Page 3

THREE

Brody

Washington blurred past the tinted window, and I leaned back against the leather seat, trying to tune out the soft hum of conversation.

I was here for my niece.

My sister-in-law, Sadie, sat beside Logan, her voice calm and steady as she reviewed the event's details again, the picture of composure. As the daughter of a diplomat, she’d grown up in a world of fundraising galas and high-profile gatherings, and after Avery’s diagnosis with Type 1 diabetes at the age of two, she threw herself into advocacy and fundraising as a way to cope, turning her grief and fear into something tangible. Sadie had a way of commanding attention without ever raising her voice—a quiet confidence that drew people in and made them listen. Nights like this? They were her domain, and she handled them as if she were born to it.

People were drawn to Sadie because of her warmth and charm. And Logan? He was the rock—the reliable one who always had the answers.

Me? I was just the guy in the window seat, pretending not to notice the occasional glances Logan shot my way.

The truth was, I didn’t want to be here. This wasn’t my world anymore. I was the face people recognized that sold tickets—the name that would get headlines for a cause I cared about.

It was about the only thing I cared about.

Logan and Sadie had the real reason for the galas, speeches, and fundraisers. They were trying to create a world where kids like Avery didn’t have to deal with needles, blood sugar monitors, and the fear that one bad day could lead to disaster.

I respected the hell out of them for it. But that didn’t make me any less bitter about being dragged along. I’d done my time in the spotlight for far too long, part of the insanity not due to being a driver but having dated world-famous singer Jemima Wren.

We’d only lasted a year—both focused on our careers—but we’d parted on good terms and were still friends.

Should I tell her what was happening?

Why would she want to know? She’s your ex.

I don’t want her pity!

“You’ll need to make more of an effort tonight, Brody,” Logan said, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “You’re getting a reputation for being obnoxious.”

“Not my idea of fun,” I deadpanned because that accusation hurt, even if I was an obnoxious bastard.

Logan’s tone sharpened. “We’re not doing this for fun, Brody.! We’re here for Avery.”

I turned to him, my jaw tight. “You think I don’t know that? Why the hell do you think I even got in this damn car?”

“You’re acting like you’re being dragged to your execution,” he shot back, his gray eyes narrowing. “This is about something bigger than you, for once.”

My fists clenched on my lap, the leather creaking under my grip. “Bigger than me? You don’t think I know what that’s like? My whole goddamn life has been about something bigger—fuck you!”

“Stop!” Sadie snapped, but her husband—my idiot brother—wasn’t listening.

He leaned forward, his expression hard. “Well, poor Mr. Millionaire. You could start by not acting like the world owes you something just because you got dealt a bad hand.”

“Fuck you,” I snapped, the words out before I could stop them. “You think I like this? Do you think I enjoy sitting around waiting to see if my brain decides to kill me? I went to see Doc last week, okay? You know what he said? More waiting. More watching. No answers. No solutions. Just me, stuck in limbo while everyone else gets to move on with their lives.”

Logan paled, and I could see the regret in his expression, but before he could start all the typical bullshit, I held up a hand. “Don’t you dare pity me, you asshole!”

“Enough. Both of you,” Sadie snapped.

Her words hung in the air like a lifeline, cutting through the tension threatening to choke us. Logan leaned back, exhaling, and I slumped against the seat, exhausted, pressing fingers to my temple where a headache threatened.

“Are you okay?” Logan asked because he was watching me and asked me that same question every move I made.

I dropped my hand.

“That’s a relative term,” I murmured.

Sadie shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Logan. I didn’t have to see her face to know she silently told him to ease off. But Logan was like a dog with a bone when it came to me.

“Did he say there was any news about what’s next?”

I turned to look at him, my jaw tight. “There is no ‘next.’ They keep watching, and I keep living with a time bomb in my skull. That’s it, Logan. That’s my life now.”

Silence filled the car, heavy and oppressive. Logan didn’t say anything, but I could feel his disappointment, his frustration. He didn’t get it. He couldn’t.

Sadie glanced between us, her tone softening. “You both need to stop taking it out on each other.”

She was right. Logan wasn’t the enemy here.

