Page 5 of Hot Lap
“Why not more?”
“Physics.”
“Huh?” I offer him an onion ring. He shakes his head, so I eat it. Wasting them is a sin.
"F1's a bit of a physical paradox, honestly. We need serious muscle to handle the g-forces — we're pulling five, six g’s through some corners. But the car and driver get weighed together, so every pound matters. Lower body fat means I can carry more muscle where it counts." He indicates his neck and shoulders. "Better muscle means better g-force tolerance. Pretty straightforward physics, really."
“Ahh. That sucks.” I cut my burger in half. “But I totally get where you’re coming from. There’s no hiding any extra lumps or bumps when I’m bumping and grinding and nearly naked.” I gesture to my meal. “I indulge every Sunday though, because I work my ass off, literally, seven days a week.”
He nods. “I bet you put in a ton of work.”
I snort. “Yeah, you try humping the floor without being in really good shape.”
Reece laughs. I like that he doesn’t expect me to be all girly. I dress it, but appearance is where my demureness ends.
We eat and talk. He’s really genuine, and I kinda see him relaxing as our meal unfolds.
"So you’re British?" I dip an onion ring in ketchup; nothing better than fried food, except salty tangy sauce on fried food.
"Actually, Wyn and I have dual citizenship. We were born in Los Angeles, but more or less grew up in England. That's where we started karting. Proper racing education, that."
“Kart racing? Like, little kiddie go-karts?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Same concept, different league. That's how most F1 drivers start. I was seven, Wyn was five. Tiny." His eyes spark with the memory. "His feet barely reached the pedals. He'd stretch his whole body to make a turn."
"So your parents just... what? Strapped in their kindergartners and said, 'Good luck, kiddos'?"
The sparkle in his eyes dims. "Our father encouraged it. Demanded it, really." He twists the paper napkin beside his plate. "He produces video content for F1 — race footage, documentaries, that kind of thing. Racing wasn't an option; it was an expectation."
Hmm. I knew he had a story. A lifetime of them, probably. “Is your whole family racing-obsessed?"
"Just our father." He spears a piece of grilled chicken with his fork. "What about you? Your family into dance?"
I scoff. "Nah. It’s just me and Frankie — she’s my mom. She nearly had a stroke when I told her I was doing burlesque, but she’s come around to it. She’s a correctional nurse, and it made her nervous. My dad is I don’t fucking know. I’ve never met the guy."
“Lucky you.”
Interesting.
“I take it you and Daddy Dearest don’t get along so well?”
“Yeah.Daddyis Graham. He controls a majority of the F1 media coverage you see, and he’s a real piece of shit.”
“Ohhh.” I remember what Junior said at the club — that Graham wouldn’t like Reece interfering — and my dinnercompanion’s response:"I don't give a damn what Graham likes."
We focus on our food for a minute before he says, "Your bio says you teach dance too, right? Not just a performer?"
"Yeah. I teach ballet to kids and burlesque to adults. Helps pay the bills when club bookings are slow."
"Do you like teaching?"
"I love it. Especially the adult classes. There's something amazing about watching someone rediscover the power of their own body, you know? Seeing that confidence bloom." I’m gesturing with my hands, all excited to talk about this. "Actually, my dream is to open my own venue someday."
His dark eyebrows lift. "Yeah? A burlesque theater?"
"A cabaret. With a restaurant, live music, variety acts — not just burlesque. A place that celebrates art in all its forms, especially the kind that makes youfeelsomething."
"I'd like to see that." His expression is open and warm, and I think he’s genuinely excited by the idea.
