Page 20 of Speed

“You were so close to winning!”

“Are you making a comeback?”

“Are you back with Jemima?”

“IsJemodyback on-track?”

“Is it true that?—”

I tuned them all out, the noise blurring into a dull hum. My smile stayed in place, practiced and automatic, as I posed for another photo, signed another notebook, and nodded to another eager fan. But inside? I was somewhere else.

The truth was, I didn’t have answers for them—not the kind they wanted, anyway. Why did I retire? Because my life depended on it. Because I didn’t have a choice. But none of them could know that. The polished lie the PR team had spun—about stepping back to explore new opportunities—was what they’d cling to, no matter how fake it sounded.

So, I kept my head down, kept my responses vague, and kept moving. Because letting any of it sink in—letting myself feel the weight of their questions—would’ve been too much.

I wasn’t their Brody Vance anymore. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I was mine.

When the crowd thinned, I waved them off with a practiced charm, climbed into my Maserati—gutted I couldn’t stay and talk to Noah—and revved the engine.

Through the windshield, I saw Noah and Blake still where I’d left them. Noah was watching me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes stayed locked on mine until I pulled out of the lot.

I left them standing there, my pulse still racing for reasons unrelated to the car's speed.

* * *

I wokeup in my hotel room to the faint hum of traffic outside, the sunlight streaming through the cheap blinds that didn’t quite close all the way. I’d deliberately picked this place—small, in the middle of nowhere, far enough outside Harrisburg that no one would connect the dots. So far, no one had asked questions or looked at me twice.

The first thing I did was check my phone, and I regretted it. The motorsport press had gone wild with its speculation.

Brody Vance Spotted in Pennsylvania—Is He Eyeing a New Team?

Jemima’s ex slumming it?

Brody Vance’s Mysterious Karting Adventure—Comeback in the Works?

And worse.

Brody Vance: The Driver Who Walked Away—Why Did The Quitter Desert His Team on the Verge of Victory?

Quitter? I wasn’t a damn quitter. But that didn’t stop some gutter media from painting me as one. Every article and social post dissected my decision as if they had the right to. As if they knew me, as if they understood what I’d been through. They didn’t feel the ache in my chest every time I thought about what I’d lost—what I’d been forced to walk away from.

But that didn’t matter. To them, I was just another story. A name that fell from the headlines of glory into the pit of controversy. A driver who’d given up when he was only points away from the championship.

I didn’t quit. I survived. And sometimes surviving looks an awful lot like walking away. What if Noah saw this and judged me, and I wouldn’t get a chance to show him I wasn’t an asshole without telling him the whole story.

I can’t tell anyone.

“Fuck this,” I told my phone and switched it off.

Now what? I had no plans but to see Noah. I wanted to talk to him, but how did I see him? Should I call? I didn’t have his number.

I could find it if I wanted to, or I could see him, talk to him, and exchange numbers naturally as normal people do.

I had to turn my phone back on, ignoring the notifications. Instead, I did some quick searching and found out the Railers team was at their practice facility, with guys like Noah trying to make the cut.

“I’m going there incognito. I’m going to ask him out for coffee. I can apologize some more. We’ll have sex, and Iwillget him out of my system and then, I can move on. Decision made.”

My coffee maker wasn’t impressed by my decision, letting out what sounded like a sigh as the final coffee dripped into the mug.

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