Page 11
Chemistry. That was certainly one way to describe the absolute disaster that was about to happen when you put two ex-rivals with a secret history to work closely together for an entire season. Evan began gathering his papers, stacking them neatly together as he wrapped up the meeting.
“Alright, that’s everything for now! Maisey, we’ll meet later this afternoon to go over the filming schedule.”
“Sounds good,” she replied.
She stood, sliding her notebook into her bag.
I stood automatically as well, the movement instinctive after years of racing etiquette drilled into me before my brain had time to catch up.
For a moment we were simply standing there across the table from each other. Close enough now that I could see the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.
She still had those too.
Sebastian had already launched into conversation with Evan, asking questions about filming logistics, dropping ideas and thoughts of his as they got up and started to walk out of the room. With them preoccupied, it was just the two of us. Maisey adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, her expression composed.
“Well,” she said lightly, “this should be interesting.”
“You could say that,” I replied. Her fingers drifted absentmindedly toward the end of her ponytail, twisting the ribbon between them, the same nervous habit she’d had when we were twelve. She noticed me watching and dropped her hand immediately.
The professional mask slipped neatly back into place.
“I’ll see you tomorrow for the interview,” she said.
I nodded once. “Looking forward to it.”
That was a lie.
She knew it too and headed for the door. Evan had left already. Sebastian was waiting at the door and immediately fell into step beside her, launching into conversation about her flight from New York and whether she’d had time to explore the city yet. I watched her walk away, side by side with my brother. Ugly jealousy rose in me at how they could slip back into a friendly nature after all this time. It was something we could never do, not with our history and how different it all was now.
The way she moved was different now. Subtle, almost imperceptible—but there was a slight hitch in her step. Barely noticeable. But I saw it. My stomach twisted. Ten years had passed, and that crash still lived in her body.
Angel stepped back into the room a moment later and followed my gaze toward the hallway where Maisey had disappeared. Then she slowly looked back at me.
“So, you two know each other,” she said quietly.
“What?” I muttered. Angel crossed her arms. My jaw tightened. “Doesn’t seem relevant.”
Angel snorted. “The girl you grew up racing against?” she said. “The one whose crash basically changed half the safety rules in junior formula?”
I said nothing. She had obviously done a few quick searches. It only made me more uneasy. I tried to avoid looking it all up, but the crash was brutal, and it wasn’t something easily escapable as a big racing event that did in fact change many safety rules.
Angel studied my face for a long moment before her expression softened slightly. “You okay?”
A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
“Fan-fucking-tastic.”
What was I supposed to say or feel when the girl I had spent the last ten years trying to forget had just walked back into my life? And starting tomorrow, I would have to sit across from her every race weekend, answering questions for the camera like none of it had ever happened.
Like we hadn’t once been two kids passing handwritten letters between kart races.
Like she hadn’t been the only person who ever really knew me, who wrapped her pink-manicured nails around my heart and left a permanent mark. It felt like no time at all since the first time we had talked, and now here we were, and I could barely conjure any words at all.
6
THEO | 10 YEARS OLD
“Theodore, you need to pay attention,” my father snapped at me, and I flinched at the tone. I lost a race today. I lost a race, and my dad was pissed. Even worse, I lost to a girl. Some redhead who wore way too much pink. Or that was what my father said anyway. That he couldn’t believe I would let a girl get past me, a girl wearing bows and pink at that. I didn’t really understand what being a girl or wearing pink had to do with racing or how it affected racing. But there was no use arguing with my father. He was worse than any coach, stricter and harsher. After I showed promise at some summer camp when I was barely five years old, Iger Bauer had decided racing was my path.
