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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX | SUNDAY | RACE DAY

It’s been eight months since Reece had pole position. The last time was in Monaco, and he won the race. Then his father and girlfriend congratulated him with a knife in the back.

What a difference one night and a few too many drinks can make.

The heat is brutal in the car, despite the late-afternoon start. It radiates off the tarmac in waves, and he’s already sweating under his fireproofs when he pulls into the grid box. The engine rumbles low and impatient, and Reece flexes his hands on the wheel.

“Car feels good,” he says into the radio. “I’m ready.”

Misho’s voice crackles back. “Copy that. Wind’s shifted slightly in sector 2. We’ll adjust pressures on the fly if needed. Watch your mirrors. Belmonte’s always hunting for opportunities.”

Reece breathes deep behind the visor. “Let him hunt. I’m not giving him a bloody inch.”

The red lights come on above the starting grid:

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Then…

Lights out.

Reece gets a clean launch. Not perfect, but good enough to let him hold the line into turn 1, and keep Nico behind.

He glides through 2 and 3 with minimal correction.

Nico’s climbing up his arse, and Petra’s behind him, keeping Aigar and Wyn boxed in.

Reece builds a gap slowly, lap after lap, the delta ticking upward.

“Purple sectors. You’re opening it up.” Misho’s voice is a comfort in his helmet. “Stay clean. Remember the deg window.” He means tire degradation and worsening grip.

Reece manages his tires like they’re made of glass. “Copy. These fronts feel sticky. Might lose them by lap 12.”

“Understood. Push three more laps, then we’ll box for mediums.”

He flies through the second DRS zone like the team stitched wings into the chassis, then adjusts the brake bias a tad and rolls into the turn 9 hairpin.

At lap 14, he pits. The stop’s smooth — two-point-three seconds. Clean and controlled.

“Outstanding pit, guys. Thanks for that.”

Back out in P4 with pit cycles underway.

By lap 20, he’s reclaimed the lead.

Mid-race, with air temperature holding steady and a five-second gap to Belmonte, Reece finds his rhythm. The car's singing beneath him. Setup is dialed in, tires are in their sweet spot, speed and precision have clicked into place.

And that’s when it hits him. Right on time. It’s been eight months since he felt this good in the car.

He hums first. Then, quietly, over the radio, barely audible: “You can dance… you can jive…”

Misho snorts. “Seriously, Reece?”

“…having the time of your life…” He grins as he slides through turn 3.

“I swear to God, if you don’t podium?—”

“Watch that girl,” Reece sings under his breath, “See that scene… diggin’ the dancing queen…”

“Focus, Dancing Queen. Nico is closing the gap. Mode 7. No more ABBA.”

“Yes, boss.”

He locks in, jaw setting.

Lap 49 brings a yellow flag in sector 3.

Reece slows and passes where Sartelli’s purple and orange car is half buried in the TECPRO barrier.

Replays on the giant screens around the track show the Jove Morrison car’s rear stepping out under braking, a snap oversteer and it’s straight into the wall. The safety car comes out.

“Misho, he okay?”

“Yeah, Sartelli’s out of the car.”

“Good. What’s the plan?”

“Box. Box. Everyone’s coming in. We’ll switch to softs. Going to be a sprint to the end.”

Reece dives into the pit. The Nitro crew is flawless — tires swapped, lollipop up, clean release, but the safety car means the gap he built is now gone. Nico’s blue and gold machine has returned to crawl right up his arse. And they’re both on fresh tires.

Reece exhales. “Right, we're doing this the hard way then, aren't we?”

Misho’s in his ear. “Don’t give him space.”

The safety car pulls in after two laps.

Green flag.

The field bunches and releases like a slingshot.

Nico gets heat into his softs just a second faster.

Reece fights wheel spin. He holds the racing line, but in the chicane of turns 11 to 12, there's a flicker, a fraction of a second too long on the brake pedal. A lockup. Minimal, but enough to change the game when he’s playing against the world champion.

In that split second, he knows. The race isn't lost, but the win is. One moment of imperfection, one slight miscalculation, and Nico's through the tightest possible gap. That's F1. Razor-thin margins mean the difference between victory and second place.

"Bloody hell," Reece mutters. " El Conejo's through."

"Keep pressure on. DRS coming. Mode push."

Lap 51. They rocket down the main straight toward turn 1, Reece's car glued to Nico's gearbox. The DRS flap opens, and the slipstream pulls him closer, closer?—

They go side by side into the heavy braking zone.

