Page 34 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)
COMMENTARY AND CONSEQUENCES
~ D EX~
I take another long pull from my water bottle, the cool liquid doing little to ease the dryness in my throat that has nothing to do with talking for hours and everything to do with the absolute clusterfuck this day has become.
The commentary booth overlooks the track from a perfect vantage point, all glass and steel and state-of-the-art equipment that makes me feel more like a caged animal than the professional broadcaster I'm supposed to be.
Three years.
Three years since I traded my racing suit for a microphone, since I went from calculating perfect pit strategies to analyzing them for millions of viewers who don't know that every word out of my mouth tastes like ash and broken dreams.
"Thirty seconds," the producer's voice crackles through my earpiece, and I straighten in my chair, pulling on the mask of Dex Ryder, Formula One commentator extraordinaire.
My commentary partner, Marcus Chen, is already bouncing in his seat with the kind of energy that only comes from too much caffeine and not enough sense.
He's good at his job—knows how to work a crowd, how to build tension, how to make even the most technical aspects of racing sound exciting to casual viewers.
He's also a gossip-mongering asshole who'd sell his grandmother for a ratings boost, but that's practically a job requirement in this business.
"And we're back in five, four, three..." The producer counts us down, and I feel the familiar shift as my public persona clicks into place.
The ON AIR light flashes red, and Marcus launches into his spiel with characteristic enthusiasm.
"Welcome back, racing fans, to what's shaping up to be the most controversial preliminary race in Formula One history!
" His voice carries that perfect blend of excitement and drama that viewers eat up.
"The inclusion of Omega partners has thrown the entire paddock into chaos, with teams scrambling to reveal their chosen Omegas before today's race. "
I nod along, waiting for my cue while my mind races ahead to what I know is coming. We've been building to this moment all morning, dancing around the elephant in the room with increasingly obvious hints.
"It's certainly been a challenging adjustment," I offer when Marcus pauses for breath. "The logistics alone of integrating new team members this close to race day?—"
"But that's not the real story, is it, Dex?" Marcus interrupts with a grin that makes me want to punch him. "The real story is that only one team has yet to reveal their Omega partner. And not just any team—we're talking about the four-time consecutive champions!"
Here we go.
I keep my expression neutral, professional, even as my hands clench beneath the desk where the cameras can't see.
"Lachlan Wolfe's team has remained surprisingly silent on their Omega selection," Marcus continues, leaning forward with the kind of conspiratorial air that suggests he's about to share state secrets.
"One has to wonder—is this strategic planning, or is the championship team facing a deal-breaker with these new regulations? "
He pauses dramatically, and I can practically see the viewers leaning closer to their screens.
Marcus has many flaws, but the man knows how to work an audience.
"Now, as many of our long-time viewers know, Lachlan's history in the romance department has always been rather.
.. secretive." The way he draws out the word makes my skin crawl.
"But sources suggest he may have already committed to an Omega—one he's yet to share with the public or even his own pack. "
Marcus turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised in a silent question that's really more of a command.
He wants me to bite, to take the bait and run with whatever narrative he's building.
I can see the gleam in his eyes, the anticipation of drama and ratings and all the things that make modern sports broadcasting more about entertainment than athletics.
I arch an eyebrow in response, keeping my expression carefully neutral.
Two can play at this game, and I've had three years to perfect my poker face.
Undeterred, Marcus barrels onward.
"For those just joining us, let's talk about the golden team that has dominated Formula One for the past four years. Lachlan's pack isn't just talented—they're a perfectly calibrated machine of racing excellence."
He gestures to the screens behind us that display team photos and statistics.
"We have Kieran Cross as second driver, whose technical precision perfectly complements Lachlan's aggressive strategies. In the pit, Caspian Thorne has orchestrated record-breaking tire changes that have literally redefined what's possible in those crucial seconds."
His gaze slides to me, and there's something almost apologetic in his expression that immediately puts me on guard. "And of course, we have our very own Dex Ryder, whose tactical genius could calculate the perfect strategy to get his team into first place no matter the conditions."
