Page 69 of Hot Lap
The silence behind it is comfortable now. Last night, things changed between him and Maiken. Or, rather, they went back to the way they were the night they met, before Graham and F1 stormed in to get between him and his wife.
He stares at the door, wound tight and hurting, but he can’t afford to get drawn in by her this morning. It’s a sprint weekend and he has qualies later. Today is about racing. He has to extract every fraction of a second out of the car and the track, and that takes absolute focus. There’s no room for anything else. Not today, tomorrow, or Sunday.
Reece doesn’t dare see Mai this morning because he remembers how she looked at him last night. How she stared at his mouth when he ate that bite of cake and how her breath hitched when he kissed her temple. He still feels her soft skin under his fingers and against his lips.
He hadn’t meant to start something. But he had, and now it lives in his veins and hums through his nerves.
If he knocks on that door… If she’s awake and opens it and smiles at him like that again, he won’t go to the track.
So Reece turns away and leaves his room, because he can't afford distraction.
Of course, the minute he thinks that, he knows it's already too late.
He meets Ona in the parking lot and they pile into the SUV he rented. Reece navigates the morning traffic. She sips from her thermos, respecting the pre-race silence that's become ritual for him over the years. Neither speaks. Neither needs to.
He thinks of the connecting door he didn't knock on, and Maiken's beautiful face when she'd asked him about meeting her mum.
Focus.
Bright morning sunshine has chased away the gold and pink of sunrise as they approach the circuit. Modern architecture rises from the desert sand like some alien spacecraft. Security waves them through the first checkpoint, then the second. By the third, the small cluster of die-hard fans has already spotted his car.
"Reece! Reece!" They press against the barriers, programs and caps thrust forward for signing.
He parks, forces a thin smile, and steps out. Muscle memory takes over as he scrawls his signature for the waiting fans. He’s quick and efficient, and won’t linger. The die-hards know this.
This routine is comforting in its familiarity.
"Right then," he murmurs to a young boy in a Nitro cap, giving him a quick wink. "There you go, mate."
Ona materializes at his shoulder, right on cue. "Time to go."
With a final nod to the fans, Reece follows her into the paddock. It’s sounds and smells envelop him — the distant whir of pneumatic wheel guns, the sharp tang of fuel, the low buzz of teams preparing for battle. The circuit's alive. This is good. He's always needed the routine of the race weekend to focus him, and he expects today to be no different.
Some drivers talk and joke and kick around a soccer ball before getting into their cars. Not Reece. He prefers the solitude of his driver’s room. Just him and Ona and the step-by-step ritual of prep that he’s followed for years.
Team personnel hustle between their garages and their hospitality units. Media wonks speculate about every little detail. Reece moves through it all like he always does. He’s head down, jaw tight, blocking out distractions. The regulars know better than to talk to him. It’s not that he’ll be an asshole; it’s just that he’s already in his own head and doesn’t want to come out to chat.
Nitro’s hospitality unit is buzzing when he steps inside as crew members meet over coffee and omelets.
One of the junior press interns straightens and smiles at him. “Hey, Reece. You want coffee?” She holds out a cup.
He barely glances at it. “No.”
The girl nods and retreats quickly. Lesson learned.
He keeps walking because he doesn’t need caffeine; he needs to get into the damn car.
Petra’s standing beside a table, talking with Bowie, her race engineer. She raises her hand as Reece passes, and he high-fives her. That’s all the interaction he has to give and it’s all she ever asks for. It’s one of the reasons he respects her so much. One ofthe others is that she’s a wicked-good driver, probably the best on the grid.
But even as Reece exits the dining area and heads down the narrow hallway that leads to his room, he knows he’s missing his edge.
He’s off balance.
Fuck.
This isn’t how he wants to start his weekend.
Ona follows, tablet in hand, compression sleeves ready. She doesn’t speak until she’s checked his vitals and reviewed his overnight metrics. Then she glances up. "Didn’t sleep well?"
