Sloane scrubbed a hand down her face and exhaled. Great. Perfect. Add that to the list: a friend she’d just hurt, a driver she couldn’t stay away from, and a night ahead she wasn’t remotely ready for.
And in a few hours, she’d have to walk into that hospitality suite and pretend none of it was unraveling her from the inside out. Piece of cake.
Reese watched the Grand Prix from along the Ravensport garage, toes practically against the yellow pit-lane line. The air vibrated with engine noise, each car shooting past in a blur that tugged at her and got her blood pumping. This was the kind of thing Reese lived for, and she was itching to be a part of it all. But out here, close enough to taste the fuel in the air, she could almost fool herself into thinking she was part of the race. She relished every twitch of the cars under braking, every surge of acceleration, every breathless gamble through the corners.
Fuck, this was good stuff.
When the midfield battle hit the trickiest turn on the circuit, known as Degner 1, she leaned forward instinctively, reading the body language of the cars like text. Too close. Too bold. This wasn’t good at all. Her stomach dropped half a second before one car snapped loose and spiraled across the track.
The other had nowhere to go. She braced, knowing what was coming.
The impact cracked through the air, a metallic roar swallowed instantly by screeching tires and a plume of carbon fiber shrapnel. “No, no, no,” Reese murmured, shoving a hand through her hair as she watched in fear.
Both cars spun out, one burying itself nose-first into the gravel trap, the other slamming hard against the barriers. Marshals were already sprinting. Hospitals would be prepping. And Reese couldn’t breathe. This was every driver’s nightmare. Her own family knew all too well.
Her fingers gripped the railing so hard her knuckles blanched. The smell of scorched rubber reached her a beat later, acrid and unmistakable. A few mechanics behind her swore. Someone else began whispering a prayer.
“Come on … come on …” she whispered, eyes locked on the ruined machines for any positive sign.
Then, movement. A driver shifting in the cockpit. Pushing the steering wheel off. Climbing out with help from the marshals. Seconds later, the second cockpit opened, and another driver pulled himself free, shaken but standing.
A whoosh of release rippled down the pit wall, a tense exhale shared by everyone.
Reese let her grip loosen, breath finally slipping out of her. Racing was a monster and moments like this carved a truth into her bones: if you weren’t careful, this sport could take everything.
Almost three hours later, when Reese stepped back into the academy’s hospitality suite, her pulse was still buzzing from the race. The suite had been cleared out for the night, which meant the staff would be back the next day to pack up. It also meant she and Sloane could relax and be themselves without worrying about crew and office staff milling about. It was likely the group had headed out to dinner, an invitation that Reese had politely declined, much preferring to take this meeting with Sloane, bothfor personal and professional reasons. First of all, she hadn’t spent any one-on-one time with her over race weekend, barely an exchange since the kiss she’d relived about a hundred times. She needed to look Sloane in the eyes and make sure they were okay. Beyond that, every good thing that was happening in her professional world right now could be traced back to Sloane Foster holding her feet to the fire, and Reese was prepared to absorb her advice like a dutiful sponge. Dinner could wait.
But she didn’t make it very far into the dimly lit room before she realized someone was in distress. She could tell immediately from the breathing pattern. “Hey, are you okay?” Reese asked before the figure leaning over in a chair shifted. It was Sloane. “Hey,” Reese said, moving to her and kneeling at her feet. “What’s wrong? Oh, no. Talk to me.”
“Sorry,” Sloane managed, but her jaw was tight, almost like she couldn’t unclench it. “I wasn’t expecting to …” She trailed off, leaving Reese to guess what had set off what looked to be a full-on panic attack.
But Reese didn’t guess. She didn’t press. She just stayed close, knees on the carpet, posture relaxed so she wouldn’t add to the claustrophobia tightening Sloane’s chest.
“It’s okay,” Reese murmured softly. “You don’t have to explain anything. Just breathe with me.”
Sloane shook her head a fraction. “Can’t.” The word came out strangled. Her hands clutched the armrests like she was trying to keep herself anchored to the chair. Or to the world.
Reese slid one hand, slowly and deliberately, over Sloane’s forearm. Not gripping, just offering a point of contact. A lighthouse instead of a rope.
“Hey. You’re right here. I’ve got you.”
A shudder ran through Sloane. Her breaths were rapid and shallow, her pupils wide, unfocused. Panic lived in her posture,shoulders curled inward, throat working like she couldn’t get air down far enough.
Reese kept her voice low, level. “Match me, okay? Just match what I do.” She inhaled slowly, exaggerating the rise of her chest so Sloane could follow if she wanted. Then she exhaled, long and steady.
At first, nothing changed.
Then, a faint, shaky inhale from Sloane tried to follow hers.
“Perfect,” Reese said. “You’re doing great.”
Sloane braced her elbows on her knees, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes like she was trying to squeeze back the memory, the trigger, whatever image had clawed its way into her head. “I knew … coming back … being this close would be … stupid.” Her breath hitched. “I thought I was, you know … past it.”
Reese shook her head. “You don’t have to be past anything. And it’s not stupid. You got hit with something big. Anyone would react.”
Sloane huffed out a broken laugh. “Not like this.”
“Especially like this,” Reese countered gently. “Your body remembers danger even when your brain doesn’t want it to. Today was a nasty reminder.”
