Page 106 of On The Edge

“Yes.” I know she can’t see the smile, but I can’t help that it’s there. “He is. I promise.”

“Okay. Good. That’s all your dad and I need to know.”

“Mom.” My voice breaks and it’s for so many reasons that I can’t quantify them.

Because I miss her desperately.

Because I know that going home is only going to be temporary. I want too much now to stay.

Because hearing her voice, the feelings it evokes, hurts. Cruz has never had that comfort. Ever.

“That didn’t sound so sure, kiddo.”

“I miss you. That’s all.”

“Well good, because I was beginning to think you were forgetting about us around here.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Cruz

“Are you feeling okay over there?” a British accent asks to my right.

I look up to see Riggs walking toward me in the paddock. His fire suit is unzipped, its arms hanging down around his waist, and he has an ice vest on his chest to keep him cool in between testing runs.

“Is that a trick question?”

He snorts. “You tell me. You’re the one who went from the playboy prince of F1—”

“Fuck off.” I hold my middle finger up to emphasize my words.

“To looking pussy-whipped with a capital P.” He rests his hips on the barrier beside me, his grin wide so I know he’s joking, but his eyes say he really wants to know.

“Says the man who’s marrying his team owner’s daughter.”

He holds a finger up. “If you want to get technical, she’ll be the team owner sooner rather than later,” he says, referring to his fiancée.

“So then you slept your way to the top. How very Riggs of you,” I joke.

“Nah, pretty sure that’s under your title. The playboy—”

“You know how much I hate that fucking nickname. Can we just not?”

He chuckles and looks out at all of the chaos around us. It’s testing day. Teams mill about. They mingle with competitors in a way they won’t after today when qualifying starts and competition kicks in.

“So what gives?” he asks.

“About?”

“Maddix? Is that her name?”

“It is.” I nod and lift a hand to wave to Halloran who is walking by.

“So . . .? You a changed man, or what, because we all have whiplash so bad, trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“We?” I ask with a laugh.

“Yes, we,” an Australian accent says to my other side. Lachlan Evans. He’s on the larger side, physically, for a driver, and he’s intense, keeps to himself, and rarely gets involved in any shit around here. Every so often he’s a sounding board for me to bounce things off. And . . . he just might be one of the only drivers here who has an inkling about the pressure I endure. In our F2 days, we were on the same team. “What’s up, man?” He clasps my hand in his and smiles.