“He needs to back the fuck off,” I snapped.

“And he needs to?—”

“Enough!” Sadie snapped at Logan, and for a moment, I felt smug, then she turned to me. “You too!”

The rest of the ride passed in heavy silence. I knew Logan was getting tired of my shit. Hell, I was getting tired of my shit. But I didn’t know how to fix it.

The limo slowed to a stop, the grand entrance of The Hay-Adams glowing in the golden light outside. The buzz of conversation and the flash of cameras seeped into the car, but none of us moved.

I wish I’d managed to slip under the radar here in the States. Sure, America was home, but F1 didn’t capture attention the way NASCAR did. While dedicated fans followed every race, the average American would recognize a NASCAR champion over an F1 driver any day. Anonymity here could have been a blessing, but I’d ruined that by dating Jemima—a popstar, Insta-goddess, and fashion icon who was constantly in the spotlight. Being labeled “Jemima’s ex” stuck with me long after we split. For a time, I’d loved the attention that came with being on her arm, reveling in the envy and adoration we attracted.

But that was then, when I was younger, cockier, and naive enough to think fame meant happiness. Now, the spotlight felt suffocating. It wasn’t just the intrusive headlines or constant speculation about my personal life—it was the loss of control, my story shaped by others without my consent.

No matter how hard I tried to escape, that world kept pulling me back. The press speculated endlessly about my retirement; social media analyzed every move. Wherever I went, whispers followed: “Brody Vance—Jemima Wren’s Ex.”

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how to reconcile my past self with who I was now. Before, the crowds and cameras had fueled my drive to succeed. Now, they felt like a burden, a constant reminder of everything I’d lost and of someone I wasn’t sure I wanted to be anymore.

“Smile for the cameras,” I muttered under my breath. Before I could reach for the door handle, Logan leaned over, his hand landing on my arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quieter than I expected.

I nodded, still staring at the tinted glass. “It’s all good.”

“It’s not,” Logan pressed. “I worry about you, Brody.”

I let out a slow breath and turned to meet his gaze. His pale gray eyes—our dad’s eyes—were filled with a mix of frustration and something else I couldn’t quite place.

“I get it,” I said, my voice as soft.

He hesitated, squeezing my arm briefly before letting go. “I love you, little brother.”

I swallowed hard, and my throat tightened. “I love you too.” A small smile tugged at the corner of Logan’s mouth, and I mirrored it. “You, Sadie, and Avery—always. Okay?”

Logan nodded, leaning back in his seat. “Okay.”

I drew a deep breath, letting it fill the empty spaces the argument had left between us. “So, let’s do this thing.”

He grinned now, a real one, and opened the door, stepping out into the cool evening air. I followed, the cameras flashing, the hum of voices growing louder.

I squared my shoulders and put on a smile. For Avery. For Logan and Sadie.

It was time to play the part. Again.

Two hours into the nightmare of noise and light, my headache had—thankfully—eased, but the endless swirl of voices were all too much. The questions and faux-earnest commiserations didn’t help either.

I kept trying to steer the conversations back to my niece and why we were all here tonight—raising awareness for juvenile diabetes. But somehow, every single person seemed more interested in me . Was I dating Jemima again? Why had I stopped racing? What was I going to do now? When would I make my big comeback?

How pissed was I that I missed being world champion by only twenty-three points? Not that they used the word pissed, they asked if I was disappointed.

Nah. Not me. I wasn’t disappointed.

I was devastated. Destroyed. Lost. As though everything I’d worked for, everything I’d sacrificed for, had slipped through my fingers at the finish line. Twenty-three points felt like a lifetime, and no one would ever know how much it tore me apart, how every second of every day felt as though I was trapped in the wreckage of turn 14, unable to climb out or breathe.

But sure, “disappointed” worked just fine for them.

I had too many lawyers and PR reps on retainer to let the truth slip out. And even if I could say it, even if I wanted to, how could I explain it to them? That I’d quit to stay alive? That I was living every day with a countdown I couldn’t see or hear?

I couldn’t do it.

“I’ll be right back,” I mumbled to the couple standing before me, neither of whose names I’d managed to catch. I didn’t wait for a response before turning and heading for the exit.

