They talked for three hours—longer than Mia had spoken toanyone since leaving Abu Dhabi.
Dana didn’t push about Vegas, didn’t ask why she’d vanished. She just talked: about the team’s new struggles without her steady hand on comms, about Jax’s terrible new haircut (“looks like he lost a fight with a lawnmower”), about how quiet the garage felt, how the debriefs dragged without her.
“Everyone misses you,” Dana said quietly. “Not just professionally. The place feels… empty. Like we lost the one person who actually gave a damn about keeping us human.”
Mia swallowed hard. “How’s… how’s Lucas?”
A pause. Dana chose her words carefully.
“He’s… picking up. Sort of. The season started rough—nothing flashy. He’s consistent, but there’s no fire. No spark. It’s like he’s driving on autopilot. Jax says he’s still carrying Vegas, still carrying you. But he’s trying. Showing up. Smiling for the cameras. He’s… functioning.”
Mia closed her eyes. The image of him—distracted, hollow-eyed—hurt more than she expected.
“He’s not the same,” Dana continued. “But he’s getting through the days. One race at a time. That’s something.”
Mia nodded even though Dana couldn’t see it.
They talked about small things after that—Dana’s new rescue dog, the way the factory canteen had started serving even worse coffee, how Jax kept asking if Mia was “ever coming back to save his image.” Laughter crept in—tentative, fragile, but real.
Near the end, Dana’s tone shifted—gentler, no pressure.
“Listen… I’m not calling to drag you back. I just wanted to hear your voice. But if you ever think about coming back—even just to visit—there’s something you should know.”
Mia waited.
“Ascari Racing. Brand-new team, starting up next year. Fresh money, ambitious owners, trying to build something real fromthe ground up. They’re looking for a comms lead. They’ve been asking after you—quietly. Said they were impressed by your work at Ashworth. The way you handled drivers, sponsors, crises. They want someone who can shape the whole narrative from day one. No rush. No pressure. Just… if you ever want to think about it.”
Mia stared at the garden through the window—roses her mother had planted years ago, still blooming despite neglect.
“Who’s running their driver programme?” she asked.
“Sir Edmund Hale,” Dana said, voice dropping with familiar warmth. “Eddie. He’s signed as lead driver—they got the world champion himself to headline the lineup. But the owners also gave him a management role on top. Unique setup: he races, but he’s also overseeing the young talent coming through, mentoring the rookie, helping shape the whole driver programme. Apparently, they really wanted him in full management—thought having a legend like Eddie in the backroom would be gold for sponsors and development—but he wasn’t ready to hang up the helmet just yet. So, they compromised. He drives, he manages, he stays in the fight.”
Mia’s eyes widened slightly. Of course, she knew Eddie Hale. Dana had talked about him plenty—how they’d met years ago when he was recovering from a nasty shoulder injury, how he’d become one of her closest friends in the paddock. The man was a living legend: multiple titles, fearless on track, the kind of driver young kids still put posters of on their walls. The idea of him still racing—still hungry—while also guiding the next generation felt electric.
“He’s been off lately,” Dana continued, softer now. “Motivation’s taken a hit. Everyone can see it. But this new team, this dual role… it’s lit something in him again. The rookie’s a wild card—real talent, but raw. Needs someone steady to keep him from crashing and burning. They need someone like you, Mia. Someone who can handle egos, keep the narrative clean, and not flinch when things get messy—especially with Eddie splitting time between cockpit and strategy room.”
Mia closed her eyes for a second, letting the picture settle. Eddie Hale. Not retiring quietly. Not stepping away. Still racing, still hurting, still fighting to prove he wasn’t finished—and now pulling double duty as driver and mentor in a brand-new team. The thought of being the comms anchor in that high-stakes, hybrid environment felt daunting. And strangely compelling.
Mia exhaled slowly.
She didn’t say yes. Not yet.
But she didn’t say no, either.
“I’ll think about it,” Mia said quietly.
“That’s all I’m asking,” Dana replied. “No deadlines. No guilt. Just… know the door’s open if you want it.”
They said goodbye—promises to talk again soon.
Mia set the phone down.
Sat in silence.
Felt the first faint spark of something like purpose since she’d left.
She went into the kitchen. Her parents were there—her dad reading the paper, her mum chopping vegetables for dinner.
