Page 90 of Hot Lap
He climbs out of the car, peels off his gloves, and removes his helmet, HANS, and balaclava. He downs some water, then strides toward Nitro's gathering.
Maiken is all he sees.
He reaches for her hand, squeezing gently before letting go. The cameras are in his face, capturing the way she looks at him and the way he smiles at her.
The post-race procedures blur together — weigh-in, media interviews, team debrief. Through it all, Reece seeks Maiken, finding her in the periphery and noting how she takes it all in with those wide, observant eyes.
The post-race roar has dulled to a low thrum outside the closed door of Reece’s driver's room.
He sits on the padded massage table again wearing clean fireproofs, his damp hair curling against his temples. The scent of eucalyptus and sweat hovers in the air. Ona stands behind him, thumbs working deep into the tension locked between his shoulder blades.
That ache says he pushed hard and earned every tenth of a second he fought for on track.
Having Maiken just six feet away watching him like he's something worth staying for, steadies his pulse better than anything Ona can do.
"You let her in." Ona works on unlocking his muscles.
Reece breathes out slowly, gaze on his wife. "Yeah."
"She's the first."
He nods.
Ona moves to the base of his neck and starts tracing the tension radiating out from there. "You've had teammates, girlfriends, media managers. But never before inthisroom."
"I didn't want them here."
"And her?"
"I want her everywhere."
Ona pauses, just long enough for it to mean something. Then she presses her knuckles gently into his trapezius muscle. "You realize this has all happened in, what, a week?"
He smirks. "Six days, technically."
"Ridiculous." There's a smile in his physio’s voice.
Maiken doesn't comment or fidget or pull attention. She just watches him. Like she knows exactly what this space means and understands that being here, now, is not just an invitation.
It's a statement.
Ona’s hands slow and the pressure she’s applying eases. "I've got five minutes left with him, Mrs. Pritchard. Then he's yours."
"Lucky me," Maiken says, and Reece hears the heat under her voice.
When Ona finishes, she nods to both of them and slips out, closing the door behind her.
Maiken stands and crosses to him in measured steps. They’re nearly at eye level as she pushes his knees wide and steps between them. She frames his face with her hands and kisses him, slow and deep, a possessive kiss that makes up for the restraint they've shown in public. When she pulls back, her eyes are bright.
"What was that for?"
She smiles. "For not hiding me anymore."
Reece changes into his team gear and they exit the room. The sprint is behind him, but race qualies are ahead. Between? They're doing the interview with Luca.
The profile piece withFloor Talk, one of the few major motorsports outlets not tangled in Graham's web, starts in the Nitro hospitality unit, answering surface-level questions. The reporter, Luca Ricci, is young, respectful, and sharp enough to read the temperature of the room. Reece has interviewed with him a few times and always comes away with a good feeling that’s underscored by the respectfulness of the resulting articles.
Now they're winding through the paddock toward the garage, a photographer trailing them, snapping a few easy shots as they move.
