Mia managed a small, tired smile. “Deal. Thanks, Dana.”
“Anytime.” Dana gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then headed for the treadmill. “Now go sleep. You look like death warmed up.”
Mia watched her go, then pushed to her feet.
That night, back in her room, Mia sat cross-legged on the hotel bed with her laptop open, rewriting talking points she wasn’t sure Lucas would ever read. She thought of home—of her parents’ small kitchen table in Amberley, the way their faces had lit up when she’d told them she’d got the job at Ashworth.
Don’t waste it,she told herself.Even if he does.
???
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lucas
The Miami press room smelled of coffee and expectation. Lucas sat at the long table between Jax and Marcus Lang, lights hot on his face, microphones angled like accusatory fingers. He’d prepped with Mia the night before—short answers, no edge, a smile if it didn’t hurt. He’d rolled his eyes at the time, muttered something about not needing a script. Now the questions came fast.
“How’s the car feeling this weekend?”
“Strong,” he said. “We’ve found some grip in the low-speed corners. Should be competitive.”
A journalist leaned forward. “You’ve been quiet off-track lately. Fans are saying you’re all ice. Anything you want to say to them?”
Lucas paused. The old reflex kicked in—shrug, deflect, let the silence do the talking. But Mia’s voice cut through the noise in his head:Show them something. Anything.Not a performance, just… enough.
He leaned into the mic.
“I’m not big on the chit-chat,” he said. “Never have been. But I’m grateful to the people who make this possible—the engineers, the mechanics, the fans who show up no matter what.” He exhaled once, short. “I’ve been a bit of a dick lately. Sorry. Working on it.”
The room laughed—warm, surprised, not mocking. Jax elbowed him, grinning wide. Marcus’s shoulders dropped a fraction, the tension he’d carried since Melbourne easing visibly.
Lucas felt it then: relief. Not the explosive kind, not fireworks. Just a quiet unclenching in his chest, like a knot that had been there so long he’d forgotten it could loosen. The words hadn’t felt forced. They hadn’t felt fake. And for once, the room hadn’t turned on him.
He knew exactly who was responsible.
Mia was waiting in the corridor when the session ended, arms crossed, expression neutral but eyes sharp.
“That was decent,” she said, voice low.
He raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”
“You didn’t sound like you were reading from a script. It worked.”
He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Something moved behind his ribs—gratitude, mostly. But also, something else, quieter, harder to name. She’d seen the worst of him for months: the clipped answers, the shut-down silences, the way he’d bitten back every time she tried to help. And she’d kept showing up anyway. Kept pushing. Kept believing there was something worth pulling out.
“Thanks,” he said. The word came out rougher than he intended. “For… yesterday. The prep. It helped.”
Her brows lifted slightly—surprise, quickly masked. “You’re welcome.”
He nodded once, throat tight.
Sunday, race day, everything clicked. Clean start. Bold strategy call. Precise, ruthless overtakes. He held off the charging pack in the final stint and crossed the line in P9—his first points in Formula 1. The radio erupted in static and cheers; the garage lost its collective mind. Jax had finished P7, a solid haul that kept the team buzzing.
Lucas climbed out of the car, helmet off, sweat running into his eyes. The noise hit him like a wall—cheers, horns, the team chanting his name. For the first time in months the sound didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like… possibility.
He caught Mia’s eye across the pit lane. She was standing near the monitors, clipboard in hand, watching him with that steady, unreadable look she always had. No big smile, no dramatic reaction. Just a small nod. Acknowledgment.
It landed harder than any cheer.
