Page 141 of Hot Lap
Petra enters last, her suit unzipped and wild dark hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. She grins and nods toward the screen as race footage replays. “That restart was a bitch, eh?”
Reece groans. “Don’t remind me.”
Nico smirks. “I thought it was quite good.”
Petra scoffs, but she’s grinning. “Stuff it, Belmonte.”
Reece tunes them out for a moment while his heartbeat settles. He’s still vibrating from those wild last laps, but his thoughts are already drifting to Maiken.
An official calls them to the podium.
They step out together — Petra, Reece, Nico — and the crowd is deafening. Flags wave. Flashes light up the night. The circuit smells like rubber and smoke and salt air.
Nico stands tallest on the top step, flanked by Reece and Petra. The Spanish national anthem plays, followed by Germany’s, since WolfBett is a German-owned company. Reece folds his hands in front of him, jaw tight but expression composed. Second place isn't failure today. Not with everything Nitro’s built this season.
When the champagne comes out, Petra pops hers first and sprays both men before they’re even ready. Reece laughs, grabs his bottle, and aims straight for Nico, who ducks too late.
Petra turns and raises her bottle toward the Nitro garage.
Reece follows her gaze, and there’s Maiken on the front row, clapping with her whole body, that red lipstick still perfect.
He lifts his bottle to her.
She blows him a kiss.
Bloody hell, he loves that woman.
They didn’t win it all, but they showed the world exactly who the fuck they are.
The podium high fades slowly as Reece makes his way through the post-race photo ops, media pen interviews, and team debriefs. By the time he reaches his driver's room, the adrenaline has softened into satisfaction.
Ona wastes no time on niceties. She slaps a bottle of water into his hand and helps him stretch. Reece’s neck still buzzes from the g-forces and his legs are leaden from braking late, lap after lap. That pain is earned and familiar.
He showers, pulls on clean clothes, and runs a towel through his damp hair, glancing once at his phone. No messages from Maiken, but that’s probably a good thing. She’s prepping for tonight, which for her, might as well be a tactical operation.There’s no “just throwing something on” when it comes to Maiken Lange Pritchard.
He grins and heads out of the hospitality unit, calling thanks and “see you’s” to the staff. When he steps out to the paddock, he’s surprised by who’s waiting there.
Not Peony, thankfully.
Wyn’s leaning against the wall of Telco Italia’s neighboring hospitality unit, arms crossed, one foot propped. His familiar lopsided smirk is nowhere to be seen. “Got a minute?”
Reece comes down the steps. “Sure. What’s up?”
Wyn doesn’t answer right away. He leads Reece to a quiet recess where prying eyes will have to work harder to find them. The hum of deconstruction work buzzes somewhere nearby.
“Congrats.” Wyn faces him. “P2. Solid drive.”
Reece nods. “Congrats to you too. Constructors’ win. Not too grotty for a bunch of goths with an attitude problem.”
That earns a half-smile from Wyn. Then, his brother sucks in a breath. “Look, I sent the Oyster video to Luca Ricci. Anonymously.”
Reece stares at him. The words land like a fist to the solar plexus — not painful, but stunning in their simplicity.
“You took that?”Of course he bloody did. For Graham, no fucking doubt about it.
Wyn shrugs, looking away. “I know I’ve been kind of a dick, but I was never okay with how Junior treated Maiken that night. And I should’ve done something then.”
Reece is more surprised that he didn’t think to ask Wyn if he’d video’d the confrontation than he is that Wyn actually did. This isn’t the first time he’s captured footage of Reece for their father. The real astonishment is that Wyn hasn’t shared it with Graham.
