Cassidy came out limp, her helmet lolling forward, arms slack as they hauled her from the wreckage and laid her carefully on the track. No sound. No attempt to sit up. Reese’s stomach dropped through her shoes as medics rushed in, shielding Cassidy from view, hands moving with brisk, practiced efficiency that only made the silence worse. It was a bad dream. It was all of their worst nightmares. Only it was coming true right infront of them. Reese stood frozen, breath shallow, unable to look away, knowing that for far too long, Cassidy hadn’t moved at all.
In that moment, Reese didn’t do anything heroic. She didn’t run. She couldn’t. Her feet felt welded to the concrete as medics worked around Cassidy’s still form. The red flags came out, and the circuit fell into a stunned hush. Someone was talking to Reese—Samara, maybe, or a team liaison—but the words slid past her without landing. Reese’s hands shook, useless at her sides, and she curled them into fists just to feel something solid.
Her first instinct was to count. Breaths. Seconds. The rise of Cassidy’s chest—was there one?—and when she couldn’t see it, panic clawed up her throat. She forced herself to stay where she was, knowing she wasn’t allowed on the track. She’d only be in the way. That knowledge didn’t help. It just made her feel smaller.
Then training kicked in. Not driving training, butsurvivaltraining. She reached for the radio clipped at her waist with clumsy fingers, thumb hovering before she pressed it, because saying it out loud would make it real. “Who was that?” she asked, voice tight, stripped of bravado. The pause on the other end stretched too long. Reese swallowed hard and added, quieter now, “Tell me who it was.”
When the answer didn’t come right away, Reese turned away from the wreck so she wouldn’t break apart in front of the cameras. She pressed her forehead briefly to the cool concrete wall and breathed through the terror one shallow inhale at a time, waiting for news, for movement, for anything that might tell her whether the silence she was standing in was temporary or permanent.
CHAPTER 23
IS THIS THING ON?
Sloane’s hands shook as she stood along the pit wall where she’d been watching timing screens, so she slid them into her pockets. The circuit speakers crackled to life, the announcer’s voice stripped of its usual enthusiasm, flattened by caution. “Attention please. The race has been red-flagged following a serious incident on the track.” A pause followed. “For safety reasons, the sprint race will not be restarted. Results will be declared based on the last completed lap.” The words echoed across the grandstands, across the paddock, across the stretch of asphalt where the wreck still smoldered. No name was given and no update was offered. Just the quiet, unmistakable finality of it: the race was over, and nothing else mattered anymore.
The announcement carried across the paddock just as Sloane finished scanning a timing screen, her attention snapping to it on instinct.Red-flagged. Serious incident. Race will not be restarted.The words landed with brutal efficiency, slotting themselves into the part of her brain trained to respond, not react. She was already moving, issuing clipped instructions, confirming logistics with Cassidy’s team, checking with Veronica that medical protocols were in motion—because that was the job, and the job was the only thing keeping her upright. It wasn’tuntil someone saidtransport to the hospitalthat her chest tightened, a familiar ache blooming behind her sternum, sharp and unwelcome. She kept her face neutral, hands hidden, even as the crash replayed unbidden in her mind: fire, speed, and then silence. She told herself this wasn’t about her. That it was about her driver. And still, her pulse refused to slow, her body remembering what she spent years teaching it to forget.
“I’m coming with you,” Sloane told Veronica, falling in step alongside her as she moved to the waiting car.
“Of course,” Veronica said, taking her hand and holding it tightly. All the while, Sloane scanned the paddock for any sign of Reese. She wanted to touch her, make sure she was okay, and ground herself in Reese’s presence. But she was nowhere to be found.
They’d gotten out ahead of the ambulance. Neither she nor Veronica said much on the ride. Her brain seemed to function on individual facts rather than on linear thoughts. Stray bits of information were all she could manage. Cassidy had been wheel-to-wheel with Greta Novak when the contact had sent her car up and over. Marissa would be declared the winner. The sky had been blue, with only a few clouds. The last thing Reese said to her that morning had been, “Let’s hope for a good day.” But it wasn’t. And it had the potential to get much, much worse.
“Is her family in town?” Sloane asked.
Veronica shook her head. “I called immediately. They were watching at home in Florida, which must have been awful. They’re getting on the first flight they can find. From what I understand, they’re a tight-knit family.”
“Good. She’ll need support.” If she makes it, Sloane thought to herself. It was the quiet that no one dared to say out loud. But it was there in the car with them.
More silence.
“Marissa and Delaney were white as sheets,” Veronica said. “The four of them are such great friends. How’s Reese doing?”
Sloane shook her head. “I wish I knew. I should send her a message. I hope she’s with the others.” But her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t type. She just needed a little time to get her own emotions under control. She could do this. She could do this. Shehadto do this.
She and Veronica waited in the far corner of the blue-and-white holding area, a glass-walled box overlooking the ER entrance, fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something metallic, clean but unsettling for someone who’d spent a good deal of time in a hospital. When Cassidy was rushed through the doors, surrounded by EMTs, the squeak of gurney wheels cutting too loud through the space, Sloane’s breath caught. Cassidy’s head and neck were fully stabilized, eyes closed, her stillness making it impossible to tell whether she was sedated or worse. “That didn’t look good,” Veronica murmured, squeezing Sloane’s hand. They had already spoken with the nurse’s station, arranging to stand in for Cassidy’s family, and the doctor was notified almost immediately. The update came far sooner than Sloane expected—and she clung to that small mercy with everything she had.
The doctor who approached them looked barely older than Cassidy herself, her expression composed but careful, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. “She’s conscious,” she said, and Sloane’s shoulders eased by a fraction.
“She’s got superficial burns to both hands. The suit did its job there and protected her from the worst of the fire. That said,” she paused, choosing the words carefully, “burns can evolve. What we’re seeing now may not be the full picture.”
She shifted her weight, the tablet creaking faintly under her grip.
“We’re more concerned about internal injuries. There was significant force involved. Right now, we’re seeing signs of internal trauma, but it’s too early to say how extensive it is.”
“Does she seem to be in pain?” Veronica asked.
“It’s being managed,” she replied. “She’s responsive, but disoriented. That’s not unexpected.”
Sloane’s gaze flicked down the hall toward the trauma bay, then back again.
“She’ll be monitored closely hour by hour. The next twelve are crucial. If her numbers change or if she doesn’t respond the way we expect, we’ll move quickly to surgery.”
A beat.
“The suit saved her,” she said again, quieter this time. “Without it—” She stopped herself, clearing her throat. “We’ll know more by morning.” Then she nodded once, professional and brief, already halfway gone. “I’ll come find you when there’s an update.”
The uncertainty in the news slowed time. It felt like hours passed before the others arrived, but in reality, it was only about twenty minutes. Marissa and Delaney were first through the doors, but when Sloane caught sight of Reese behind them, the weight of the night finally settled in. Sloane was on her feet immediately, closing the distance and pulling Reese into her, one hand behind her neck, the other firm at her waist—as much for herself as for Reese—needing the solid proof that she was here, upright, breathing.
