Aria rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “You’re both ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously right,” Dana shot back.
They talked for another hour—racing gossip, Mia’s stories about surviving a full season as the reigning World Champion’s girlfriend, Dana’s ongoing complaints about the new batch of rookies who thought “stretch before quali” was optional. But underneath it all, Aria felt the steady pull back toward Jax. Toward the hotel. Toward the quiet way he’d text her updates from the sim lounge, just to let her know he was thinking of her.
When she finally said goodnight and stepped into the lift, her phone buzzed.
Jax: Lucas is still sulking about the 0.2. Etienne’s plotting a rematch at 2 a.m. You having fun?
She smiled, thumbs flying.
Aria: Yes. But I miss you. Heading back now.
His reply was almost instant.
Jax: Bed’s warm. I’m naked. Hurry.
She pressed the lobby button harder than necessary, heart kicking up in that familiar, giddy way.
Tomorrow he’d race. Tomorrow the world would watch.
But tonight—tonight was just them.
And it felt more real than anything she’d ever had before.
???
Jax
Race day.
The grid thrummed with life—engines barking sharply, the crowd roaring like a living thing, that familiar pre-race tension crackling through the air like electricity. P4 on the grid. Lucas ahead in P2. The Albert Park sun beat down, turning the asphalt into a shimmering ribbon.
Jax sat in the cockpit, heart steady, hands loose on the wheel. This was what he lived for. The car felt planted beneath him, balanced in a way it hadn’t been all last season. He could already taste the potential.
The lights went out.
He got a clean start, slotting neatly into P4 through the chaos of Turn 1. The car responded beautifully—no twitch, no hesitation. By lap 5 he was pressuring the car ahead, using the improved front-end handling to carry more speed through the fast right-hander at Turn 5. Lap by lap he continued to close resulting in a clean move on the McLaren through the long chicane. By lap 15 he was running P3, the rear glued to the track, tires still in their prime. He could see Lucas up ahead, pulling away like he was on rails.
For a moment, everything felt perfect. The car was an extension of his body, the crowd a distant roar, the strategy calls crisp in his ear. This was the version of racing he’d been chasing all last season.
Then the radio crackled.
“Lucas has crashed. Turn 8. Rear suspension failure. Spun into the barriers.”
Jax’s stomach clenched tight. “Is he okay?”
“Out of the car. He waved to the marshals. Medical car’s with him now. Safety car deployed.”
He exhaled sharply, forcing the worry down. Lucas was tough. He’d be fine. But the championship picture had just shifted in an instant.
The safety car bunched the field. On the restart, Jax pushed hard—defending against the McLaren behind while trying to close the gap to the Ferrari in front. The car stayed composed through the high-speed sections, the new setup giving him confidence to attack the curbs. Lap after lap he hunted, the crowd roaring louder with every overtake attempt. He crossed the line P2, the chequered flag waving under a bright Melbourne sky.
Podium champagne tasted like relief mixed with adrenaline. He sprayed it wide, grinning for the cameras as the Albert Park crowd roared his name. For a few minutes it felt like a proper celebration.
But the moment he stepped off the podium, the weight settled back in.
Back in the team room the mood was muted. No wild cheers, no back-slapping. Engineers spoke in low voices over data screens; Marcus paced with his phone pressed to his ear. Jax stripped out of his race suit in silence, the fabric sticking to sweat-slick skin.
