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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

QATAR GRAN PRIX | SUNDAY | RACE DAY

People are watching me.

I feel it the second I step out of the team transport and into the evening air at the circuit. Eyes skim over me like I’m a curiosity or a threat, or maybe both.

Good. I’m not here to blend in.

My jumpsuit is vintage ’70s denim with a tube top and snug in all the right places. Over my shoulders, I’ve knotted one of the pashminas Branca bought for me — cranberry-red, tails tied behind my back to turn it into a soft, drapey little jacket. It flutters every time I walk.

My shoes are brown leather lace-up oxfords with a serious stacked heel. The kind of heel that says, “Yes, I can run in these or I can stomp your nuts into the pavement.”

Hair? Full Farrah Fawcett fantasy. Wings feathered and flipped, bouncing with every step. Makeup? Smokey eyes, pale shimmer lips, bronzer dusted exactly where it counts. I’ve never been kissed by the sun, but today I’m cosplaying like it’s my religion.

I look like I walked out of a Polaroid from 1978 and into a billion-dollar sport that doesn’t know what to do with me.

So, yeah, let them look.

Reece is waiting for me just inside the paddock gate.

His gaze tracks me from head to toe, slow and appreciative, but not possessive.

“You do realize this isn’t NASCAR, right, Mrs. Pritchard?

” He takes my hand, neither subtle nor hesitant as he threads his fingers through mine.

His message to everyone watching is clear: This is not a PR stunt.

This is my wife and, no, she’s not a fucking distraction.

I smile. “Mr. Pritchard, you do realize if this was NASCAR, I’d be wearing a helluva lot less, right?”

Reece laughs and doesn’t let go.

I keep my shoulders back and my chin up. If people are gonna look, they can take in the full show.

A pair of kids steps into his path with wide eyes and matching Nitro caps. The boy, who’s maybe ten, is holding a small pad of paper. The girl clutches a homemade poster and a pen. She’s probably thirteen.

“Reece?” the boy asks. “Can we get your autograph, please?”

My husband stops without hesitation. He signs the poster and the notepad, and answers a question about corner speed with a grin that’s way too charming for someone who just pushed a car to the edge of physics yesterday.

Then the girl looks at me. Her voice is soft but sure. “You’re Maiken, right?”

I blink. “Yeah.”

“You’re amazing.” Her eyes are wide. “That post yesterday? The one with the red corset and the roses? My big sister saved it. We’re obsessed.”

I open my mouth, but I’m stunned stupid.

She adds, “Also, your outfit today is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Reece grins at her. “I know, right?”

The girl beams, and her brother nudges her with a look that says, “Stop being embarrassing,” but she doesn’t seem to care.

Hell, neither do I.

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

Reece signs one last thing and stands as the kids are ushered away by a smiling adult. He leans close. “You good?”

“Better than.”

He grabs my hand again. “Let’s go raise some hell.”

I laugh and flip my hair. “Damn straight, RP.”

We continue along the paddock, waylaid by more fans wanting his autograph, people from other teams saying hello, other drivers he introduces me to but whose names I immediately forget. It’s impossible to get anywhere fast. Oh, the irony.

Ona and Claudia catch up with us as we near the Nitro garage.

Reece squeezes my fingers. “I’ve gotta go get my head in it. You’ll be with Claudia, yeah?”

“Sure. Go do your thing. I’ll be fine.”

He nods and disappears into the garage with Ona at his side, already slipping into whatever internal zone he goes to when it's time to race.

Claudia hands me a headset as we enter the PNW Nitro garage, which is good because everything hits me all at once.

The smell is powerful — hot rubber, scorched metal, something sharp and electric, and another odor that’s sweet and burnt and kinda lingers at the back of my throat.

The sound is even more overwhelming — hissing air compressors, fifty voices talking over radio comms, boots on concrete, the clatter of metal tools, and pneumatic tire thingies that sound violent as fuck.

Above it all, is the rumble of the car. It vibrates through the concrete and into my bones with an irregular, almost impatient rhythm.

It's not the smooth idle of any car I've ever heard. This thing sounds like it's barely tolerating being held back, and even at rest, it’s ready to tear someone’s fucking head off and eat their liver. It’s a gleaming lethal beast. And I can’t believe my husband commands it.

I put on the headset. The world dulls instantly, but not entirely as I follow Claudia to a bank of monitors at the rear of the garage.

She dons her own headset and I hear her voice in my ears. “This stays on. These engines aren’t forgiving.”

