And now he was here.Actually here.Close enough to touch.
Cam’s pulse kicked up.
His first instinct was immediate and overwhelming.Find him.Talk to him.Ask him why he hadn’t told him he wascoming.Ask him who the fuck Nico Laurent was and why he was putting his dirty paws all over Scotty’s body.
Cam scrubbed a hand over his face.
Jesus Christ.
He sounded like an unhinged caveman.
***
Cam texted Scott after Free Practice 1.
He knew he shouldn’t have.He couldn’t afford distractions right now. Not this weekend, of all weekends.There were only three races left in the season, threeraces standing between him and a third world championship.Hunter was breathing down his neck in the Ferrari, the championship gap shrinking race by race. One bad weekend, one mistake, one moment of lost concentration, and everything Cam had spent an entire year building could disappear.
But instead of focusing on tire degradation data andsector times, Cam was sitting alone in the back of the garage staring at Scott’s contact information.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him all day.Scott was here.The knowledge had followed him everywhere: out on track, indebrief meetings while reviewing telemetry. Scott was here.Somewhere in the paddock.A few hundred meters away at most.Close enough that Cam could walk over and see him whenever he wanted.
Except he couldn’t.Or maybe he could.That was the problem.His team had made their recommendations. They’dwarned him about optics and appearances and media scrutiny. But they couldn’t physically stop him.
Cam rubbed a hand over his face.
The sensible thing would be to leave it alone.Scott was here with someone else. Scott hadn’t even bothered to text him and tell him he was coming.
His gaze drifted to his phone again.
The last message in their chat was from him.Four days ago.No response.Before that, another one.And another.
You watching Singapore?
Nice suit in those photos.
How’s New York?
Each one had eventually received a short reply hours later.Or a thumbs-up reaction.Or nothing at all.
It made something twist unpleasantly in Cam’s stomach. A few months ago Scott would have replied immediately.A few months ago Scott would have called him. A few months ago—
Cam stopped himself.
This was ridiculous.He was thirty years old. A two-time world champion.One of the most successful drivers on the grid. He shouldn’t be sitting here staring at a text conversation like a teenager nursing his first crush.
The thought irritated him enough that he opened the chat. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting words.
Hey.
No, too pathetic.
Saw you’re in Vegas.
No, that was worse.
Who’s Nico?
Absolutely not.
