Talia’s hand slides onto my thigh. “Don’t be grumpy, Cal.” Her tone shifts to something more sultry. “You were hot tonight. That fight in the first? My followers went mental.”
My jaw tightens. “Not why I did it.”
“Maybe not, but it worked.” Her nails trace circles against my leg, its irritating the shit out of me. “You were trending.”
I shoot her a look but she’s smiling at her reflection in the window.
We hit the A57, dark and mostly empty. The rain hasn’t let up, in fact, it’s hammering it down now. My stomach’stwisting with leftover adrenaline and exhaustion, with an edge of something worse.
“Pull over,” she says suddenly.
“What?”
“I need to film a story. This light’s perfect.”
“You can’t be serious.”
She pouts. “Two seconds. Come on.”
I’m about to argue when the traffic light ahead flips from green to amber. Without thinking, I hit the accelerator.
“Cal…”
The red flashes. I shoot through. Behind us, there’s a screech of tyres. Then the unmistakable, heart-stopping sound of metal crunching against metal. I look in the mirror just in time to see two cars collide, spinning sideways, glass spraying across the tarmac.
“Holy shit,” Talia breathes.
My chest goes cold. “Jesus?—”
“Keep driving.” Her voice is sharp now, panicked.
“What?”
“Keep driving, Cal!”
“I need to stop.”
“Youcan’t!” She grabs my arm. “You’ll ruin your career. They’ll blame you. You ran the light!”
“I didn’t.” The words rasp out. “Did I?”
“Doesn’t matter! If you stop now, they’ll know. The cameras, your sponsors, everyone. Think about what how this looks!”
My hands are shaking. The rearview mirror is filled with flashing hazard lights and mayhem. And I keep driving. The silence after is deafening. The rain, the tyres on wet road, her shallow breathing beside me. My heart’s thudding as though I’m still on the ice. I can’t see straight. Every instinct screamsturn around,but my foot stays heavy on the accelerator.
Talia’s already on her phone, refreshing feeds. “Nothing yet,” she mutters. “It’ll be fine. Accidents happen all the time.”
I can’t speak. If I open my mouth, I might throw up.
She glances at me. “Cal. Look at me. You didn’thitanyone. You just… didn’t stop. It’s not the same.”
I swallow hard. “Doesn’t feel different.”
“Then you need to make it feel different,” she says, her tone sharp again. “Sleep. Forget it happened. Focus on the next game.”
I don’t sleep. Not that night.
The screen on my laptop blurs with headlines and blurbs about the collision. My stomach twists with every story. Then I see it:
