“Yes.”She draws out the word.“But not everything online is accurate.I have a good sense of the sequence of events, but it helps to have it in your own words.I’ve got a concept in mind for how I want to pitch the layout to my editor, and I want to make sure I have the facts straight.”
“All right.”I shift in my seat, my legs going numb.“Will I get to see this concept?”
“Sure.”She smiles and juts her chin out.“Once the story runs.”
I let out a frustrated chuckle and shake my head.“Okay.From the moment I could walk, I was obsessed with motorsports.Karting started at five, and around eleven or twelve, I was winning championships, getting noticed.That’s when things got serious.”I pause, letting the memory settle before I continue.“When I turned fifteen, I moved into junior single-seater formulas.”
“You mean F4?”
“Yeah.”I glance over at her, and she quirks a brow—I have a pretty good idea why.“Hard to believe, I’m sure.Not to brag, but I was a natural.Get me behind the wheel, and I can’t explain it—the car and I become one.I loved every second of it.None of it felt like work.But there are only around twenty F1 seats in the world, and to go any further than F4, I had to move to Europe.And it was costly.”I rub at my chin, shaking my head slowly.“I never dreamed about going any further.”
“But you did all the things.Followed the path of a contender.”She drops her voice, doing her best Brando, and something loosens in my chest when I laugh—more than I expected to.
“Yeah.I think it was my dad’s dream for me, if I’m honest.He wasn’t the type to push—he’d have wanted the choice to be mine—but given how easily I took to it...”
I trail off, pulled under for a moment.Him crouching beside a kart I barely fit into, hands patient on my shoulders.Then later, him and his friend Sid, a former Indy driver, backing me through the ranks, race by race, championship by championship.
Sid helped where he could financially, but Dad did crazy things to cover the rest.Things I didn’t fully understand until much later.I still don’t know whether he thought racing was my dream and sacrificed everything to give it to me, or whether it was always his dream, the one that quietly drove every insane risk and every dollar of debt he left behind.
Grace doesn’t push, doesn’t fill the silence, and something about that steadies me.
“Anyway.”I clear my throat.“Scouts started approaching around fifteen, sixteen.I never engaged.I was flattered, sure, but F4 was as far as I was going to go.”
“Was Madrigal one of the teams?”I nod.“And how old were you when you signed?What changed?”
“Barely eighteen.”I take a measured breath and move past it—past the reason I left behind everything and everyone I’d ever known.I have no intention of sharing that.“They were offering a seat in their young driver program, starting with F3.I took it.Stayed with the team my entire career.”
I push through the rest before she can find a foothold in it.“I retired at twenty-seven after two grand prix wins, came home last year, got lucky.Coach Bell was stepping down, and I applied for the head of the athletics department.”I grin, the tension in my chest easing now I’ve made it to the other side.“And there you have it.”
“Wow.”She scribbles something on her notepad and looks back at me.“Okay, this next question is simple—I should’ve started with it...Besides being a natural, why racing?”
My breath catches.It isn’t the question I expected, but it’s enough for any warmth from earlier in our conversation to evaporate, replaced by the always-lingering dread.
So far, the interview has covered how my current job was always my first dream.Then she wanted to know what it was like growing up in Winslow Grove—who she could talk to, what I was like as a boy, as a teenager, none of it career-focused.Then she shifted to what I saw for my future.
While I’d hoped we were done for today, I was still surprised by the ground we’d covered.Most reporters want the crash stories, the adrenaline, the fame.But Grace goes for the root.The beginning.The thing closest to the truth.What’s underneath it all.
I shift in my seat.“My dad.He built engines.Taught me everything I knew about cars.”I pause.“Except how to fix a broken-down school bus.”I huff out a pained laugh.
Her expression shifts to something gentle.Something understanding.“You loved it.The race.”
“Still do.”
“Yet you came back to your first dream.Teaching, coaching.”She tilts her head.“What about retiring?Did you love that part, too?”
And here it is.A muscle in my jaw feathers.“Is that the ‘simple’ question?”
She doesn’t look away.“It’s the obvious one.”
“There was a press release, and I gave a statement about why I was retiring.You’ve read it, I’m sure.”
“I did, and I don’t buy a word of it.”Her honesty leaves me thunderstruck, but she isn’t done.She leans in slightly, voice low, and states, “You’re hiding something.”
“Everyone hides something, Buchanan.”Not the best deflection, but it holds truth.
“Fair.But some secrets shape people.Decide things for them.”Her eyes stay on mine, direct, collected, too damn perceptive.“And I think whatever you’re hiding—or maybe protecting—is the reason you walked away.”
My pulse stutters hard and erratic.