Page 119 of Hot Lap
“That what I am now? Family?”
“One hundred percent you are.”
Maiken presses her lips together, like she’s holding something back. Then she smiles. “You’re gonna ruin me for all other men.”
He grins. “Brilliant. That’s the plan.”
She snorts, scans the room once more, then brushes her lips over his jaw. “Okay, RP11. Go do your engineering stuff. I’ll be here, playing Cinderella with sequins.”
He nods and stands, but not before stealing a kiss.
As he heads toward the door and his next meeting in the garage, Reece throws one last glance over his shoulder. Maiken threads another feather into place, framed by Nitro logos and early afternoon light.
Yeah. This feels like balance.
Outside, Abu Dhabi’s afternoon sun glints off every carbon surface in the paddock. It’s warmer than expected and heat rises in shimmering waves from the concrete. A generator hums loudly nearby, muting the distant sound of an engine being fired up in one of the garages. Sweat already trickles between Reece’s shoulder blades.
He squints toward the WolfBett garage as he leaves Nitro’s hospitality unit. Wyn stands just outside the rear entrance wearing a dark-blue team polo and a quiet frown. His arms are crossed and he’s looking at the ground.
When Reece slows, his brother turns.
“Hey,” Reece says.
“Hey.”
The greeting is stiff, neither brother sure how to cross the invisible chasm that separates them now. They used to joke, used to hang out after race weekends and give each other shit. Now they sound like strangers making small talk at a funeral.
"I heard you're going minimal downforce this weekend," Reece offers. Technical talk is safe ground.
Wyn nods. "Yeah. Track temps are mental, but those straights are too long to carry heavy wing. Risky as hell through the middle sector, but if I can nail qualifying and survive the opening stint..."
Reece smiles. Tactical and aggressive, that's Wyn all over. Always planning for the worst-case scenario while pushing for the best. "Remember Monza last year? When you saved that slide in Parabolica because you'd trimmed the wing for exactly that kind of balance?"
Wyn's expression brightens. "You called me a madman afterward."
"Youwerea madman, but you were a fast madman." The moment hangs between them, the first bit of genuine warmth in months. "I miss?—"
"Listen, I?—"
"Minimal downforce? Christ, you boys are determined to be fucking morons." The too-familiar voice cuts in behind them.
Graham. Awesome.
Their tentative easiness evaporates instantly as Wyn shifts, shoulders pulling up, jaw setting.
They were finally talking like brothers again, and now their father’s here to remind them they're supposed to be enemies.
Reece turns slowly, schooling his expression into something close to neutral. He used to try for civil, but that's off the menu now.
Graham stands like he owns the tarmac, hands tucked into his blazer pockets despite the afternoon warmth, one brow arched like he's a team principal and not a pain in everyone's arse. "You planning to slide through every corner like you're driving on ice?" His expression is full of disdain.
Wyn's hands clench at his sides. "I'm planning to drive the setup I tested and approved. The one my engineers support."
Graham tuts. “A shame. I had hopes you’d learn from your brother’s mistakes.”
There it is. The wedge. Always driving it between them, making sure they can't find common ground without him inserting himself as the arbiter.
Reece steps closer, jaw flexing. “And what mistake would that be, exactly?”
