“Hearing,” Marissa said, sliding a strand of dark curls behind her ear.
Cassidy sat forward. “Maybe this,” she gestured between them, “is how. No cameras. No press. Just us. It’s like therapy.”
“Four drivers, one golden popcorn bowl,” Marissa said solemnly. “We should form a pact.”
“A pact, you say?” Reese asked, amused despite herself. It seemed a little bit sponsored by Hallmark, but she was willing to keep an open mind. “Are we still allowed to say fuck?”
“Fuck yeah,” Delaney said. “Encouraged even.”
“Every city, every race weekend,” Cassidy said, her tone growing in excitement, “we meet up at whoever’s room has the least weird decor?—”
“Impossible,” Marissa cut in. “They’re all weird.”
“Theleastweird,” Cassidy continued. “We drink something cold, eat something questionable, and talk about literallyanything except lap times.” Her blue eyes shone with pride in her idea.
“Why not?” Marissa raised her water bottle. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” Delaney said. “Even if the food’s questionable.”
Reese hesitated, then smiled, the kind that felt real, not practiced. It didn’t even hurt her face. “All right. Pact accepted.”
“I’m calling us The Starting Grid. You don’t have to, but I am,” Cassidy said. She was certainly a confident new kid. “First race weekend and all.”
Delaney nodded along. “Why not? Everything good needs a name.”
“That’s why we call you Slow,” Reese said, only to be smacked hard in the face with a pelican throw pillow.
“All right. The Starting Grid. Who’s in?” Marissa asked.
All four cans and bottles clinked together, the sound small but steady. Reese leaned back against the couch, letting the conversation and low music fill the corners of the room. Tomorrow would come with pressure, expectations, and headlines. But tonight? Tonight was hers.
CHAPTER 6
HAIR DOWN
Samara adjusted her headset as the camera settled into place, the hum of the paddock threading through the air behind her. “For the viewers watching who might be new to the sport,” she said, turning slightly toward Reese, “can you define open-wheel racing—and what brought you to it in the first place?”
Reese didn’t hesitate. She leaned back against the car, gloves dangling from one hand, already half in race mode. “In open-wheel, all four tires sit outside the body of the car,” she explained. “It’s part of what makes it so aerodynamic. These cars live on ground force. That invisible pull that keeps us pinned to the asphalt.” She tipped her chin toward the cockpit. “People are always surprised by how low we sit. You’re basically reclined, almost lying down, inches off the track.”
Samara nodded, following Reese’s gaze. “So today—reclining, sitting that low—what’s going to be the biggest obstacle for you out there?”
Reese rolled her shoulders once, loosening up. “Consistency,” she said. “That’s the real test today.” She gave a quick, self-aware smile. “I get antsy when I’m not leading. That impatience can turn into bad decisions if I’m not careful. I need to settle into a rhythm, find my pace, and be smart.”
Samara’s brows lifted slightly. “You brought it up,” she said. “So let’s go there.”
Reese laughed under her breath. “Fair enough.”
“You’ve built a reputation for some pretty daring overtakes,” Samara continued. “Some say too daring, that you squander your position. Are we going to see more of that risk-taking behavior today?”
Reese grinned as she tugged her gloves on, tightening the straps with practiced ease. “Hopefully, a little less of it,” she said. “At least, that’s the plan.” She glanced briefly toward the pit wall. “My coach, Sloane, reminds me that patience wins races. It’s not about diving into every gap. It’s about knowing which ones are worth the risk. Points matter. The team matters.” Her voice softened just a touch. “I’ll be trying to remember that once the adrenaline kicks in.”
“That sounds like a shift for you,” Samara said.
“It is.” Reese exhaled, thoughtful now. “I like to chase. That’s how I’ve always driven—see a car ahead and go get it. But Formula Next isn’t about individual moments of glory.” She shrugged lightly. “If I take myself or someone else out with a bad move, everyone pays for it. So today’s about control. Smart aggression.” She smiled. “Not just … aggression.”
Samara smiled back. “Smart aggression. I like that.” A pause. “You seem calm for race day.”
Reese laughed, the sound quick and bright. “Give it ten minutes. Once the lights come on, calm disappears.” She reached for her helmet, fingers resting there for a beat. “Then it’s just me, the engine, and about a hundred decisions every lap. But yeah, I’m trying to borrow a page from Sloane’s book. Think before I send it.”
