Page 47 of Battle Scars

“Of course,” I reply. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He smiles sheepishly. “I have to admit, I wasn’t so sure you’d give up DHR without a fight.”

“Why would I give it up?”

He shoots me a look like he’s talking to a child.

“Well, I’ll run the company, obviously,” he says.

It feels like a bucket of ice water has been poured over my head. Who does this man think he is? Where did my best friend go? Why is it that every man I care for in one way or another wants to strip me of something I hold precious: my love, my friendship, my legacy? It’s all too much.

“And what will I be doing?” I ask quietly. I don’t want to know—really, I don’t—but it’s like watching a train derail. I can’t help but look.

“Planning a wedding eventually,” he replies with a shrug like he couldn’t care less. “Having babies. I don’t know.”

“Planning a wedding?” I repeat slowly. “Having babies?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you don’t think I should continue to work for DHR?” I ask cautiously.

“No.” He laughs like I’ve said something funny. “Why would you?”

“Because I’ve been racing my entire life,” I reply.

“Well, there’s no need to anymore,” he says. “Besides, we can’t both be the top racer.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t have you beat me,” he answers like it’s the obvious response.

“Why not?” I ask with wide eyes, dropping my fork onto my plate with a clatter.

“Smile, Adrienne,” he says through gritted teeth in a sham of a smile.

The camera flashes from the corner of my eye. Crap, I had forgotten they were still here, and they seem to be eating this date up with a spoon. So, I smile sweetly at him and pick up my fork again. I push the lettuce around my plate and even fork up bites to my mouth even though I’m no longer hungry. He clearly wants me to put on a good show for the press, and that’s fine with me.

“Why not?” I repeat my earlier question, this time with a fake smile plastered on my face.

“Because it would look bad if my girlfriend beat me on the track,” he says like I’m an idiot.

I barely keep from rolling my eyes.

“I didn’t realize your ego was so fragile,” I mutter under my breath, but he appears to have heard it.

“It’s all about image, Addie. You know that better than anyone else.” His tone is gentle and placating. At least he knows he’s irritated me.

He’s not wrong, though. Racing is a male dominated sport, which is why I’ve had to work ten times as hard to be taken seriously by anyone and I still have to flash my tits in magazines, unlike the boys. Why can’t Bobby or my dad just be proud of me? Why don’t they think I can do this? It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

“Look,” I say, trying to return his olive branch. “This is one date. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. I think we should continue to compete, and we’ll see where things go after the season.” Which, hopefully, is nowhere, because I’m not sure I like the idea of throwing away the career that I’ve worked so hard for on a whim, but I don’t need to announce that to him over fish.

“You can’t be serious,” he prompts.

“Why not?”

“There is no sense in you racing this season if you’re only going to retire with your dad at the end of it,” he bites out.

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” I explain. “I have no intention of retiring any time soon.”