Reece brakes later and dives to the inside. "I'm still here, mate."

Through the long right-hander of turns 2 to 3, he's ahead by a nose.

"Brilliant move, RP. Hold your line,” Misho says.

But Nico's not done. Two laps later, he uses DRS Zone 2 perfectly — the long straight from turn 7 to turn 8 — sliding past with surgical precision just before the marina section.

"Damn, he’s good," Reece mutters, already planning his next attack.

Lap 56. Another run down the main straight. Another DRS zone. Another chance. This time Reece waits, waits, then pulls alongside just before the turn 1 braking zone. They go wheel-to-wheel through the opening sequence, neither giving an inch.

Nico tries a move up the inside at turn 8, but runs wide through the marina chicane. Reece is through clean, retaking the lead.

The world champion isn’t finished though. With identical tire compounds, it comes down to pure skill and luck. Nico closes the gap again through sheer determination.

They enter the final lap and fly down the main straight one last time. DRS open. Nico pulls alongside, then edges ahead by half a car length.

Reece throws everything at it — perfect lines, late braking, wringing every hundredth of a second from the marina section, but the gap holds.

Nico crosses the line first with Reece right on his arse. Petra holds onto P3, but WolfBett still claims the Constructor's Championship. Just barely.

"P2, mate. Hell of a drive," Misho says.

Coy comes over the radio. “Racing doesn't get much closer than that. Well done, Reece. Brilliant driving.”

“Thanks to all of you,” he replies. “Couldn’t’ve done it without this amazing team behind me.”

Petra pulls alongside Reece and they wave to the fans as they circle the track together.

They roll into parc fermé behind Nico. Reece pulls off his gloves and helmet, sweat-soaked and vibrating with adrenaline.

He didn’t win. But, Christ, they fought like hell. The celebration happening in the PNW Nitro garage proves it. They’ll be back next season, hungrier than ever.

The moment he climbs out of the car, relief hits him. The cockpit gets so bloody hot it’s like driving a sauna. He peels off his gloves, yanks free the helmet, HANS, and balaclava, and takes a long breath of not-quite-fresh air.

Maiken is at the barrier, smile brighter and more beautiful than the fireworks exploding overhead.

Seeing her hits him harder than any podium celebration ever could.

She's here. She stayed. She chose him and this ridiculous marriage and the chaos that comes with this life.

For that, Reece will give her the sun, the moon, and the stars.

He winks at her and touches his heart.

She mirrors the gesture.

Petra slaps him on the back as she joins him at the scale for weigh-in. “Could’ve used a wider arse back there. You didn’t block Belmonte hard enough.” They dap-hug, same as they always have.

“Thought you liked looking at his arse.” Reece steps on and off the scale for the FIA official.

She rolls her eyes. “Not when it’s in front of me on the track.”

Nico is already surrounded by cameras. He gives Reece a chin tip that carries the weight of respect earned over a decade of competition. Reece nods back.

In the cooldown room, they stow their helmets, then put on their race caps and down more water. Reece drops into the middle seat and exhales. Nico tosses him a sideways glance.

“Thought I had you there,” Reece mutters.

Nico nods. “You did. More than once.”

Petra enters last, her suit unzipped and wild dark hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. She grins and nods toward the screen as race footage replays. “That restart was a bitch, eh?”

Reece groans. “Don’t remind me.”

Nico smirks. “I thought it was quite good.”

Petra scoffs, but she’s grinning. “Stuff it, Belmonte.”

Reece tunes them out for a moment while his heartbeat settles. He’s still vibrating from those wild last laps, but his thoughts are already drifting to Maiken.

An official calls them to the podium.

They step out together — Petra, Reece, Nico — and the crowd is deafening. Flags wave. Flashes light up the night. The circuit smells like rubber and smoke and salt air.

Nico stands tallest on the top step, flanked by Reece and Petra.

The Spanish national anthem plays, followed by Germany’s, since WolfBett is a German-owned company.

Reece folds his hands in front of him, jaw tight but expression composed.

Second place isn't failure today. Not with everything Nitro’s built this season.

When the champagne comes out, Petra pops hers first and sprays both men before they’re even ready. Reece laughs, grabs his bottle, and aims straight for Nico, who ducks too late.

Petra turns and raises her bottle toward the Nitro garage.

Reece follows her gaze, and there’s Maiken on the front row, clapping with her whole body, that red lipstick still perfect.

He lifts his bottle to her.

