“I don’t know what more you want. I did everything I could,” Marissa said, her voice thinning with exhaustion.
“Then what went wrong? This isn’t F1. You’re all in the same car. Figure it out.” Something clattered—metal on concrete—as if he’d purposely knocked something over on his way out. His footsteps stormed down the corridor.
Reese’s jaw tightened. She wanted nothing more than to explode into that garage and tell that man exactly how phenomenal his daughter was—not just behind the wheel, but as a human being. Instead, she made herself breathe and waited a few beats before appearing in the doorway.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Marissa turned. Her attempt at a smile wavered. She’d changed into her street clothes already, her long dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She looked wrung out, like she’d spent the better part of the last hour justifying a result seventeen other drivers would have killed for. “Want to ride back together?”
Reese nodded. “Hundred percent. Let’s get out of here.”
Some of the tension slipped from Marissa’s shoulders, and together they walked out into the humid night. The full moon hung low, glowing brighter by the minute. Heat clung to Reese’s skin, heavy and sticky, and despite the long day, she wasn’t even close to ready for sleep. They raced again tomorrow … but one drink couldn’t hurt. She’d sworn off any more than that during the season.
“Want to grab a cocktail?” she asked. “I know you don’t drink on race weekends, but maybe we could make it a mocktail?”
“Reese. I want a drink right now more than I’ve ever wanted anything.” And this time, Marissa’s smile looked real. “We’re having one.”
They found one of the academy cars and rode back to the hotel, a quick drive punctuated by silence that didn’t feel awkward, just needed. Inside, they posted up at a small, out-of-the-way table in the lobby bar, away from the remaining buzz of the night.
“You had a great race today,” Reese said once their drinks were delivered—a glass of wine for Marissa, a beer for her. “Your dad not appreciating it doesn’t change the facts.”
“Ah. So you heard him?” Marissa’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Nothing I’m not used to. He has impossible standards. It’s been that way my whole life. He’s rich, entitled, and expects everyone to bend the second he snaps his fingers.” She swirled her wine, watching the liquid catch the light. “What are your parents like?”
“My dad died when I was eight,” Reese said quietly. “And my mom is poor and awesome, which sounds like the exact opposite of your dad.”
Marissa blinked. “I didn’t know you’d lost yours.”
Reese shrugged. “I don’t talk about it much. He was my hero. A good guy who maybe put racing in front of the things that mattered more. He loved it so much that he died doing it.”
“In a race?” Marissa asked, eyes wide. Every driver’s worst nightmare sat between them now.
“Nothing official. It was a street race.” Reese shook her head. “He should’ve known better. It was reckless, and he could’ve hurt someone. Wound up hurting himself. And us. In the end, my mom had to figure everything out on her own with basically nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” Marissa murmured.
“Oh, that’s okay.” Reese forced a small smile. “I guess we both had dads who made some choices that weren’t great for their families.”
Marissa nodded slowly. “I think about that a lot. How one decision, made in an instant, can completely redirect a life. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just told my dad to fuck off.”
“Would you?”
“I might.” Her gaze drifted past Reese to some point far away. “I don’t quite know what my plan is.”
“For him?”
“For me.” Marissa exhaled, a soft huff. “I love racing. It’s all I’ve ever known. But sometimes I think … maybe there’s more out there, you know?”
Reese was confused. The words didn’t compute. “Like what?”
“Hard to say. Maybe I could be Veronica Vance. Or one of the race officials.” Marissa sat back, lighter with a faraway look in her eye. “Hell, sometimes I think I’d make a great sports journalist.” Then it seemed like reality came crashing back in. Her eyes dropped to the table as if she regretted saying any of it aloud. “Anyway.”
Reese stared at her, stunned. Marissa Giovani, of all people, not fully committed to racing? Marissa, who drove like she was born for it? But the thing was … Reese believed her. And she believed she could do any one of those things brilliantly.
“You’d be a kick-ass reporter,” Reese said, leaning back in her chair, “now that I’ve seen you hold your own with literally anyone. You ask good questions. You never get rattled under pressure. And you actually listen when someone talks, which is more than I can say for most people.”
Marissa looked up, surprise flickering across her face like she hadn’t expected kindness, at least not today. Maybe not ever, coming off a race.
“You really think so?” she asked, voice softer than before.