Striding purposefully through the crowd, I avoided eye contact and ignored the murmurs of my name. If I appeared focused enough, people usually wouldn’t stop me. Instead of heading toward the bathroom signs, I veered off course, ducking under a velvet rope into a section marked Private .

The first unlocked door I found led to a small, dimly lit lounge. Old oil paintings lined the walls, and the worn-out elegance screamed exclusivity. I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me with a click , and leaned against it momentarily, letting the tension bleed out of my shoulders.

At least I wasn’t giving a speech tonight. Small mercies.

I crossed the room to an overstuffed leather chair, sank into it, and let my head fall against the cushion.

For the first time all night, I let out a slow, shaky breath and allowed myself to slump. This wasn’t how I wanted to spend the rest of my life—hiding, lying, pretending. But what other choice did I have?

“Um… hello?” The voice came from the far corner, startling me enough to make me jerk upright in the chair.

“Jesus!” I snapped, my heart racing as I glared.

A man stepped out of the shadows, and I blinked. He was slim but solid, with golden curls that looked as if they belonged on the cover of a magazine, and striking green eyes that widened as they locked onto mine. He wore a penguin suit like me, except his jacket was slung over his arm, a small pride pin glinting on the lapel. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie loose as if he’d been fighting with it all night.

“You’re Jemima Wren’s ex! Hell, you’re Brody Vance,” he said, almost like a question, as though he couldn’t believe it.

I went on the defensive, standing up from the chair. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

He held up a clear zip bag with bottles and a needle inside, and my stomach dropped.

My chest tightened. A druggie. Great. This night just kept getting better.

“Get out,” I barked, my voice sharp and full of disgust. “And take your fucking drugs with you.”

The guy froze, blinking as if I’d slapped him. “Insulin,” he said, holding the bag higher as if it would stop me from throwing him out on the spot. “It’s insulin. A needle for an emergency, testing stuff. I-I’m here for the event. Well, my dads are here. They played hockey…” He trailed off, motioning toward the bag. “I play hockey,” he added, sounding flustered.

I stared at him, trying to make sense of his rambling. He shifted, patting his chest where I could now see a small, round disc stuck to his skin.

“I, uh, messed up with my readings earlier. I’m trying my chest for the first time, but it doesn’t work as well as my arm. I just needed somewhere quiet to get my blood sugar under control.” His words tumbled out in a rush, and he ran a hand through his curls, clearly embarrassed. “I-I can find another room if this is… I mean, I didn’t mean to interrupt your…” He waved toward the chair where I’d been slumped moments ago, his gesture awkward but apologetic.

I stared at him, still processing. My anger simmered, but now it was mixed with something else—confusion, maybe even a little guilt. I’d jumped to the worst possible conclusion without thinking.

He was someone trying to handle his shit. It's the same as me.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face, the tension in my chest loosening a fraction. “No, it’s fine,” I muttered, stepping back and sitting down. “You don’t need to leave. Sit down if you need to.”

His shoulders relaxed, but his wide eyes stayed on me, cautious but curious. “Thanks,” he said, moving to the far side of the room and sitting on the edge of a chair, fidgeting with the bag.

“Do you need me to get you anything?”

He brightened. “Oh, no, it’s all good.”

The small room fell into an awkward silence, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Finally, my earlier anger faded into a strange exhaustion.

The night wouldn’t be a complete disaster if I could hide here with the sexy man who wasn’t a drug addict.

“I'm Noah,” he said, setting his jacket over the back of the chair before extending his hand.

I stared at it for a second, then shook it. “As you said, I’m Brody.”

“I know,” he said with a small, nervous laugh. “Sorry, I’m flustered. It’s not every day I meet a real-life racing driver.”

“Former,” I corrected, the word sharper than I intended.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, his cheeks tinged pink, the color blooming across his face. Pretty. “Well, still.” His voice was breathless as if he was trying to play it cool but couldn’t hide the awe underneath. It wasn’t just the words—how his eyes lit up, wide and sparkling, as if standing in front of something larger than life. I could feel the quiet hum of excitement between us and his unspoken thrill of being close to someone he saw as powerful and untouchable. It wasn’t something I’d felt in a while—that charge, that sense of being seen in a way that made me feel electric. And damn, if it didn’t make me stand a little taller, my pulse kicking up at the way he stared at me as though I was everything.

