Page 230 of Knot So Lucky
Richard strides in first, his Alpha presence filling the space immediately—all six-foot-three of him moving with the kind of purpose that makes people scramble to get out of his way. Marco follows close behind, tablet in hand, his Beta efficiency evident in every economical movement. The rest of the team floods in after them, a wave of technical staff and engineers and strategists, all of them vibrating with pre-race energy.
They're expecting to see their driver suited up, helmet in hand, ready to make history.
Instead, they find me still in my garage clothes—faded jeans, an oversized Throne Racing hoodie that swallows my frame, and the scuffed sneakers I've had since my karting days. My race suit hangs on a hook across the garage, untouched, the sponsor patches gleaming under the fluorescent lights like accusations.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Richard stops so abruptly that Marco nearly collides with his back. His eyes—glacier blue and currently wide with disbelief—lock onto me with the intensity of a man trying to solve an equation that doesn't make sense.
"Lane." His voice is carefully controlled, but I can hear the edge of panic underneath. "What the fuck are you doing?"
I meet his stare, keeping my face carefully blank.Show nothing. Feel nothing.You've been playing roles your entire life—this is just one more performance.
"Not suiting up."
"I can see that," Richard snaps, his Alpha tone bleeding through despite his obvious attempt to stay calm.
He closes the distance between us in three strides, his scent sharpening with agitation—pine and gunpowder and barely leashed frustration.
"Care to explain why, when we have less than fifteen minutes to be on that goddamn track?"
The rest of the team has formed a loose semicircle around us, all eyes locked on the unfolding scene. I can feel their collective confusion, their rising alarm. Marco's fingers are flying across his tablet, probably checking race protocols, looking for contingency plans. Jenny stands near the back, her arms crossed over her chest, expression unreadable behind her designer glasses.
"I'm not racing today." The words come out flat, emotionless, and I watch them land like grenades.
"What?" Marco's voice cracks on the word. "Lane, this isn't funny. We're minutes away from?—"
"Adrian's dead."
The two words detonate in the garage like a bomb.
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear my own heartbeat, can hear the distant roar of the crowd, can hear someone's wrench clatter to the floor three bays over.
Marco's tablet slips from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against the concrete floor with a sound that makes everyone flinch. He runs both hands through his dark hair, leaving it standing up in wild tufts, and lets out a string of curses in rapid-fire Italian that would make a sailor blush.
Richard has gone statue-still, his face draining of color beneath his perpetual tan. His jaw works like he's trying to form words, but nothing comes out. Just this horrible, strangled silence while his brain tries to process information it was never prepared to receive.
It's Jenny who breaks first, her clinical Beta composure cracking just enough to let genuine shock bleed through.
"When?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "When did this happen?"
"Just got off the phone with the hospital." My voice remains eerily calm, disconnected, like I'm reading from a script. "Policy is to notify the Omega first."
Because Omegas are fragile.
Because Omegas need special handling.
Because apparently nobody trusts us to function like actual human beings when we receive bad news.
The bitter thought tastes like ash on my tongue.
Richard takes a deep breath, his massive chest expanding and contracting with the effort of regaining control. I watch himbob his head once, twice, processing, calculating. His eyes when they find mine again are softer, filled with something that might be understanding or might be pity—I can't tell which and don't want to.
"You can't race," he says finally, and the lack of his usual commanding tone makes it somehow worse. This isn't an order…it's a fact. A recognition of what we both know to be true.
I stand there, my body perfectly still while my mind screams. Can I? Could I actually get in that car, push everything down, and race like my world hasn't just imploded?
Would Adrian want me to? What the fuck am I supposed to do?
