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Tear him a new one! That guy needs to be knocked down a peg.
Sending you all the wine if it’s THE HOTSHOT.
Goddamn nickname.
Did he really have to put that in there?
Of course, they all jumped on it being me. I mean, the guy is obsessed. I scroll through his blog next. Looking at all the pieces about racing and toxic masculinity. How it’s the one sport, above all, that’s stuck in the 1980s.
Fuck this guy. He has no idea what he’s talking about.
Except I keep reading, and he kind of does. I mean sports-wise, the guy does seem to understand the logistics. But he’s wrong about the fights and wrecks.
People watch the races for those two things.
I’m not wrong about that.
And if they go away, it’s just fast cars going around in circles—which, don’t get me wrong, that’s pretty badass—but still. I learned a long time ago you have to put on a show to be noticed.
And maybe they do hate me, but if they hate me, at least they’re still talking about me.
The silence is what I fear.
When I’m no longer relevant enough to talk about. When I’m not making headlines at all. When I truly am washed-up.
Maybe that’s what Jenny is implying will happen soon. That’s why I gave in and agreed to her bullshit plan. Though I have absolutely no faith in Soren finding a softer part of me. I’ve done everything I could my entire life not to go soft and to, in fact, only go harder and stronger.
Every single day.
You’re a fighter, my boy.
I toss my phone down next to me and grit my teeth, thinking about the voice inside my head, whispering those words to me.
I’ll go along with this. I’ll talk to Soren about races and show him my fancy-ass house and cars. I’ll even take him to dinner at the fanciest restaurants around. I’ll wine and dine him and turn on the charm until he’s forced to tell them I’m not so bad.
Because I can’t take the silence. I just can’t.
CHAPTER6
SOREN
Does it have to be this loud?I swear I’ll never get used to the noise of the track. I mean, I admit I kind of enjoy the adrenaline rush you get when you see those cars flying by and not putting on the brakes at all, but does it have to be so damn loud?
I can’t even think.
And it’s hot as hell out here today.
This sheen of sweat on my brow is just not cute.
I’m sitting next to Leslie, who I have to admit is my idol. The woman is incredible. Yes, she comes from a family of racing legends—her father and her brothers—but she’s made a name for herself over the years.
She married Cash Phillips when she was already at the height of her career, and they’ve created a life people dream of. Hence, another reason I’m here today—she’s been taking a step back lately, wanting to spend more time with her kids and Cash.
And I admire the hell out of it.
Most people don’t know this about me, but I’m sort of a romantic. I love that she’s found love so great she only wants to pour more into it.
So here I am on a Sunday afternoon, watching cars speed around a track, lap after damn lap, before one of them inevitably crashes into the wall.
