”
“That’s Japan for you,” Caroline said, rolling her eyes. “You booked the capsule special.”
A few of them laughed. I managed a smile. Added a half-hearted “at least yours had working air-con” when prompted. But my nerves stayed on high-alert.
Because I could feel him.
Right behind me, just inches away. A wall of heat and silence.
He didn’t speak. Not to me. Not to anyone near me. But up at the other end of the table, where the conversation flowed more freely between tables, laughter burst now and then. Glasses clinked. It wasn’t drivers versus press. It was like a big, dysfunctional family.
“Mate, did you see Ramos’s double overtake?” Kane was saying. “I was bloody cheering and I was one of the people he passed.”
“I taught him that,” Jax called. “Didn’t I, Ren?”
“No,” said Ren. “And also, no.”
They laughed. All of them—even Aleks. A quiet chuckle. A flash of teeth in the mirror across the restaurant. It hit me like a punch.
He was always more human when he thought no one was looking.
I told myself it wasn’t about me. That he was just unwinding. That he didn’t even know I was here.
But I didn’t believe that for a second.
After dinner, there was that awkward, milling moment where half the group wanted to go home, the other half wanted to keep the night going, and no one knew what to do with the bill.
Jamie Kavanagh clapped his hands together. “Right—who’s coming to the bar down the street? First round’s on Pulse.”
That settled it.
We spilled out into the Shanghai night in a noisy cluster. More than a dozen of us trailing down the neon-lit pavement.The city pulsed around us—horns blaring, lights flashing, the distant sound of music from a rooftop venue.
Aleks was near the back of the group, hands in his pockets, collar flipped against the breeze. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—but he came anyway.
“I swear to God,” Mason Hale was saying, “I spent six hours yesterday posing with a can of energy drink. If I have to do re-shoots, I’m walking into the sea.”
“You’re in Shanghai,” Jax said. “Plenty of options. River, bay, traffic…”
“I’ll pick the most dramatic.”
More laughter. Even Aleks cracked a smile.