She blows him a kiss.

Bloody hell, he loves that woman.

They didn’t win it all, but they showed the world exactly who the fuck they are.

The podium high fades slowly as Reece makes his way through the post-race photo ops, media pen interviews, and team debriefs. By the time he reaches his driver's room, the adrenaline has softened into satisfaction.

Ona wastes no time on niceties. She slaps a bottle of water into his hand and helps him stretch. Reece’s neck still buzzes from the g-forces and his legs are leaden from braking late, lap after lap. That pain is earned and familiar.

He showers, pulls on clean clothes, and runs a towel through his damp hair, glancing once at his phone.

No messages from Maiken, but that’s probably a good thing.

She’s prepping for tonight, which for her, might as well be a tactical operation.

There’s no “just throwing something on” when it comes to Maiken Lange Pritchard.

He grins and heads out of the hospitality unit, calling thanks and “see you’s” to the staff. When he steps out to the paddock, he’s surprised by who’s waiting there.

Not Peony, thankfully.

Wyn’s leaning against the wall of Telco Italia’s neighboring hospitality unit, arms crossed, one foot propped. His familiar lopsided smirk is nowhere to be seen. “Got a minute?”

Reece comes down the steps. “Sure. What’s up?”

Wyn doesn’t answer right away. He leads Reece to a quiet recess where prying eyes will have to work harder to find them. The hum of deconstruction work buzzes somewhere nearby.

“Congrats.” Wyn faces him. “P2. Solid drive.”

Reece nods. “Congrats to you too. Constructors’ win. Not too grotty for a bunch of goths with an attitude problem.”

That earns a half-smile from Wyn. Then, his brother sucks in a breath. “Look, I sent the Oyster video to Luca Ricci. Anonymously.”

Reece stares at him. The words land like a fist to the solar plexus — not painful, but stunning in their simplicity.

“You took that?” Of course he bloody did. For Graham, no fucking doubt about it.

Wyn shrugs, looking away. “I know I’ve been kind of a dick, but I was never okay with how Junior treated Maiken that night. And I should’ve done something then.”

Reece is more surprised that he didn’t think to ask Wyn if he’d video’d the confrontation than he is that Wyn actually did. This isn’t the first time he’s captured footage of Reece for their father. The real astonishment is that Wyn hasn’t shared it with Graham.

Rather than punch his brother in the bollocks, which he definitely deserves, Reece gives him the space he needs to say what he wants to say.

It’s something he’s always tried to give Wyn — space, freedom, and breathing room.

He hates that he hasn’t always succeeded.

But now? Well, bloody hell if Wyn hasn’t just returned the favor.

Reece has feared they’d never bridge the divide between them, but maybe that’s not the case.

Wyn exhales, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I know the timing wasn’t great, media shitstorm and all, but someone had to shove the truth into the light.”

“Why give it to Luca and not Graham?”

“Because Maiken didn’t back down from Dad. Despite the headlines and the vultures and everything he’s thrown at her, she hasn’t run away.” He looks up. “That kind of backbone deserves justice. Plus I figure she’s pretty much here to stay.”

Reece swallows, a knot of emotion forming at the base of his throat. “Mai’s the best person I’ve ever known, Wyn.”

“Yeah. I get that now.”

There’s a pause. The kind of silence that fills up with years of things unsaid.

Finally, Reece nods. “Thanks for helping.”

His brother shrugs again. “Just… don’t make me regret it, yeah?”

Reece smirks. “Not bloody likely.”

Wyn tips his chin toward the paddock exit. “Better go. She’s probably halfway to magnificent.”

“She’s always magnificent.”

That earns him a quiet laugh as Wyn peels off toward WolfBett’s garage. “I believe it, man.”

“Hey, bruv?”

Wyn turns. “Yeah?”

“I’m here if you need me. For whatever. Okay?”

Wyn’s brow furrows and he looks down, then nods, sniffs. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” He turns around and jogs up the paddock.

Reece watches him go, heart both a little lighter and a bit heavier.

It wasn’t the grand reconciliation he’d hoped for, but it’s an opening.

Maybe it’s even a sign that Wyn’s considering shaking off Graham’s shackles and finally grasping some freedom of his own.

All Reece can do is be present when his little brother looks to him for an exit strategy.

With a sigh, Reece heads toward the transport that’ll take him back to the hotel, and to his wife. He can’t fight that battle for Wyn, but he can lay down a proper racing line for his baby brother to follow.