I feel my jaw tighten at the use of past tense, at the reminder of what I used to be versus what I am now.
Three years might as well be three decades in racing terms. Three years of watching from the sidelines, of analyzing races I should be strategizing, of pretending I'm content with this consolation prize of a career.
Marcus catches my expression and mouths "sorry" even as he continues his monologue. But I know that look— he's not sorry at all. He's building to something, and whatever it is, I'm not going to like it.
"But here's where things get really interesting," he says, his voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone that makes millions of viewers feel like insiders. "What if Lachlan isn't the twin we'll see on track today? What if we're about to witness a racing debut from his brother?"
And there it is.
The bomb he's been waiting to drop, delivered with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the skull.
I force myself to lean forward with interest rather than the dread that's pooling in my stomach.
"Twin brother?" I ask, injecting just the right amount of surprise into my voice. "I think you might be confusing?—"
"Oh, didn't you know?" Marcus laughs, the sound bright and fake as cubic zirconia.
"Lachlan has a twin! The hot discovery was announced this morning, making waves across social media.
And get this—he was recently spotted being fitted for racing gear at the elite VIP athletic wear boutique in Monte Carlo! "
The screens behind us light up with images that make my blood pressure spike.
It's definitely Lucius, not Lachlan, and the differences are obvious to anyone who knows them.
Where Lachlan carries himself with controlled precision, Lucius radiates danger like a warning sign.
He's all sharp edges and barely leashed chaos, the kind of man who looks like he'd either kiss you or kill you depending on his mood.
In the photos, he's surrounded by women—beautiful, laughing Omegas who are draped over him like expensive accessories.
One blonde has her hand on his chest, her perfectly manicured nails a bright red against his black fitted shirt.
Another is whispering something in his ear that has him smirking in that way that probably makes underwear spontaneously combust.
It's propaganda, pure and simple.
A carefully orchestrated photo op designed to portray Lucius as the playboy alternative to his more reserved brother.
And I hate it.
Hate it with an intensity that threatens to show on my face despite years of media training.
Because Lucius is the lucky fucker who still gets to be with Auren.
On and off, hot and cold, together and apart—whatever their toxic cycle is this week, at least he gets to be in her orbit. The rest of us are hung out to dry like forgotten laundry, left to admire from afar but never touch. Never hold. Never have the chance to remind her of what we all used to be.
"He's certainly got that bad boy charm," Marcus continues, clearly delighted by the images. "Quite the player compared to our known champion! But the real question is—can he race as well as his older brother?"
He pauses for dramatic effect before adding, "And yes, folks, I've got the inside scoop confirming that Lachlan is definitely the older twin. By four whole minutes!"
The sound effect of canned laughter fills the booth, the kind of artificial amusement that makes me want to put my fist through something expensive. This is what we've become—a sport reduced to soap opera drama and manufactured controversy.
"And with that bombshell," Marcus announces with practiced timing, "we're going to take a quick break for a word from our sponsors at BMW. Don't go anywhere—the race is about to begin!"
The ON AIR light flicks off, and I immediately turn to glare at Marcus with enough force to melt steel.
He has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, though not nearly enough for my liking.
"What the fuck was that?" I keep my voice low, aware that we're still surrounded by the production crew even if we're not broadcasting.
Marcus groans, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Look, we just got triple bonuses for pulling that off, so don't give me that look. You know how this works."
"I don't like being put on the spot," I snap, my hands clenching and unclenching as I fight the urge to grab him by his perfectly styled hair. "Especially not about my own pack."
"You're always put on the spot!" he argues, though he keeps his voice down to match mine. "That's literally what commentary is. Besides, you think I wanted to do this? I got coerced, same as you."
That stops me cold.
"By who?"
He jerks his head toward the images still displayed on our screens.
"Same person who got those perfectly timed photos of Lucius, obviously. Someone wants controversy, Dex. They want drama and rivalry and all the juicy bits that make people tune in."