“You say the limit like it’s a cliff,” I said, my voice level. Dangerous. “It’s not. It’s a line you learn to sit on. You stay there long enough, you figure out how far you can lean without falling.”
“That’s not how physics works,” he shot back, his voice dropping to a low, furious hiss so the crew wouldn't overhear. “You don’t muscle your way through a mechanical failure. If that locks while you're mid-corner, you aren't leaning, you're a passenger in a fireball.”
I laughed, a short, sharp sound that echoed off the garage walls. “No. You just live with it when it fails you anyway. Isn't that what you did?”
A muscle flickered near his temple. He looked like he wanted to bring up the party, the music, the way I’d humiliated him—but he didn't have the leverage. Here, in the garage, he was just the coach. He was just the help.
“You don’t need to prove anything out there,” he added, his voice strained.
“You don’t get to tell me that.” I shoved my helmet into his chest. Hard enough to make him stumble back half a step. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Knowing when to stop. Knowing when you’ve already ruined your shot.”
The words landed exactly where I aimed them. For a second, his face flickered—not with anger, but with that old, dusty grief of a career that ended in someone else’s death.
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I turned and walked away.
I headed for the observation room, needing the AC to kill the discomfort crawling under my suit. I peeled my gloves off slowly, one finger at a time, the Velcro ripping with a loud, violentscritchin the quiet hallway. My hands were surprisingly steady. It wasn’t adrenaline shaking through me. It was absence. The hollow calm of the edge.
I pushed the door open.
Luka was there.
He was standing near the glass, arms folded across his chest, staring out at the empty track where I’d just been trying todismantle a half-million-dollar machine. He didn't have a coffee cup or a smile. He just looked tired.
“You’re going to kill yourself,” he said. He didn’t turn around. His voice was flat, devoid of the usual brotherly banter.
I scoffed, tossing my gloves onto the counter. “If I wanted a lecture, I’d go back out to the pits and talk to Hayes. At least he gets paid for it.”
Luka finally turned. His eyes were sharp, searching my face for a crack I hadn't let form yet.
“Landon is a coach. He’s looking at data and tire degradation. I’m looking at my brother. That stunt on the back straight? Keeping the throttle open through the kink while the rear was already stepping out? That wasn't racing. That was a suicide note in eighth gear.”
“Careful,” I said, stepping toward the fridge to grab a water. “You’re starting to sound like you think you have a say in my driving style.”
“I have a say in whether or not I have to help Dad bury his oldest son,” Luka snapped. He stepped into my space, refusing to let me hide behind my usual wall of indifference. “If you do it again, I’m telling him. I’ll tell him you’re intentionally overstressing the PU. I’ll tell him you’re ignoring team orders and hunting for limits that don't exist. I'll tell him you're a liability to the entire program.”
I froze, the cap of the water bottle half-turned. The threat of our father—the man whose name was on the livery and the paychecks—was the only thing that carried any weight in this garage, and we both knew it. I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
“Go ahead. Tell him. Tell him I’m gathering data on the structural integrity of the chassis at peak load. He’ll probably thank me for the feedback.”
“He’ll pull your entry and put the reserve driver in your seat before the next session, and you know it,” Luka countered. “You think you’re invincible because you’ve got the best aero package on the grid and a name people recognize, but you’re just one mechanical DNF away from being a headline.”
I leaned in, my shoulders swallowing him against the sterile white of the observation room wall. “Do whatever you want, Luka. Call him. File a formal grievance. Log it with the stewards for all I care.”
The air between us was thick, the brotherhood between us fraying under the pressure of the afternoon. Luka looked at me like I was a stranger— or worse, a ticking failure waiting to happen.
“I’m done for the day,” I said abruptly, grabbing my gear.
I headed for the door, my boots ringing against the industrial flooring.
“Dom!” Luka shouted after me. “The debrief starts in ten minutes! Where the hell, do you think you’re going?”
I paused at the door, the metal handle biting against my palm. I didn't turn around. I couldn't. Not if I wanted to keep the absence in my chest from filling up with everything I was trying to outrun.
“I’m going to visit Mom,” I said.
I didn't wait for his reaction. I didn't wait for the inevitable silence that followed that name. I just pushed through the door and let it slam behind me, leaving the track, the noise, and my brother’s concern in the rearview mirror.
The drive back had been a blur of high-speed lanes and a silence so loud it made my ears ring. I’d cut the session short, left thedebrief to Luka, and spent the last few hours driving until the fuel light hissed at me.
