Page 98 of Flat Out
The image of his face when he said it made my chest cave and my throat clog with emotion all over again. Wide, panicked eyes, animated movements, the veins in his forehead protruding as he raised his voice at me.
I shifted in the chair, forcing my features blank. “That’s Callum. He wants the best for me. For both of us.”
It was a safe and noncommittal answer. Simple. Hopefully they’d eat it up. But inside, I was replaying every second of our argument. The tremor in his voice, the red rimming his eyes, the way he looked at me like he was already mourning. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Some fans think the pressure is showing,” the woman said, leaning in slightly. “That maybe thegolden coupleisn’t so golden anymore. Is the strain getting to you?”
Golden couple. My stomach turned at the phrase.If only they knew.It was easy for them to say when they only saw the highlight reel. What no one would ever see is two people who had spent their whole lives being career-driven, and that learning to fight for something else was foreign and a difficult habit to break.
The result of that? The silence in our hotel room, lying inches apart but worlds away. The way I kept reaching for him in my sleep, only to find cold sheets. The way I wanted to tell him everything–my fears, my body, the truth–and couldn’t force the words out.
I forced a hollow laugh. “Pressure is part of this sport. If we can survive that, we can survive anything.”
They smiled, satisfied. I sat under the lights, my expression frozen in place, trying not to crumble under the weight of everything I couldn’t say.
How could there be a future for us when I couldn’t even muster the courage to tell him the truth–that the thing most people take for granted, I could never give him? A child. A family. A piece of his future. My silence wasn’t strength. It wascowardice.
Because if he knew, if he truly knew… would he still choose me?
The Sharpie squeakedacross glossy photos, my name curling into practiced loops. Every fan wanted something different—caps, posters, shirts, books, a program from Monaco that still smelled faintly of sunscreen. The line stretched across the paddock. Security waved more people through while cameras hovered like gnats, catching every smile, every tilt of my head.
I shifted in my chair, forcing a grin as a teenage girl slid a folded French flag across the table. “For luck,” she whispered shyly. “You’re my idol.”
My heart stuttered. She reminded me of myself at that age, dreaming big, daring to believe. I blinked hard, willing the sting in my eyes to fade. “Merci,” I said, scribbling my driver number beneath my signature before sliding it back. The girl’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and she practically skipped away.
Another fan leaned in, voice trembling as she asked me to sign a ball cap. “You make me believe women really belong here.”
I smiled and handed it back, but inside I wanted to crawl into Callum’s arms and let myself unravel. I missed him so much it felt like a piece of me was missing. We’d gone from being tangled up in each other, body and soul, to this stiff silence with polite exchanges at dawn and hollow goodnights at dusk.
I was dying to tell him about my car, how wrong it still felt after FP1 and FP2, how much it scared me as we headed into FP3 and qualifying this afternoon. But conversation had shriveled to small talk, and I hated it.
We still needed to be a team. Even if we disagreed. Even if the space between us felt like miles.Especiallythen.
Beside me, Ivy leaned back in her chair like she owned the entire circuit, oversized sunglasses perched on her head. She waved at the fans excitedly. Her outfit, black on black, screamed business, but the way she snapped dozens of photos told me she was having just as much fun as I was. Here, she looked like an ordinary girl soaking in the glitz and glamour of this world.
“You’re kind of famous,” she murmured with a grin.
“You’re just now noticing this?” I shot back under my breath, nudging her with my elbow.
A ripple of laughter broke from the fans who’d overheard. Perfect. Hopefully the cameras would eat up two women being witty instead of weary. The more I could offset this villainous, naive rookie angle they seemed to be running with, the better.
My body, however, was a different story. My shoulders screamed with every motion. FP1 and FP2 had left me aching in places I didn’t want to think about—my neck sore from countering the rebound, my thighs tender from bracing through corners. None of the adjustments I’d requested had been honored. Not one. The car was fighting me at every turn.
I shoved it all down, compartmentalizing the pain.
Ivy’s hand brushed mine as she slid a stack of photos closer. To anyone watching, it looked casual. To me, it was deliberate. “GPDA dinner on Monday,” she said softly, never looking up from the photo she was signing. “Eight o’clock. I got the details.”
I blinked, pen pausing mid-loop. “How?”
Callum hadn’t told me there was a dinner after the race. He should’ve told me that after the FIA meeting. I tried not to let that show on my face.
“Because I know everything.” Ivy winked at a group of boys, who whooped and hollered. I refrained from rolling my eyes.
My pulse spiked. GPDA—the Grand Prix Drivers’ Association. The place where the grid’s biggest decisions got whispered, argued, and fought. The union of drivers, the one voice of power they had against the FIA and the teams. Callum was in. Marco too. Every seasoned driver worth a damn was. Rookie seats were earned through trust, respect, and persistence. They werenotgiven.
And I wasn’t invited. Not until Ivy.
I forced another smile for the cameras, looping my name across a glossy poster. “What am I walking into?”
