Page 8 of Trip

“Your team?” I repeated, leaning forward as the edge in my voice mirrored the tight grip I had on the snifter. “You mean the team you stole from my dad?”

Ansel held up a hand, his expression morphing into something almost pleading. “Calvin, hear me out. This isn’t about the past. It’s about what we can do now. Together. There’s too much history between us to just throw it all away.”

“History doesn’t erase betrayal,” I shot back, my pulse pounding in my ears. “And it sure as hell doesn’t justify this.”

“I know,” he said quietly, the confidence draining from him as he met my eyes. “But there’s something bigger at stake here. Something only you can help me with.”

For a moment, I hesitated, torn between the instinct to walk away and the nagging curiosity about what could possibly have driven Ansel to seek me out after all this time. The room seemed to close in around me, the weight of his words pressing against my chest.

“What are you playing at, Ansel?” I asked finally, my voice low but steady.

He leaned in, the flicker of determination returning to his gaze. “I’ve got a talented but reckless driver who’s wrecking carsfaster than I can replace them. Kind of reminds me of you back in the day.”

I refused to take the bait.

“Maybe your driver’s just tired of your bullshit.”

Ansel’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he pressed on, his voice quieter, steadier. “You’re right, Calvin. I run a tight ship. I always have, but I’m not going to let some adrenaline-seeking fuckup destroy what I’ve built. If I have to, I will replace my driver, but I can’t ignore talent. That’s where you come in.”

I leaned back, arms crossing defensively. “So now I’m supposed to play mentor to some reckless hotshot? You think that’s going to fix anything?”

“It’s more than that,” Ansel said, leaning forward like he was trying to close the chasm between us. “It’s not just my driver. The crew is worried. I took a risk on a wildcard when no one else would, and now it’s biting me in the ass.”

His words hit a nerve, and I felt the familiar sting of old wounds reopening. Ansel knew exactly what he was doing, dragging up the ghosts of the past, twisting the knife just enough to make me listen.

Too bad for him, I knew how to twist the knife, too.

“So this has nothing to do with the fact that during the last two races the engine seized and your driver lost control?”

Ansel’s lips pressed into a thin line, the flicker of vulnerability in his expression gone as quickly as it had appeared. “I’m not here to make excuses,” he said. “I’m here because I know I have a damn good car and my driver has raw talent. I don’t want a repeat of the past.”

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping before I could stop it. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that? Coming here, digging up old scars, pretending like this is all about some jacked-up driver. What is really going on, Ansel? What’s in it for you?Because I know you never ask for help unless it benefits you in some way.”

His silence stretched between us, heavy and impenetrable. For a moment, I thought he might actually walk away. But then he spoke, his voice taut and deliberate. “What’s in it for me? Survival. Plain and simple. You think the world of racing is kind to mistakes? To risks that don’t pay off? If my driver crashes and burns, it’s not just my reputation on the line—it’s everything I’ve built. Everything we once dreamed of.”

That last part hung in the air, unspoken yet deafening. He wasn’t just talking about the driver anymore. He was talking about us, about the partnership we’d once had, back before ambition and betrayal had driven a wedge between us.

“And you think I’m the one to fix this mess?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

“I think you’re the only one who can,” Ansel said, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

I hated how much his words stirred something in me—something I thought I’d buried a long time ago.

Shaking my head, I slowly stood.

“I need time to think about it.”

With that, I walked out of the Rosewood Country Club.

Walking into the clubhouse, I headed straight for King’s office and didn’t bother knocking, only to find the man between Bailey’s legs. Quickly shutting the door, I heard Banks chuckle.

“Ooh, someone’s gonna get an ass chewin’.”

I smirked, seeing my best friend chilling out as he sat at one of the tables, playing solitaire. “Why aren’t you at the comic bookstore with Laurel?”

“’Cause I’m here playing cards.”

“Why?”

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