I cut the engine and get out, the gravel crunching under my boots.I’m exhausted, but sleep won’t come easy.
The alarm buzzes long before the sun climbs over the hills, and I’m not sure I slept at all.I kill the offending noise and stare at the ceiling, wishing I could rewrite the script of last night in the parking lot.
The bedroom is cold, the sharp mountain-air chill creeping into my bones.Mom’s already gone to her volunteer shift at the clinic.She’s been putting in overtime lately, like everyone else in town.We’re desperate for a new doctor or two, and the strain is starting to show.
The house smells faintly of lemon polish—her signature.She always cleans when she’s worrying, and lately, the place has been spotless.I know I’m the cause.My stress over the mounting repairs isn’t a secret.
It isn’t the cash that bothers me.It’s the ten years of neglect while I was away racing, adding up to more than simple upkeep.I need to get ahead of it before the house wins.
Reluctantly, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and scrub a hand through my hair.At least today is a step in the right direction.The guys are coming over to lay the new roof.
In the kitchen, the old percolator sputters to life, and a note waits on the counter in familiar, looping cursive:
Mads, casserole in the fridge for tonight.Congrats on the win.I’m so proud of you.Love, Mom.
I fold the slip of paper and shove it in my pocket.Her faith in me feels a little too generous this morning.
Sheets of unmarked fitness education quizzes from my various classes are still spread across the table.I flip through a few, but the words refuse to stick.I need to finish and log the results, but my head is a yard sale of thoughts I don’t want—mostly citrus-scented and stubborn.
Then my phone buzzes.
Marcos: Try not to embarrass us on this profile.Least you can do after leaving the team high and dry.Maybe the reporter should talk to Rickie—bet she’d have some stories.
I toss the phone on the table before I can send a reply that would come back to bite me.
Petty, spiteful prick.
He knows exactly which buttons to pound.Bringing up Erica, and calling her by her nickname, is his favorite way to remind me that my “heroic” retirement was a ransom payment.
Marcos still can’t wrap his head around it.He thought the ultimatum would break me—that I’d toss her to the wolves to keep my seat on the team.He never imagined I’d walk away from the track to keep her out of a cell.
Something tells me if he ever met Buchanan, he’d hand her a shovel and tell her exactly where to dig.He’d love nothing more than to see the reporter finish what he started.
At least I don’t have to see Buchanan for the next two days.Despite being a colossal asshole to her last night, the weekend affords me a reprieve.I don’t deserve the break, but I’ll take it.Still, she isn’t going anywhere—not until she gets what she came for.That terrifies me more than I’m willing to admit.
A sharp rap hits the kitchen door, and Oliver pushes inside, his arms full of heavy ropes, work gloves, and a pulley rig.
He drops the gear on the table with a heavy thud.“Think I got everything.”
I grunt something that passes for appreciation, though my head is still stuck somewhere between last night and Marcos’s text.
His gaze drops to the table, lingering on my phone.The screen hasn’t gone dark yet, and Marcos’s name shines next to the final, biting line about Rickie.
I flip the phone face down, but I’m too late.
His expression hardens, a shadow passing over his face.“What the fuck?Marcos still thinks he’s the king of your life, huh?”
I shrug, though the muscles in my neck are tight enough to snap.“He’s just chirping.Like always.”
“You weren’t kidding.He’s a bitter prick, Mads.He’s been looking for a reason to twist the knife since you walked away.”He saunters over to the counter to fix a cup of coffee.“Don’t let him get in your head.But what’s that shit about Rickie?”
He studies me for a long beat, his silence heavy.I don’t want to lie—it’s exhausting, and it’s not who I am—but the truth is a minefield.
Oliver knows how pissed Marcos was about my decision to retire and my history with Erica, but not how the asshole could use her against me.
Erica grew up in Winslow Grove; we all went to the same high school, and Rickie and I were engaged when we left town.Then, not even two years after I hit the circuit, we broke up.I didn’t have the stomach to tell anyone back home why, and honestly, it wasn’t my story to tell.
Erica may have destroyedus, but I wasn’t going to be the one to destroyher.She was doing a fine enough job of that on her own.Besides, for a time, I still thought there was a chance to save her.