Page 18 of Red Flagged
If I wanted a real future with Callum—one that wasn’t built entirely on grit and scandal and secrets—then maybe I needed to start thinking about the body I lived in. The one he loved. The one that was screaming at me now to slow down and take care of myself.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t, not yet. The thought of recovery time, of stepping away, was unthinkable right now. The sport didn’t stop for women who needed to heal. It didn’t even pause, and I was so close to both being edged outandmaking real change. I didn’t come this far to only come this far.
So instead of hittingcall, I dropped my phone on the counter, braced myself with both hands on the edge of it, and breathed through another cramp.
Mon Dieu.
My IUD was supposed to help in the meantime, if I had ever decided to go through with surgery. And ithad, for a while. But lately… the flares were worse.
The cycle before Austria had been atrocious, too. Aching body, horrible cramps, killer headaches.
Great.And now Callum was all worked up when this was probably nothing.
I bit my lip, thinking it wouldn’t be a bad idea to just get checked. See if things had worsened in the last year, review my options, understand the full scope of my reproductive health. Callum needed those answers, too.
A frustrated sound ripped out of me—half growl, half sob. I snatched the nearest thing on the counter, a bottle of isotonic water, and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a hollowthud, splashing blue liquid down the surface. The noise echoed in the tiny space.
“Fuck,” I muttered, breath trembling. “Fuck.”
I kicked at the edge of my race suit, still caught around my ankles, until it came free. It was graceless and angry. I didn’t even care where it landed—just that it wasn’ton meanymore. The fabric slapped against the floor as I sank down after it, back pressed to the cabinet, knees drawn to my chest. My braids tugged against my scalp, tight and suffocating. I ripped the ties loose, one by one, the rubber snapping, fingers digging into the plaits until they unraveled and my hair fell around my face in messy curls.
My hands trembled. My breath hitched. I pressed my palms over my eyes like that might hold everything in.
“Why can’t anything ever just be easy?” I pleaded to no one, the words breaking apart halfway through.
I folded forward, pulling my knees to my chest, and sat there for a long moment, imagining a future built out of the house I just closed on. Callum and me, curled up in front of the stone fireplace in the winter, making love to keep warm.
The two of us and a little addition running around in the backyard, kept safe within the grounds of our home with a picket fence. The meadows along the backside of the yard, butterflies chasing one another across the pond with a little bridge stretching end to end.
The peace of birds under the high noon, or crickets in the evening as we stared up at the stars, dreaming of our future together.
Racing memorabilia lining the walls of a shared office, a workout room, and a nursery on the second floor. Our shared bedroom on the main floor and sex in the en-suite shower, hot water cascading over our skin, on lazy Sunday mornings. Pastries for breakfast, debates over coffee versus tea.
Rain tapped against the window, the hum of the paddock fading into nothing. For a moment, calm settled over me. My mind cleared. My body didn’t ache. Then I dragged myself upright slowly, tucking my knees beneath me. I rocked back and forth for a moment, stretching my neck back and forth. With a deep breath, I crawled across the floor, dragging my bag closer, desperate for a distraction, for anything to make me feel useful instead of helpless.
My fingers shook as I unzipped it and pulled out my laptop. The pain had ebbed momentarily, and I wanted to use the reprieve to my advantage.
I opened my emails. Alain had sent updates since our conversation this morning. Attachments, security footage, drafts of legal letters. Things that should’ve made me feel powerful. Instead, all I felt was small. I was losing control of the one thing I couldn’t afford to—my body.
No.No distractions. Work before worry. Always.
But when I shifted to sit cross-legged, the cramp returned—low, deep, almost rhythmic—and the cursor blurred on the screen. I gritted my teeth. “Just a flare,” I told myself. “Just a flare.”
It made more sense anyway, for it to be an endo flare. I mean, the likelihood of my IUD getting dislodged more than once seemed highly unlikely, especially since bleeding hadn’t followed these cramps.
A wave of dizziness rolled over me, soft but disorienting. My body wouldn’t listen no matter the circumstances. I pushed the laptop aside and reached for my bag again, rummaging until my fingers brushed the small, half-empty bottle of painkillers buried at the bottom. The ones I kept for travel, stronger than the stuff I took yesterday, prescribed near the end of last season when the flare-ups had nearly put me in the hospital.
I turned the bottle over in my hand, debating. The label warned against mixing with caffeine, alcohol, and operating a motor vehicle. It might as well have saidracing,thinking clearly,andfeeling human.
The race was over. I could afford to dull the edges for a night.
I twisted the cap off and dry-swallowed two, grimacing as the chalky bitterness clung to my tongue. I had a bit of time until they kicked in, so I needed to get going. I carefully climbed to my feet, but every movement felt like it had to be negotiated with my body. My muscles trembled as I shimmied into soft black leggings, tugged one of Callum’s shirts over my head, and pulled a hoodie on top. Armor of a different kind. Something to hide behind. Not from him, but from the vultures with cameras waiting outside the paddock.
I stuffed my laptop back in my bag, shoved my damp race gear inside a laundry sack, and tugged the hood over my head until my face was shadowed. Then I slipped out the back exit of the hospitality wing. The rain had dwindled to a fine mist that turned the floodlights into halos. My car was parked just beyond the barriers, waiting for me in the fading daylight. I climbed in, started the engine, and let the quiet hum fill the space.
By the time I hit the motorway, the pills began to seep through my bloodstream, all creeping and patient. I could feel the first threads of relief unspooling. The world didn’t stop hurting, but it started to soften. My muscles unwound. My thoughts drifted, edges blurring like headlights through rain. The pain dulled to a hum, distant but present, and I let myself sink into the quiet.
My fingertips tingled where they curled around the steering wheel. My mind detached from reality, not unpleasantly, just enough to feel comfortably distant from the heavy thoughts that had consumed me for what felt like my entire life.
