Page 61 of Hot Lap
"I know, right?"
A muffled announcement sounds in the background. Frankie glances up, then back at me. "Gotta go, baby. Time for the med pass. I'll text you on my next break if you're still up."
"I will be. Time zones are weird."
"And Mai?" Her expression softens. "Don't you dare let those assholes define you. You know exactly who you are. Fuckin’ Cinderella."
The screen goes dark before I can respond, but I laugh. God, I’m so damned lucky to have a mother like Frankie. She would shank a bitch in a heartbeat for me, even knowing the consequences. Of course, she’d probably also save the bitch’s life afterward. That’s my mom, formidable with an oversized heart.
I stare at my phone, cursor still blinking in that unfinished text to Reece.
I delete it, then type:
Good luck tomorrow. You've got this.
But I stare at that message, too, because what the fuck do I know about what he does and doesn’t have?
Reece has practice sessions and qualifying... and other stuff, probably, but I’ve never experienced a race weekend.
I barely know what he does. Other than drive a ridiculously fast car and make my stomach do stupid backflips when he smiles at me.
The thought sends something sliding down my spine.
Drunk Maiken trusted Reece Pritchard enough to marry him. Sober Maiken? She still isn't sure if she trustsherself.
I sigh and delete the second message too.
Instead of going back to sewing, I open my laptop and type into the search bar:Reece Pritchard F1. It’s time for me to learn as much as I can about the man I married.
The results flood my screen — Reece standing atop his dark green and pink Nitro car, victorious; Reece beside mangled carbon fiber wreckage, somehow unscathed; Reece on podiums, champagne soaking his hair and that rare, unguarded smile on his face.
Reece with Peony, but far fewer photos than I’d feared.
He’s earned eight wins, twenty-one pole positions, fourteen fastest laps, and forty-nine podiums.
Impressive numbers that prove he belongs among the elite, but not so dominant that the pressure ever eases. His success hasn’t come easily. He’s fought for every point, every position, and by all accounts, this year’s been particularly tough.
I take it all in and realize Reece isn't just a driver. He's a fighter.
Wrapping my head around that makes my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.
It’s suddenly, blindingly obvious how much he’s risked to tether himself to me, a woman he barely knew outside of one stupid, drunken night in Las Vegas.
I close the tab on his race stats, but there's more here, I feel it. The pieces don't quite fit. His father's hostility, Reece's quiet determination, that moment of vulnerability when he mentioned his mother.
I take a deep breath and type:Pritchard family Formula 1 history.
The search results load, and I’m Alice falling down the rabbit hole into darkness I wasn’t prepared for but can't look away from.
There’s Reece — quiet, consistent, polished. From a grinning gap-toothed boy to the intense man I’m trying to understand.
Then there’s his younger brother, Wyn. A small, wild haired wild child who grew into a handsome tattooed menace.
The articles make it clear who’s the favored son without even trying to hide it. Wyn’s performance record mirrors Reece’s, but his driving style is described as aggressive to the edge of reckless. Brilliant when it works. Catastrophic when it doesn't.
Graham Pritchard — the patriarch — made sure Wyn had a seat, buying into WolfBett Racing just to guarantee his younger son's career.
Because when you have enough money and ruthless ambition, you can bend the whole world into giving your golden boy what he wants.