He leaned forward, and my eyes caught on his lips. They were soft and plump, and I wanted a taste. His tongue darted out to wet them, and something about the simple movement sent a strange tension humming through the air. It had been too long. My entire life was hidden by lies, and was it wrong to want something real for myself in this moment?

Yes, it’s wrong. Keep your secrets, Brody Vance.

“How’s your sugar level?”

He touched the watch on his wrist. “All back to normal.” Then, he frowned. “Or as normal as it can be.” He laughed then, not fazed by what he’d told me.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence, my gaze flicking to the pride pin still attached to his jacket. “You’re an ally? The pin, I mean?”

Noah tilted his chin up, meeting my eyes with a quiet defiance that took me off guard. “I’m bi,” he said, his tone daring me to say anything about it.

“Cool,” I said, keeping my tone neutral, even though the way he held himself—proud, unyielding—made me want to look a little closer. “So, that means you’re not a professional hockey player?”

“Not yet,” he said with a faint smile. “I’m heading to training camp for the Harrisburg Railers. That was the team my dads played for.”

“Impressive,” I said, leaning back, studying him. “And being queer doesn’t… affect your career?”

If he thought that was an odd question, he didn’t comment. Instead, his smile softened, but his eyes stayed steady, unwavering. “My dad and pops got married years ago. They paved the way. Some people don’t like it, and maybe I won’t make the team because of it. Who knows?” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, though the edge in his voice said it did. “But I won’t stop being me.”

Something about the way he said it, the absolute certainty, made my chest tighten. He didn’t apologize for who he was, or flinch, or hide.

I wasn’t sure if I admired him or envied him for that. Maybe both.

“Well,” I said, unsure of what else to add. “Good for you.” His confidence and the quiet defiance in how he carried himself were magnetic, and it took me by surprise. He was the person I’d avoided for too long—steady, self-assured, and unapologetic. My gaze drifted to his curls, golden and wild, and I couldn’t help but picture sinking my fingers into them, holding on, anchoring myself to him in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to want in years.

“So what was it like dating Jemima Wren?”

“Fuck you,” I snapped, and his eyes widened. “Sorry,” I added.

“My bad.”

I’d only ever been with women. And motorsport wasn't an environment that welcomed anything outside of straight white males. But this man? He tempted me in a way that sent my head spinning. I glanced down at the champagne glass in my hand—it was extra to the whiskey I’d already drunk, which blurred the edges and made all the wildest things possible.

And right now, I was buzzing with something far more potent than alcohol.

Where had the lust come from?

Memories crept in, unbidden, of other times when I’d watched men from the corner of my eye and wondered if one of them could be strong enough to quiet the chaos in my head. To stop me from thinking. To take over and let me breathe, just for a moment.

Not that Noah was strong enough or big enough for that. He wasn’t my type. He wasn’t…

Why the hell was I even thinking this?

“Are you okay?” Noah asked, his voice uncertain.

Something in me snapped. I’d been asked that question too many damn times lately—by doctors, by Logan, by everyone who thought they had the right to poke at my pain.

“Yes, I’m fucking okay!” I barked, my voice sharper than I intended.

Noah flinched, his eyes widening and a pang of guilt twisted in my chest.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing away, but his apology only grated on my nerves.

I didn’t want his sorry. I didn’t want anyone’s pity or cautious words. What I wanted was him—his quiet confidence and the warmth he radiated that made me feel I wasn’t sinking for the first time in forever.

My eyes drifted to his lips again, slightly parted, and a bolt of desire shot through me. I shifted in the chair, widening my legs as I leaned back, letting the tension roll off me as best I could. I’m crazy. Is this the aneurysm making me want things I’ve never let myself have here?

“Come here,” I said, my voice low, the words more a command than a request.

Noah blinked at me, startled, his breath catching in his throat. And for the first time all night, I felt alive.

Make me feel alive.