Page 148 of Overtake
He was watching them leave.
His posture is rigid, shoulders tight. The paddock’s been talking non-stop since Mexico City—Graham’s iron grip on his media empire and his sons is collapsing. The data breach investigation keeps turning over more dirt. And the Bettertons and Wolfbergs forced Graham out of WolfBett. Through it all, Wyn has stood slightly apart. Even now, he’s separate from his own team’s celebrations, and I wonder if he thinks he hasn’t earned the right to join them.
He looks down and snarls a response to whoever’s on the other end of that call, his voice deep and angry. “That’s bollocks and you know it.” He turns sharply and yanks open the stairwell’s heavy fire door.
This is none of my damn business.
I head for the elevators, but as I punch the call button, Wyn’s voice echoes from the stairwell. The door is slightly ajar.
“—don’t need your fucking advice anymore, Dad.”
Daaamn. He’s pissed.
A distant voice responds through what must be speakerphone: “You drove like shit in sector 2 tonight. If you’d listened to me about the racing line through?—”
“For fuck’s sake! I won the bloody race!”
He sounds raw.
I should get into the elevator and go up to my room. This doesn’t involve me, and Wyn and I hardly know each other.
“You got lucky, Wyn. That move on the British bitch was sloppy. Amateur hour.”
The elevator arrives, but I ignore it and edge closer to the stairwell door. Graham Pritchard, even banned from the paddock, is still poisoning his son’s victories. The fucker doesn’t know when to quit.
“One ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t fix years of this shite,” Wyn snaps. “You can’t?—”
“Don’t speak to me like that.Imade the sacrifices, and I’m taking the fall while you and Reece keep driving. I expect you to listen when I speak and repay me for what I’ve done.”
“What you’ve done? You mean brought a criminal into the garage and stayed silent while he stole from the teams?”
“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you and Reece. Now isn’t the time to be an ungrateful little prick. I’m not?—”
The line goes dead. Wyn must have hung up.
“Fucking bastard.”
I should mind my own business, because he drives for WolfBett and I work for Nitro. Wyn Pritchard and I arenotfriends. But then I hear it—the sound of someone struggling to breathe, sharp and panicked.
Shit. I’m gonna be a dumbass and get involved. This is so fucking stupid of me.
Against every instinct that says this isn’t my problem and reminds me that this guy’s a menace on the track and pisses me off to no end, I push open the stairwell door.
Wyn’s sitting on the concrete steps, phone forgotten beside him, cap thrown aside. His hands shake as he unzips his team jacket. Anxiety’s making him its bitch. I know because I’ve been there before. The shaking hands, sweaty brow, rapid ragged breathing. Fuck. I know how much that feeling sucks and, damn it, I can’t leave him like this. If I do, I’ll hate myself.
“Hey.” I let the door close behind me and approach the guy like he’s a cornered badger capable of tearing my face off. ’Cause, yeah, I kinda feel like he is. “You’re okay.”
His gaze snaps to me. He’s startled and he looks like he wants to run. Which, yeah, he probably does, but he’s shaking too much to do it.
Man, those green Pritchard eyes are unfairly beautiful. I kinda hate this man and Reece for being so hot.
“We gotta get your breathing under control, WolfBett.”
I kneel in front of him, setting my laptop bag aside. He’s flexing and clenching his fists, and probably feeling fucking pins-and-needles and tasting adrenaline.
“Breathe with me. In,” I demonstrate, breathing slowly. “And out.”
He tries. It doesn’t work at first—his lungs stutter, lock up.
