Page 75 of Hot Lap
“...and as we head into sprint qualifying here in Lusail, some surprising tension in the air. All eyes are on PNW Nitro’s Reece Pritchard, currently sitting fifth in the driver’s standings, and struggling today.”
The shot cuts to him walking into the garage, helmet in hand and jaw tight. With him is a tall Black woman with short buzzed hair and imposing biceps. She must be Ona, his physio.
Reece wears his race suit slung low on his hips like he’s about to take the world apart.
God, he looks good. And intense.
“So far this weekend, we’ve seen a little inconsistency,” the commentator continues. “A lockup in FP1, a scruffy sector 2.”
The second wonk adds, “I’d say the tabloid buzz hasn’t helped.”
My stomach twists.
The screen flashes with a split-image graphic:
Reece Pritchard’s Surprise Marriage: distraction or drama?
It shows a godawful Vegas shot — one with me mid-spin, mid-wink, grinning and practically out of my costume.
“Assholes. At least pick something flattering.” I have plenty of glamorous and sexy shots online for them to choose from. “You petty little bitches.”
They cut back to the anchors, both of them doing that diplomatic dance of “we’re not judging, but we’re totally fucking judging.”
“Well, she’s not at the track today,” one of them says. “And people are wondering if this was a moment of passion that’s burning out just as quickly.”
“We all know Reece. Quiet guy. Reserved. This wasn’t exactly a textbook move for him. But this has been a rough season by his standards, and I’d be surprised if the team isn’t asking some pointed questions behind closed doors.”
I mute the TV, but the silence is louder than the commentary was.
I give the screen double middle fingers, then turn the volume back on. Whatever Reece’s world is saying about me, I should hear. It’s time to make notes and take names. Mama didn’t raise me to be a whiny little titty baby who runs from a fight.
Nope. This bitch is a warrior.
I sprawl across the bed and leave the TV on for the rest of qualifying, watching the chaos unfold.
The commentators do their best to sound analytical.
“Reece isn’t quite on rhythm today. Missed the braking point into turn 9 on the second run. We’re not used to seeing that kind of inconsistency from him.”
“Could be a setup issue, but he’s not rotating cleanly. You have to wonder if his head’s fully in it right now.”
“No public appearances for Maiken Pritchard since the Vegas photos. Her absence is… notable.”
I hiss at the screen. “What do you fucking know?”
When Reece crosses the line after the last run, the stats place him in P7 for tomorrow’s sprint start.
Not first. Not even close.
I don’t know much about racing yet, but even I can tell that’s not where Reece Pritchard is supposed to land.
Something inside me goes very still. Whatever this is between us? It’s hitting him too.
Iaffecthim.
And that means I have power. For good or evil.
I mute the broadcast, stand, and stretch — slow and deliberate. Then I reach for a garment I hadn’t planned to wear this weekend.
