Page 136 of Hot Lap
“Did you see the hot lap video?”
Good. Let them look. Let them remember.
A reporter edges close. “Maiken, do you have a comment on Peony Jones-Musgrove’s presence in the Ravn Racing garage?”
I smile like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. “I know who shewas, but I don’t know her.”
“Do you have any comment on her history with your husband?”
“No. She’s irrelevant.”
They blink, recalibrate, search for another angle, but I move on, my heels clicking across the concrete with enough purpose to crack foundations.
By the time FP3 concludes, we’ve lapped the whole damn paddock, been through the VIP areas, and visited all our husbands’ hospitality units. Twice. Maria’s cracking jokes, Lina’s catching whispers, Gudrun’s gliding along like the social assassin she is. We take turns drawing cameras, spreading attention, holding court.
And Peony?
I pass her once, standing stiff and beige beside some older man in Ravn black and silver. (I give that team style points fortheir livery.) She’s clearly trying too hard to look disinterested, but she sees me. She’d have to be blind not to.
Our gazes meet and she smiles, but it’s a brittle thing that doesn’t touch her eyes.
Uh-huh. I thought so.
She figured I’d hear she was on the paddock and go scuttle into a corner to hide, thus proving her point about what kind of woman Reece chose. Instead, she's looking at someone who chose him right back.
That difference iseverything.
I smile at her like a woman with absolutely no fucks to give her.
And I keep walking, because I’m not here to trade barbs. I’m here to remind the world who I am.
Qualifying begins, and we split off to go to our husbands’ garages. I make my way to Nitro’s just in time to catch Reece before he dons his helmet. It’s been a good day on the track and his relaxed smile tells me he’s left behind all the Peony drama.
I smirk. “P1 or don’t bother coming home tonight.”
He laughs. “That’s cold, honeybee.”
“So’s second place.”
He grins wide, then pulls on his helmet and HANS unit. The engineers help him into his car’s cockpit, and I follow Ona up to the VIP box. The woman has a world of patience as she explains terminology and the event’s progression to me.
From the moment the session starts, I’m on edge.
Q1 is smooth. He flies through with one of the top three lap times, his car looking dialed in, his lines sharp.
Q2 is tighter. The track’s heating up, rubber going down, and the top ten are clawing for space like it’s the last ride on the rollercoaster. Reece clocks in P5 and barely blinks. The man is a fucking machine today.
Q3 is a knife fight between ten contenders for tomorrow’s pole position.
The top five cars are within tenths of each other when Reece goes out early for his first flying lap. I stand with my fingers crossed, watching the screens like I can will the laws of physics to bend in his favor.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Show ’em.”
Ona’s eyes are glued to the monitors. "They put him on new softs."
"Which means what?”
"Fresh tires with the best level of grip. Clean air means he's out early, so there’s no traffic to slow him down."
