Page 7 of Speed

He hesitated, squeezing my arm briefly before letting go. “I love you, little brother.”

I swallowed hard, and my throat tightened. “I love you too.” A small smile tugged at the corner of Logan’s mouth, and I mirrored it. “You, Sadie, and Avery—always. Okay?”

Logan nodded, leaning back in his seat. “Okay.”

I drew a deep breath, letting it fill the empty spaces the argument had left between us. “So, let’s do this thing.”

He grinned now, a real one, and opened the door, stepping out into the cool evening air. I followed, the cameras flashing, the hum of voices growing louder.

I squared my shoulders and put on a smile. For Avery. For Logan and Sadie.

It was time to play the part. Again.

Two hoursinto the nightmare of noise and light, my headache had—thankfully—eased, but the endless swirl of voices were all too much. The questions and faux-earnest commiserations didn’t help either.

I kept trying to steer the conversations back to my niece and why we were all here tonight—raising awareness for juvenile diabetes. But somehow, every single person seemed more interested inme. Was I dating Jemima again? Why had I stopped racing? What was I going to do now? When would I make my big comeback?

How pissed was I that I missed being world champion by only twenty-three points? Not that they used the word pissed, they asked if I was disappointed.

Nah. Not me. I wasn’t disappointed.

I was devastated. Destroyed. Lost. As though everything I’d worked for, everything I’d sacrificed for, had slipped through my fingers at the finish line. Twenty-three points felt like a lifetime, and no one would ever know how much it tore me apart, how every second of every day felt as though I was trapped in the wreckage of turn 14, unable to climb out or breathe.

But sure,“disappointed”worked just fine for them.

I had too many lawyers and PR reps on retainer to let the truth slip out. And even if I could say it, even if I wanted to, how could I explain it to them? That I’d quit to stay alive? That I was living every day with a countdown I couldn’t see or hear?

I couldn’t do it.

“I’ll be right back,” I mumbled to the couple standing before me, neither of whose names I’d managed to catch. I didn’t wait for a response before turning and heading for the exit.

Striding purposefully through the crowd, I avoided eye contact and ignored the murmurs of my name. If I appeared focused enough, people usually wouldn’t stop me. Instead of heading toward the bathroom signs, I veered off course, ducking under a velvet rope into a section markedPrivate.

The first unlocked door I found led to a small, dimly lit lounge. Old oil paintings lined the walls, and the worn-out elegance screamed exclusivity. I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me with aclick, and leaned against it momentarily, letting the tension bleed out of my shoulders.

At least I wasn’t giving a speech tonight. Small mercies.

I crossed the room to an overstuffed leather chair, sank into it, and let my head fall against the cushion.

For the first time all night, I let out a slow, shaky breath and allowed myself to slump. This wasn’t how I wanted to spend the rest of my life—hiding, lying, pretending. But what other choice did I have?

“Um… hello?” The voice came from the far corner, startling me enough to make me jerk upright in the chair.

“Jesus!” I snapped, my heart racing as I glared.

A man stepped out of the shadows, and I blinked. He was slim but solid, with golden curls that looked as if they belonged on the cover of a magazine, and striking green eyes that widened as they locked onto mine. He wore a penguin suit like me, except his jacket was slung over his arm, a small pride pin glinting on the lapel. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie loose as if he’d been fighting with it all night.

“You’re Jemima Wren’s ex! Hell, you’re Brody Vance,” he said, almost like a question, as though he couldn’t believe it.

I went on the defensive, standing up from the chair. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

He held up a clear zip bag with bottles and a needle inside, and my stomach dropped.

My chest tightened. A druggie. Great. This night just kept getting better.

“Get out,” I barked, my voice sharp and full of disgust. “And take your fucking drugs with you.”

The guy froze, blinking as if I’d slapped him. “Insulin,” he said, holding the bag higher as if it would stop me from throwing him out on the spot. “It’s insulin. A needle for an emergency, testing stuff. I-I’m here for the event. Well, my dads are here. They played hockey…” He trailed off, motioning toward the bag. “I play hockey,” he added, sounding flustered.

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