Still, a quieter thought followed.
When do I race again?
The question tightened her chest before she could stop it. She swallowed it down and forced her shoulders back. This wasn’t the moment for impatience. This was everything she’d ever wanted, and wanting more might ruin it.
As she turned, she caught the look.
Marco Faz, already suited up, helmet under his arm. His gaze slid over her, dismissive and smug. A flick of the eyes that saidmarketing hire.
Reese held it. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.
Then she stepped past him, deeper into the garage, knowing her time would come soon. And when it did, no one, least of all Marco Faz, would be able to look past her again.
Later that night, while Sloane was buried in long, strategic meetings with Veronica, Reese went looking for the only people who understood. She found her friends holed up in Marissa’s hotel room, and they all arranged in what could generously be called a circle. There were two of them on the beds, one cross-legged on the floor, one half-perched on the arm of the chair, all surrounded by the wreckage of room-service casualties.
Reese tried to articulate the struggle within. “It’s my dream, and it’s here, but …”
“It’s still just out of your grasp,” Delaney said, nodding like she knew. She did. They were all wired to be behind the wheel of a car, doing what they loved. It was one of the reasons they had such an easy shorthand. The three could complete her thoughts before she had them because they were their thoughts, too.
“It’s only temporary,” Marissa said, meeting her eyes. “And who knows when you’ll get a break from the wheel like this again. Put it to use. Get yourself in absolutely impeccable shape both mentally and physically.”
“But you know what?” Cassidy said. “It’s okay to miss it, too.” She reached up and squeezed Reese’s hand from her regular spot on the floor. She definitely preferred it to furniture. “And it’s okay to bitch to us about it, because we’re your people and we will bitch right back.”
“I’d like to bitch about jet lag math,” Marissa said, stretching her neck. “I don’t know what time it is, what country I’m in, or why my body thinks it’s 3 a.m.”
Delaney didn’t look up from her phone. “Time zones don’t care about your feelings.” She pointed at them with her bottle of sparkling water. “I’d like to bitch about this morning’s meeting with my PR team. Apparently, my brand is ‘approachable but mysterious.’ I don’t even know what that means.”
“But you’re so cute when you’re brooding and mysterious,” Reese said.
“I’m not aiming for cute,” Delaney pouted in a move that was damn near a smolder.
“Too late,” Reese said, ruffling her hair with nothing but unbridled affection.
Cassidy reached for a fry. “I answered an interview question today and realized halfway through I was still in yesterday. Like, spiritually.”
Delaney nodded seriously. “That explains a lot.”
“And why,” Reese continued, sitting up now, “do all hotels either feel like sleeping on a cloud or a personal attack?”
“Fucking spite mattresses,” Marissa said immediately. “That’s what they are. Designed by someone who’s never had hips. I figured that part out early in my career. It’s criminal.”
“And the pillows,” Cassidy added. “Six decorative ones you’re not allowed to touch, and zero that actually support your neck. I’ve written letters.” A beat. “I’ve never sent them.”
“The decorative pillows are there to judge you,” Delaney said. “For moving them.”
For a moment, no one spoke. The AC hummed.
“I know we complain,” Reese said finally, softer now. “But I still can’t believe this is our life.”
Delaney’s expression shifted. “Yeah. Same.”
“Not sure I’d trade it, ya know?” Cassidy offered with a smile tugging. “Even for better pillows.”
“The Starting Grid forever,” Reese said, leaning into the cheese and placing a hand over her heart.
“Daily,” Delaney laughed.
“Obsessively,” Cassidy added.
