The pink silk under her blazer flashes like a lure in the diner light as she strides toward the front counter.I watch her—sun-bright hair swinging, hips rolling enough to pull my focus.I like the view more than I should.But then I catch the set of her shoulders.They’re rigid enough to trip every alarm bell in my head.
I drop back into the booth, the air heavy, like the oxygen’s been swapped for something dense and hard to swallow.I got rid of her for now, but the victory feels hollow.
I replay our encounter, coming back to the set of her jaw and the way she didn’t flinch when I snapped at her in front of half the Grill.Unshaken.
Grace Buchanan isn’t here to tick off a few questions and fly home.She’s here to dig, and a gnawing dread settles in my gut at the thought of what she might find.
“What was that about?”Oliver leans his forearms on the table.
Across from me, Wren’s brows pinch, eyes soft with concern.“Mad, it did seem like you screwed up.”
“I did.”I scrub a hand over my mouth, tension burning under my skin.“Big time.And I don’t want to do this.I thought it was a quick virtual thing.Fifteen minutes.I didn’t realize…” The words trail off as I grab my beer and drain what’s left.It’s warm and flat, but I swallow it anyway.
“You didn’t realize it was a full-blown feature?”My best friend’s eyebrows collide.“The way she described it… that’s huge.”
“Yeah.”I set the bottle down with a sharpclackagainst the table.“And I can’t back out.It’s in the retirement deal.”
Oliver lifts two fingers, flagging Percy for another round before turning back to me.“You sure there isn’t a way to renegotiate?Move it?Limit the access?”
“Already tried.If there was a loophole, I would’ve found it by now.”My jaw flexes.“Marcos made sure there were no loose ends.”
The memory pinches deep, the past tightening like a noose as my mind drifts back to the conference room in Madrid.The air conditioning blasting, turning the sweat on my spine to ice.
Marcos sat at the head of the table, with his team lawyers fanned out beside him.His own personal firing squad.My agent was the only buffer on my side.
Papers were spread out across the mahogany, and the words of the contract might as well have been in another language after the third read-through.There were three pages of PR obligations with one line about afinal media projectthat sounded harmless enough when my brain was fried from travel and sleepless nights.
I didn’t like it then, all the media I was agreeing to, but Marcos was making a point.He still owned me.
But this thing with Grace Buchanan isn’t simply an interview.It’s a full-scale profile.A deep dive.It feels damn near like an exposé.
Of course it does.
Marcos tapped his gold fountain pen against the table, a rhythmic, maddeningclick-click-click, watching me with a patient, predatory calm.
“Maddox, let’s not pretend this is a negotiation.”He’d leaned forward, his shadow stretching across the contract.“We are giving you the exit you’ve been begging for, but you don’t walk away from me for nothing.You’ll give us this final boost—every ‘authentic’ detail the sponsors can sell.Consider it the tax you pay for your early retirement.You want to be a ghost?Fine.But first, you belong to the press until I say you’re finished.”
My agent’s sympathetic look from across the table, tinged with an unspoken warning:This is the best you’re going to get.Take it, or it’ll get uglier.
I remember the weight of the pen and the way my hand shook before I signed.The moment my name hit the page, my career ended.
I blink back to the Grill.The neon beer signs flicker, and the low buzz of conversation returns.I spot the reporter at the counter, ordering, and even from behind, she’s held too still, a coiled spring waiting to snap.
Wren nudges my arm.“She asked a fair question, Mad.”
“What?”
“Why did you retire?”She watches me carefully, gauging how close she can come to the line without pushing me over it.“Don’t get me wrong.We love having you home.I love coaching with you, but from where I was sitting… your life looked incredible.You were amazing on the track.I know teaching was your first dream, but walking away when you were at the top… You’re still young.I’ve wondered… A lot of people have.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck.“Hey, maybe leave the digging to the reporter.”It comes out sharper than I intend—abrupt and jagged.
I reach for my untouched water, trying to mask the way my pulse climbs.This is why I avoid interviews.Why I avoid any conversation even brushing against the truth.
It’s the million-dollar question, and I’m the only one who knows the answer is a debt I might never repay.It’s the same question the entire racing world screamed the minute the press release hit:
Why did Maddox ‘The Mad One’ Hartley walk away with two championships and a third in sight?
Oliver clears his throat, a sharp, jarring sound that pulls me back to the table.His expression is severe, not impressed with my tone toward his fiancée, and I can’t blame him.