I was right, she typed. I hate that I was right.
Me too, he replied. But I’d rather be mad than plan a funeral.
On screen, everything got louder.
The microphones picked up Heidi’s furious voice, calling it a misunderstanding, and accusing the tech inspectors of targeting them. Stoke stepped closer to one of the officials, his body language all sharp angles and clenched fists.
The camera angle changed again, widening to catch more of the pit lane.
Bree watched Stoke shove the nearest inspector; saw tools scatter as the man stumbled into a cart. Security moved fast; two men in black polos closed in, hands catching Stoke’s arms. He fought them with jerky movements, his mouth moving in words that blurred into static through the speakers.
Her nails dug into her palms.
Someone in a darker uniform arrived, a woman with sergeant stripes on her sleeve, hand resting near her belt; her posture was calm in a way that made everyone around her look more frantic.
The commentators scrambled to keep up, explaining that local law enforcement had a presence at the track and that any altercation with officials would be taken seriously.
Bree’s phone buzzed again.
Stoke just shoved a tech, Hank wrote. Cops involved now. Nobody’s hurt. Stay where you are.
She realized she had half risen without noticing, weight on the balls of her feet; muscles ready to run.
She sat back down.
Is it safe for you? she wrote. Are they going to blame you for this?
No one said your name, he answered. Brian was careful; so was I. To the Dragons, this looks like Mac doing his job. I’m just another rider watching the show.
She did not like the word show, not with that much anger in the frame, but she understood what he meant.
On TV, security and police steered Stoke out of the center of the pit; the sergeant talking to him with the kind of firm patience Bree had seen cops use with drunk patrons outside bars. One of the techs kept taking photos of the exposed frame; another wrote on a clipboard; glance sharp and focused.
You saved them, she thought. You saved them from their own bad choices.
Her phone screen lit again.
How are you, pretty girl? Hank wrote. Not just watching. You.
The endearment hit her like a warm hand between her shoulder blades.
Shaky, she answered. I’m glad they found it. I kind of want to vomit. And I hate that they’re yelling at the inspectors instead of apologizing.
Same, he replied. They’ll spin it; they always do. But the bottle is out in the open. That’s not going back in the frame quietly.
On the broadcast, the commentators started talking about possible penalties, how an impounded bike complicated the lineup, and what sponsors might say. They kept their voices neutral, stretched thin over the tension like a fresh coat of paint.
Bree got up and walked to the curtains again.
She let herself open them just enough to see the edge of the track far below, a thin gray ribbon between blocks of color. She did not touch the balcony door; she was not even tempted to slide it open now. She just looked at the sliver of world she could see and tried to picture Hank in it: tall and solid and unflinching.
Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass; hair messy, eyes wide, T-shirt twisted.
This is what you wanted, she thought. You wanted to matter.
She had not wanted Bryn to die. She had not wanted to sit in a hospital waiting room after Bryn’s diagnosis and feel completely powerless. That helplessness had sunk claws into her and never fully let go.
Seeing the hidden cylinder, connecting the details, getting out, telling Hank, that had been the opposite of helpless. It had been focused; clear. It had mattered.
