Page 3 of Speed

What did he want me to say? Did he want me to go straight to the team? I wasn’t ready. I wanted an education, something to fall back on. Was I messing this up from the start? I caught sight of my dads coming into the room and straightened my back at the pride in their expressions.

“College, sir,” I answered.

He laughed, then pressed a hand to my shoulder. “Good call.”

I wanted to get my degree, make the team in the big show in four years, or go to the Colts, our AHL feeder team. I wanted a career as a hockey player, so it was back to the ice as soon as I got home to train my ass off, then hope I stood out to Coach Morin—if he was still there—in four years.

TWO

Brody

Four Years Later

It waslike that weightless moment in a race car when you take a curve too fast—just for a second, you feel like you’re flying, like the world has tilted in your favor and gravity forgot your name. Adrenaline hums in your veins, the engine roars beneath you, and you’re suspended in that split-second illusion of control. Then, just as fast, reality slams back in—you skid, you spin, you crash back to earth, heart in your throat, breath stolen, and all that fleeting hope burns out on impact.

“I’m sorry, Brody.”

Dr. Reilly’s voice was a hammer driving nails into my chest. I stared at the man, his words failing to sink in, bouncing off the walls of my skull as if they were in someone else’s story. A diagnosis.Concerning. My stomach twisted tighter and tighter, but I just sat there, numb.

“Maybe you’re misreading it?” I tried to keep my tone as level as his, not letting one bit of my internal horror spill over.

“The MRI doesn’t lie, Brody.”

Logan’s hand landed on my shoulder, grounding me, the faintest squeeze telling me he was there. Always there. I didn’t look at him, couldn’t. I kept my eyes on Dr. Reilly instead, hoping I’d misheard.

“A brain aneurysm,” the doctor continued, his tone infuriatingly calm. “It’s small, but it’s there. Right now, it’s asymptomatic—aside from some of the emotional volatility you’ve been experiencing, which is common. But I must be clear—this condition means you can’t race again. The risks?—”

I held up my hand. I didn’t need to hear the rest.

Risks. Consequences. I knew all about those. I lived with them every time I strapped myself into a car. But this? This wasn’t part of the deal.

“This must be a mistake,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I feel fine. I don’t even have a concussion, for Christ’s sake.”

Dr. Reilly exchanged a glance with Logan, but my brother didn’t say a word. Not yet.

“Your body took a significant impact, but this isn’t about the accident.”

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. The crash. Right, the crash.

Las Vegas Grand Prix. I was only ten points away from my first world championship. All eyes were on me. Turn 14.

I was flying—two hundred mph, maybe more—when I hit the brakes—a fraction of a second too late. Just one miscalculation, a razor-thin error, and the car skidded out, slammed into the barrier, crumpling around me like a soda can. I didn’t even recall the impact, just the sound of carbon fiber screaming before the marshals pulled me out.

Drivers crash all the time. Race cars are built to survive it. I was bruised, sore as hell, but whole.Not even a concussion. I was supposed to walk away. Get back in the car. Finish the fight for the championship.

“But why?—”

Dr. Reilly held up a hand. “This aneurysm didn’t develop overnight, Brody. It’s likely been there for some time, undiagnosed.”

“This is fucking bullshit!” I shot forward in my chair, fists clenched so tight my knuckles burned, and for a split second, I wanted to dive over the desk and beat this asshole to a pulp. How dare he sit there as if he wasn’t single-handedly ripping my world apart?

“You don’t know me,” I growled, my chest heaving. “I’m fucking Superman!”

Logan shifted beside me and rested a hand on my arm in warning, but I didn’t care. My vision narrowed on Dr. Reilly; his expression infuriatingly composed, as though I was just another name on a chart. I wanted to see fear on his face.

I wanted to tear him down with every word, to intimidate him into choking on his diagnosis, and scare him so bad he’d scramble to take it all back. He was talking, using words likeasymptomatic,risk factors, andrupture, but I wasn’t listening. His voice was just background noise, a droning buzz that didn’t matter, not when my entire world was crumbling. I couldn’t hear the death sentence or process that everything I’d worked for—bled for—was slipping through my fingers.

Not now. Not when I was so close to showing people how fucking good I was. Not when I was just points away from proving I belonged at the top, that all the sacrifices, the sleepless nights, and the endless hours on the track had been worth it.

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