Cassidy leaned forward, elbows on the surface, eager as ever. “You’re referencing the media?”
“Yes,” Sloane said. “Media, sponsorship obligations, fan engagement, charity appearances. In Formula 1, you’re a public figure whether you intended to be or not. Your team and their marketing department will help shape your calendar, but you need to understand the identity you’re putting out into the world.”
She glanced down the table. Reese was listening—the real kind of listening, the kind that said she was fully dialed in. Herfocus landed squarely on Sloane, and the attention felt different this time. Purposeful. Present.
Sloane forced herself to continue. “You’ll build a brand whether you plan to or not. The key is making sure it reflectsyou. People can smell inauthenticity from a mile away, and it’s hard to keep up a persona that’s not who you actually are.”
“That true, Maddox?” Danielle asked. “Is it hard?”
Reese rolled her eyes. Delaney turned around, gaze narrowed. “Not at all necessary,” she told Danielle. “Let’s pretend to be a grown-up for the rest of the day.”
“My mistake,” Danielle said with a proud grin. She turned back to Sloane. “Right. Didn’t mean to detract, but I do have a question. Do we get a say in our branding? Or is that on the team?”
“Both,” Sloane said. “The team will guide you. But what you choose to highlight—your values, your personality, how you show up—has to come from you. Or it won’t stick. I remember arriving for a session with a reporter, prepared to talk all about my last race, only to find myself at a loss for words when the questions were about me. The interview came out, and it was horrific. I came off like a hostile witness. My team marketing manager took me under her wing from that point forward.” She folded her arms. “Moral of the story. Learn from my mistakes. Pay attention in media training.”
Another question came. Then another. And Sloane fielded each one, crisp and steady. But every few heartbeats, her attention tugged toward Reese again, head bowed as she jotted a note, fingers drumming lightly on the table, eyes lifting every time Sloane shifted.
It was infuriatingly distracting. And exhilarating. Reese made Sloane feel alive again, and, honestly, she’d forgotten what that was like. “Remember,” Sloane concluded, “every interaction reflects on your team and on your future. Treat the work outsidethe cockpit with the same focus and intention you bring to your qualifying laps.”
Marissa grinned. “So basically: don’t be an asshole?”
“That’s the short version,” Sloane said, a smile tugging at her mouth. “And now, take time to get yourself ready for quali. If that means eating something healthy, do it. If you need extra reaction drills to get your reflexes firing, make sure it happens.” She lifted her shoulders. “I can’t wait to see who comes out on top.”
That brought on a few overly confident murmurs, which tracked. You needed an ego to reach this level.
The conference room emptied slowly, chairs scraping back, drivers chatting among themselves as they filed out. Sloane answered a last question from one of the rookies, then gathered her notes with mechanical precision.
Professional. Calm. Steady.
Except none of that matched what was happening inside her chest. Reese hadn’t left with the others. Of course she hadn’t. Her notebook was tucked under her arm. Her long dark hair was pulled back today, exposing that sharp jawline Sloane absolutely wasn’t staring at.
Sloane swallowed. Her hands felt warm. Too warm.
“Good session,” Reese said quietly.
Just that. Simple. Normal.
Except it wasn’t simple or normal because Sloane felt the echo of last week’s panic attack still connecting them like an invisible thread. She remembered acutely the way Reese had sat with her in the dark, holding her hand, breathing her back into the world. No one had ever seen her that undone. No one had stayed.
Sloane cleared her throat. “You’re a good group.”
Reese nodded. “But better when you talk to us. Look at my lap times.”
“Is that why you were early?” Sloane asked.
Reese stepped closer, not close enough to crowd, but close enough that the air shifted. “No,” she said softly. “I was excited to see you.”
Sloane’s breath caught at the honesty. No games or performance. Just the truth, spoken like it was the easiest thing in the world.
She looked up. Met Reese’s gaze.
And a door she’d welded shut years ago, clicked open half an inch.
Not enough for anything dangerous. Just enough for light. There was nothing here she had to run from. Nothing here was going to hurt her. With that reminder, she relaxed, and it felt good.
“Sloane,” Reese murmured, “you don’t have to say anything.”
But Sloane already was. Just not with words.
