Page 8 of Speed

I stared at him, trying to make sense of his rambling. He shifted, patting his chest where I could now see a small, round disc stuck to his skin.

“I, uh, messed up with my readings earlier. I’m trying my chest for the first time, but it doesn’t work as well as my arm. I just needed somewhere quiet to get my blood sugar under control.” His words tumbled out in a rush, and he ran a hand through his curls, clearly embarrassed. “I-I can find another room if this is… I mean, I didn’t mean to interrupt your…” He waved toward the chair where I’d been slumped moments ago, his gesture awkward but apologetic.

I stared at him, still processing. My anger simmered, but now it was mixed with something else—confusion, maybe even a little guilt. I’d jumped to the worst possible conclusion without thinking.

He was someone trying to handle his shit. It's the same as me.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face, the tension in my chest loosening a fraction. “No, it’s fine,” I muttered, stepping back and sitting down. “You don’t need to leave. Sit down if you need to.”

His shoulders relaxed, but his wide eyes stayed on me, cautious but curious. “Thanks,” he said, moving to the far side of the room and sitting on the edge of a chair, fidgeting with the bag.

“Do you need me to get you anything?”

He brightened. “Oh, no, it’s all good.”

The small room fell into an awkward silence, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Finally, my earlier anger faded into a strange exhaustion.

The night wouldn’t be a complete disaster if I could hide here with the sexy man who wasn’t a drug addict.

“I'm Noah,” he said, setting his jacket over the back of the chair before extending his hand.

I stared at it for a second, then shook it. “As you said, I’m Brody.”

“I know,” he said with a small, nervous laugh. “Sorry, I’m flustered. It’s not every day I meet a real-life racing driver.”

“Former,” I corrected, the word sharper than I intended.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, his cheeks tinged pink, the color blooming across his face. Pretty. “Well, still.” His voice was breathless as if he was trying to play it cool but couldn’t hide the awe underneath. It wasn’t just the words—how his eyes lit up, wide and sparkling, as if standing in front of something larger than life. I could feel the quiet hum of excitement between us and his unspoken thrill of being close to someone he saw as powerful and untouchable. It wasn’t something I’d felt in a while—that charge, that sense of being seen in a way that made me feel electric. And damn, if it didn’t make me stand a little taller, my pulse kicking up at the way he stared at me as though I was everything.

He leaned forward, and my eyes caught on his lips. They were soft and plump, and I wanted a taste. His tongue darted out to wet them, and something about the simple movement sent a strange tension humming through the air. It had been too long. My entire life was hidden by lies, and was it wrong to want something real for myself in this moment?

Yes, it’s wrong. Keep your secrets, Brody Vance.

“How’s your sugar level?”

He touched the watch on his wrist. “All back to normal.” Then, he frowned. “Or as normal as it can be.” He laughed then, not fazed by what he’d told me.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence, my gaze flicking to the pride pin still attached to his jacket. “You’re an ally? The pin, I mean?”

Noah tilted his chin up, meeting my eyes with a quiet defiance that took me off guard. “I’m bi,” he said, his tone daring me to say anything about it.

“Cool,” I said, keeping my tone neutral, even though the way he held himself—proud, unyielding—made me want to look a little closer. “So, that means you’re not aprofessionalhockey player?”

“Not yet,” he said with a faint smile. “I’m heading to training camp for the Harrisburg Railers. That was the team my dads played for.”

“Impressive,” I said, leaning back, studying him. “And being queer doesn’t… affect your career?”

If he thought that was an odd question, he didn’t comment. Instead, his smile softened, but his eyes stayed steady, unwavering. “My dad and pops got married years ago. They paved the way. Some people don’t like it, and maybe I won’t make the team because of it. Who knows?” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, though the edge in his voice said it did. “But I won’t stop being me.”

Something about the way he said it, the absolute certainty, made my chest tighten. He didn’t apologize for who he was, or flinch, or hide.

I wasn’t sure if I admired him or envied him for that. Maybe both.

“Well,” I said, unsure of what else to add. “Good for you.” His confidence and the quiet defiance in how he carried himself were magnetic, and it took me by surprise. He was the person I’d avoided for too long—steady, self-assured, and unapologetic. My gaze drifted to his curls, golden and wild, and I couldn’t help but picture sinking my fingers into them, holding on, anchoring myself to him in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to want in years.

“So what was it like dating Jemima Wren?”

“Fuck you,” I snapped, and his eyes widened. “Sorry,” I added.

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