Jax’s birthday landed on qualifying day in Montreal, and the weekend already felt heavier than it should. He’d turned twenty-nine under a grey Canadian sky, the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve still damp from overnight rain, the paddock alive with the usual pre-race chaos.
His phone rang early that morning while he was still in the hotel room, coffee in hand. Nan’s name lit up the screen—right on time, like always.
“Happy birthday, my boy!” Her familiar voice burst through, bright and full of pride. “Twenty-nine already. Slow down or you’ll be older than me before I know it.”
Jax smiled, leaning against the window. “Thanks, Nan. Means a lot you called.”
“How’s my favourite driver feeling? Ready to show them how it’s done today?”
“Yeah, the car’s feeling good. Qualifying this afternoon.” He paused, then asked gently, “How’s your friend doing? The one from Bridge who was starting treatment?”
There was a beat of silence. “Friend?” Nan sounded genuinely confused for a second.
“The one you were taking to her appointments,” Jax reminded her. “Back in Melbourne weekend. You said she was nervous about going alone.”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Her voice turned a touch flustered, the words coming a little too quickly. “She’s doing okay, love. Doctors think they always know best, don’t they? But she’s hanging in there.”
Jax’s brow furrowed. “Everything alright, Nan? You sound a bit off.”
“Of course, love. Everything’s fine.” She recovered smoothly, warmth flooding back in. “Now tell me—is that lovely girlfriend of yours coming out to spend your birthday with you? I keep seeing those photos. She seems like a keeper.”
Jax’s chest tightened. “No, she’s stuck in the studio. Tight recording schedule. But we’ll catch up in a few weeks.”
“Ah, well. You young ones and your busy lives.” Nan chuckled, the sound warm and teasing. “Just make sure you give her a proper kiss when you see her. And maybe don’t wait until you’re thirty to put a ring on it, eh? I want great-grandkids before I’m too old to spoil them rotten.”
Jax laughed despite himself, shaking his head. “Message received, Nan. Loud and clear.”
“That’s my boy. Now go win that race for me. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
He hung up smiling, but the brief hesitation in her voice lingered. Something still felt off, yet he pushed it aside. Race weekend waited for no one.
Qualifying went clean: P2 on the grid. Solid. The car felt alive—sharp turn-in, planted rear, enough downforce to carry speed through the final chicane. He climbed out of the cockpit, helmet hair plastered, and scanned the garage anyway. No oversized hoodie. No familiar smile waiting at the barriers. Just engineers, mechanics, and the quiet hum of post-session debrief.
Race day dawned cold and bright. The grid hummed—engines revving, crowd roaring, the Wall of Champions looming like a warning. Lights out. Clean start. He held P2 through Turn 1 and began hunting the leader lap by lap. The car responded perfectly—balanced, responsive, every input translating exactly the way he wanted.
He took the lead on lap 18 with a clean pass into the hairpin, defended hard through two restarts, nursed the tires through the final stint, and crossed the line first. His maiden win of the season.
The Montreal crowd erupted. The team radio exploded with shouts, Marcus’s voice cracking with pride. He pulled into parc fermé, killed the engine, and sat there for a second—chest heaving, hands shaking on the wheel. Then he climbed out, ripped off the helmet, and let the roar wash over him.
On the podium he stood on the top step, spraying champagne wide, grinning for the cameras as the flag whipped in the wind. But when he looked down toward the garage, the usual spot where Aria stood clapping was empty. The win felt hollow.
He called her as soon as he could slip away from media—still in his race suit, tucked into a quiet corner of the paddock with his back against a stack of tires. She answered on the second ring.
“Hey, champ.”
He exhaled, long and shaky. “You watched?”
“Every lap.” Her voice was soft, warm, a little hoarse like she’d been shouting at the TV. “I’m so proud of you, Jax. You were incredible.”
He closed his eyes. “Wished you were here.”
A small pause. “I know. I’m sorry. Studio ran long. I couldn’t get out.”
He swallowed the ache. “It’s okay. You told me. I get it.”
Another pause—longer this time. “Happy birthday, by the way. A little late.”
