“Don’t sweat it. I try to limit my intake before a race,” Delaney said. “It sucks, but I want to be as clear as possible.”
“My trainer made me promise,” Marissa said. “After tomorrow’s race, though? All the walls come tumbling down. Oh, and my birthday. There will be a glass of wine, race or not.”
Reese turned to Cassidy.
“Oh, I’m new here,” she said with a shrug. “I do what they do.”
“No, I get it.” She glanced at the Tecate she’d already opened. “And I probably shouldn’t be partaking either.”
“Everyone’s different,” Delaney said. “Do what works for you.”
Reese allowed herself a few sips as the others chatted about the strong crowd turnout for their sprint race and the specific technique Marissa employed to achieve her high velocity champagne spray on the podium after winning. Reese laughed along, slightly on edge because it had been a while since she’d found herself on top of one of those things, and the clock was ticking. Why did it feel like she had so much to lose? Because she did. She ran a finger around the iced rim of her beer. If she didn’t start winning, not only would Ravensport likely move on to another driver, but her sponsorships would shrivel up, and her endorsement deals would gradually fade into the distance. When she came back into the fold of the conversation, she realized the others were talking about Sloane.
“How is she so incredibly good at this, though?” Marissa asked. “She saw patterns in my driving after one race and a few films that I’d never even considered, nor had my team. And she was right.”
Delaney leaned forward from her blue leather club chair with the pelican throw pillow. “I left that meeting more inspired to work hard than probably any other conversation in my career. Veronica was a genius to bring her on.”
“Confession time. I had a poster of Sloane Foster in her race suit on my wall when I was sixteen,” Cassidy said. “I skipped high school parties to watch her race. She was just so composed. Even when things went wrong, she had this calm, almost surgical focus. I used to think, ‘If I can be even a fraction of that one day, I’ll have made it.’”
Marissa raised a sculpted eyebrow. “And now you’ve met her. Was it everything you dreamed?”
Cassidy laughed and covered her face. “No. It was terrifying. She’s amazing, but her eyes? First of all, gorgeous. It hurts to look at her. Second, it’s like she’s seeing right through you. I kept waiting for her to tell me to go home. I would have.”
“She doesn’t mince words,” Delaney agreed. “But she’s the real deal. I think that’s why she resonates with us. She’s not pretending to be anyone else.”
Reese took another sip of her beer and felt the carbonation burn all the way down. The others were right—Sloanewasthe real deal. And she’d read Reese like a book, even though she’d refused to see it in that moment. Dependability. Consistency. All the places she came up short. Her jaw tightened at the thought.
Marissa reached for the bowl of popcorn in the center of the coffee table. Actually, a repurposed nautical wheel painted gold beneath glass, because of course it was. The hotel’s decor leaned hard into its theming, from the under-the-sea mural to the lamp made out of a starfish. A little over the top, butsomehow charming. The academy wasn’t springing for the high-dollar F1 accommodations, which made sense, so they’d take the personality instead. Reese caught sight of herself in the reflection of the coffee table and almost laughed. Four women in matching sweatpants and hoodies, drinking soda and water in a heightened space meant for influencers. Perfect metaphor for their lives.
“All right, enough about Sloane,” Delaney said, grabbing the popcorn bowl from Marissa. “We need to talk about the real story. Which one of you actually cooks and can make something happen in these kitchenettes? Because we have weeks of travel ahead, and I’m not built to survive on takeout.”
“I’m a solid breakfast woman,” Cassidy volunteered. “Like, eggs and toast level. Not fancy. But I can work on sprinkling some cheese and crisping up the bacon.”
“I can order from an app like nobody’s business,” Marissa said. “That’s my skill set.”
“I’m a cereal girl,” Reese admitted. “It’s fast and doesn’t burn.”
Delaney pointed at Reese. “You’re the one with all the sponsors. Use your charm and get us a chef deal.”
“Please,” Reese said. “Half my sponsors are probably about to ghost me unless I win something soon.” The words slipped out darker than she’d intended, and silence followed.
Cassidy tilted her head. “Are you feeling extra pressure?”
Reese hesitated, then nodded. “You could say that.” She thought about brushing the topic off, defaulting to humor, but something about the relaxed energy in the room, no cameras, no handlers, made honesty easier. “I also had my one-on-one with Sloane earlier.”
That got everyone’s attention. Delaney leaned forward. “And?”
“And she thinks I need to get my head on straight.” Reese exhaled. “Basically, told me I’m inconsistent because I spread myself too thin. Sponsors, media, appearances, all the extra stuff.”
Marissa nodded. “I mean … I’m sure it’s hard. That caliber of juggling. It’s enough for me to focus on the race itself.”
“Here’s the thing, though. You’re not just a driver. You’re a brand, Reese,” Delaney said. “You’ve built something big. That’s impressive.”
“It’s exhausting,” Reese admitted. “Sometimes I forget why I even started racing in the first place.” The confession surprised her as it left her mouth. The others didn’t pounce or pity her, though. They just listened. That alone felt like a relief.
“We all get that,” Delaney said quietly. “It’s the noise. All of it. You’ve got to tune it out somehow. The season’s just starting.”
Cassidy smiled. “I know I just got here, but hear me out.”
