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Third place hovered just over a second ahead, always close enough to see, but never close enough to attack. Every qualifying lap I’d ever driven suddenly became useful. I leaned on every inch of available grip, clipping curbs with millimeter precision and feeding the throttle in earlier than I probably should have. The rear stepped out twice. I caught it both times before it became anything more than a twitch. By the final lap, the gap had shrunk to seven-tenths. One more lap and I might have had him. Instead, the checkered flag waved. I crossed the line in fourth.

The disappointment settled quickly, but it wasn’t overwhelming. We simply hadn’t had the pace today. Sometimes, a driver stole a podium through brilliance. Other times, the car set the limit long before talent did. Knowing the difference was part of surviving this sport.

“Strong recovery today,” Angel said as I began the cooldown lap. “Good points for the Constructors’.”

I nodded to myself. “We’ll take it.”

There was a pause before the inevitable addition, “You’ve got post-race media waiting.”

I groaned loud enough that several engineers burst into laughter over the radio. “I just spent ninety minutes wrestling a race car around China. Surely that’s enough public interaction for one day.”

“I’m afraid not,” her voice crackled through in reply.

Simmons, Kaz Energy Racing’s team principal, cut across the radio before I could continue complaining. “Try not to swear at any journalists this time.”

“I make no promises.”

“Your fines to pay, Bauer.”

“And tell the PR team they’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“They’d have nothing to do if I behaved.”

“Bauer! Thank fuck, thought you had become a damn monk after not showing up to the parties last weekend!” Austin shouted over the music as I walked into the bar, the bass already vibrating through the floor. I had nothing to do but get my ass on a plane within a few days. Might as well find the bottom of a bottle.

Familiar faces mixed with new ones—drivers, engineers, sponsors, people who probably didn’t even know what team they were cheering for tonight. Expensive bottles were being carried across tables like trophies, and the whole place had that chaotic, glittering energy that usually meant I could turn my brain off for a while.

“Fuck that,” I replied, clapping a hand over Austin’s shoulder and dragging him into my side for a second. “Let’s celebrate.”

“Woo!” he whooped, already grinning like he’d been waiting for this version of me to show up again.

He led me toward a long table near the back where a few of the other guys had already claimed territory. Glasses appeared almost instantly. Shots lined up like a challenge, a comfortable familiarity. I’d done this a hundred times before.

“About time you showed your face,” one of the guys said, nudging me as I dropped into a seat.

“Yeah,” I muttered, grabbing a shot without hesitation. “Busy.”

Austin laughed. “Busy doing what? Paying fines for cursing on the radio again?”

A few people laughed. I did too, but it came out easier than it felt.

We drank.

Then again.

And again.

The alcohol hit fast, warm and heavy, dulling the edges of everything I didn’t want to think about: the paddock, the cameras, the way Maisey had looked at me earlier without even trying to look at me. I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly.

For a while, I let myself sink into it: the noise, the music, the blur of conversations that didn’t matter. Austin was talking about something ridiculous—some story from testing I wasn’t really listening to—and I was nodding at all the right moments without actually hearing a word. Then someone slid into the seat beside me.

“Hey,” a voice said, soft and deliberate. I turned my head. A blonde wearing a shimmering top sat down next to me, her shoulders back, leaking confidence as she smiled. “Didn’t think you’d show up tonight; the boys all said you’d be a no-show.”

I frowned slightly.

“For a so-called party boy, you’ve been rather absent from the party,” she said, leaning in just a little. “Figured I’d fix that.”