I nod and look around at all the motion. It’s a choreographed dance, and that’s something I understand. This is where everything happens. Where the polished face of Formula 1 slips off, and the machine underneath bares its teeth.

Reece crosses the garage, his racing suit zipped, helmet under one arm. He stops to talk with several people in front of a bank of computer screens, discussing graphs and numbers. His expression is sharp as he nods and looks at the data.

He’s in it.

And I know, without being told, that until the race ends, I don’t exist to him, which is exactly how it should be.

This is his job. His purpose.

I watch him for another minute, heart thudding not from nerves, but awe.

He’s fucking amazing .

Ona joins Claudia and me, calm and watchful. She’s unbothered by the energy around us. Then again, I’ve noticed Ona isn’t rattled by anything.

She scans the garage. “You’ll meet everyone properly after the race.” Then she points to a man who’s walking past us. “That’s Misho Leroy. He’s Reece’s race engineer and the voice you’ll hear speaking with your husband during each race.”

Misho glances up and adjusts his headset. “Welcome to hell, Maiken. Smile if you want to confuse the enemy.”

I nod. “Always.”

To my surprise, he laughs.

Ona gestures to a small woman with the longest mane of gorgeous dark hair I’ve ever seen. She’s just crossing behind us. “Zara Devi is a race strategist. She plays god with the pit windows.”

I have no idea what that means, but Zara glances up from her tablet, and gives me a quick bright smile.

“Glad you’re here. You’re already less dramatic than most sponsors.” She indicates my outfit. “And you definitely dress better.”

I laugh. “Thanks.”

It’s amazing not to be viewed as an outsider. I hadn’t known what to expect, but this easy camaraderie wasn’t high on my list. They’re treating me like someone who belongs.

It’s strange and totally wonderful.

Coy comes into the garage and stops to welcome me. Ona tells me about the data on the various screens in front of us. I’m amazed to learn that the team here is in constant contact with a whole group of personnel who’re back at their factory headquarters in the U.K.

The energy shifts in the garage as race start approaches. Crew members head to positions out on the pit wall.

I start getting the jitters.

Reece dons his balaclava, helmet, and a u-shaped device that rests on his shoulders.

He turns around, spots me, and winks before climbing into his car.

He’s so casual about all this. Everyone is, and I guess I’m the only person in the garage whose stomach is hollowed out thinking about what he’s doing.

I tap Ona’s arm and gesture to indicate the thing he wears on his shoulders. “What is that?”

“A HANS device — head and neck support. It’ll keep his skull from breaking his neck if he’s in a severe crash.”

“Oh.” That doesn’t make me feel at all less nervous.

I guess it shows on my face, because she pats my arm. “He’ll be fine, Maiken. He always is.”

I nod and shove the instant visual of Reece’s head breaking his neck out of my mind. Or try to anyway.

His car is lowered and a mechanic signals him when it’s clear to pull out of the garage and into the pit lane. The car’s engine goes from a rumble to a roar, joined by Petra’s in the other side of the Nitro garage and eighteen other F1 cars all heading for the track.

Some of the monitors show footage as cameras sweep overhead. There are a few laps that Ona explains are called installation laps. They allow the drivers to get a feel for their cars and the track conditions and the teams to pick up on any potential issues.

The next forty minutes are spent with cars coming and going through the pit lane, in and out of the garages, the pit crews on the track then off.

Last-minute adjustments for the cars and potty breaks for the drivers.

Then the Qatar national anthem plays and F1’s diversity and sustainability message is presented.

Finally, the drivers do another lap then form up on the grid, somehow finding their narrow little starting boxes.

Twenty cars, twenty drivers, all waiting for five lights to go out.

My heart’s thudding in my chest.

Misho’s voice comes through calmly in one ear as he confirms technical shit with Reece. Everything is clinical and perfectly timed.

Reece says nothing beyond, “Copy.”

He’s RP11, totally focused and fucking magnificent.

Everyone in the garage watches the monitors. There’s no small talk, no wasted motion. Every person here is locked in. I’ve never seen so many people so focused on one process. They’re devoted to this one machine and the man who drives it like it owes him something.

I don’t dare blink.

Not once.

The lights go out, and I flinch as the cars launch, the sound hitting my chest like a punch.

Reece starts in fourth behind Nico Belmonte, Petra, and Lynch Sutton.

A blue and gold car is already making a move on the outside, pressuring Reece.

It’s Wyn and I remember what everyone’s said about his aggressive driving.