Page 7

SEVEN

Brody

The scent of fuel hit me when I stepped into the garage, sharp and familiar, tugging me back to the first time I’d ever karted as a kid. I could still remember the hum of the tiny engine, the way every vibration traveled through the frame, right into my body. Back then, it felt like magic—feeling the track through my ass, every bump, every weight shift, as if the kart was alive beneath me.

Now, standing in front of these rental karts, it wasn’t quite the same, but it was close enough to spark something in me. The karts were simple machines—two-stroke engines, about 15 horsepower, maybe two hundred pounds, if that. With a good power-to-weight ratio and a flat track, they could hit fifty or sixty miles per hour. It wasn’t Formula 1 speeds, but on a tight circuit, that would be fast enough to make it fun.

We put on the rental overalls, which were loose and thin compared to the tight, multilayered suits I was used to. These weren’t fireproof high-tech gear plastered in sponsor logos, but I barely noticed the difference, too busy watching Noah across the garage.

He laughed with a tall guy he called Blake. His voice was light and easy, and his curls bounced as he tugged his overalls over his legs. Now and then, his shirt rode up, revealing glimpses of skin—just enough to make my chest tighten and my mind wander.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of him, the way he’d melted into me that night as if he’d been waiting for it as much as I had. The kiss had been a battle, both of us fighting for control, for dominance, for something more than either of us was ready to admit.

I yanked the zipper up on my overalls, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened just watching him, and my cock plumped up—thank god the overalls were loose. This was supposed to be about racing, about losing myself in the track’s speed and thrills. But I could only focus on Noah and how he made me feel as though I was hurtling out of control—even when we were standing still.

“All right, Racer Boy,” one of the guys said, grinning like he’d already won. “How many laps do we get as a head start?”

“Ten?” someone else said, and the group laughed.

I smirked, walking along the row of karts, my hand trailing over the frames as I examined them. “Ten laps?” I echoed, shaking my head. “What do you think I am, a charity? You get five. No more.”

“Five?” the first guy said, crossing his arms. “You drive fast cars for a living, man. Five laps is nothing.”

“I did,” I corrected, the word slipping out sharper than intended. “I was a F1 driver. Big difference.”

That shut him up, and I stepped back, clapping my hands together. “All right, enough whining. Let’s get on with it. My face will end up all over social media as soon as we start, and I’ve got about an hour before everyone figures out where I am.”

The guys exchanged glances, excited. Maybe they knew they were about to get smoked, but that was part of the fun.

I climbed into one of the karts, the seat hard and unforgiving but oddly comfortable. With a pull of the cord, the engine roared to life, and the familiar vibrations traveled up through the seat, settling into my bones.

This. This was what I’d missed. The speed, the focus, and its freedom, and I was happy the g-forces here wouldn’t be enough to cause an issue. This wasn’t F1. It was fun.

Even if my grandfather somehow got wind of this through social media, I’d be long gone before that wily bastard could track me down.

I grinned, adjusting the straps and gripping the wheel. “Five laps, gentlemen. Better make them count.”

The others were already out on the track, engines buzzing like angry bees as they tore into their first lap. I waited in the pit, leaning back in the kart, watching the chaos unfold. Blake was trying too hard, his kart fishtailing as he oversteered into the first corner. On the other hand, Noah had settled into a smooth rhythm, his lines tight, his focus unmistakable.

Five laps. That was the deal. They were having fun, whooping, hollering, and laughing so loud it hurt my heart. I missed this.

When they’d completed their fifth lap, I pulled my helmet down and hit the gas. The kart shot forward; the engine roaring as I joined the race.

It didn’t take long to find my rhythm. The kart was light and responsive, every bump and curve translating directly into my body. This was pure driving—no high-tech controls, no engineers fine-tuning settings, me, the machine, and the track.

By the time the others hit the middle of lap eight, I was already closing in. The first guy didn’t stand a chance. He was wide out of the corner, leaving a gap big enough for me to slip through without trying. One down.

Two more drivers were bunched together, their karts bumping as they jockeyed for position. I waited, letting them make their mistakes. One braked too late, sliding out, and the other got distracted trying to avoid him. I breezed past both of them as if they weren’t there.

Noah and Blake were out in front, still holding their lead. I caught up to Blake first. He was fast but couldn’t keep it clean, his rear wheels skidding as he fought to stay ahead. I took the inside line on the next corner, cutting him off. He cursed—probably loud enough for me to hear if I hadn’t been focused on the next target.

Noah was different. He wasn’t just fast; he was smooth. He knew how to hold his line and make himself hard to pass. I stayed close, watching for an opening, and when I pulled alongside him, I glanced over.

He was locked in, his gaze sharp, his hands steady on the wheel. For a second, I almost didn’t want to pass him. He looked… incredible. Focused, determined, and entirely in the moment. But then, he glanced at me, and I saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

I grinned under my helmet, put my foot down, and left him in my rearview.

The rest of the race was mine. By the time I crossed the finish line, I was half a lap ahead when I slowed to let them catch me. I pulled into the pit, yanking off my helmet as the others rolled behind me.

Noah climbed out of his kart, pulling off his helmet and shaking his curls loose, his face flushed with exertion. He caught my eye, and for a second, it was just the two of us, the noise of the track fading into the background.

I felt fantastic. It wasn’t only the win—the speed, simplicity, and pure joy of being behind the wheel again.

“You’re insane,” Blake laughed, throwing his hands up. “Who even does all that shit out there?”

I shrugged, a cocky grin spreading across my face. “What can I say? I’ve got skills.”

Noah laughed, shaking his head as he walked toward me. “Next time, it’s a ten-lap head start.”

“Next time?” I asked, my grin widening. “You sure you’re ready for more of me?”

God. What was I saying? I didn’t mean karting. I meant more of me. More kissing, more of him pressed against me, his hands in my hair, his lips on mine. More getting off against doors, taking it to a bed where we wouldn’t have to rush or hold back. Fuck. He was beautiful—his curls damp and wild, his eyes bright with excitement.

Noah stared at me, and it felt as though the rest of the world disappeared for a moment. His lips parted slightly, and I could almost hear the echoes of the sounds he’d made that night. His gaze held mine, steady and searching, and it was as if he could see everything I wasn’t saying.

I wanted to kiss him. Right there, in front of everyone. Pull him close, let him feel the pounding of my heart, tell him with my body what my words couldn’t quite form.

“Noah—”

A hard slap on my shoulder broke the moment, and I jerked back, my pulse racing.

“Hey, Racer Boy,” Blake said with a grin, oblivious to our tension. “Looks like someone shared your location.”

I glanced over my shoulder and cursed under my breath. A group of people had gathered outside the glass doors, their phones out, snapping pictures.

“Great,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair.

“Better get your celebrity act together,” Blake teased.

I sighed, pulling off the overalls and tossing them onto a nearby bench. My neck cracked as I rolled it, the tension easing. Then, I slapped on the smile I’d perfected over the years—the one that left people happy, no matter how fake it felt.

The doors opened, and I stepped into the crowd. It was the usual chaos—shouts of my name, hands thrusting notebooks, photos, and phones at me. I signed everything, even an arm, grinning like I wasn’t trying to keep my thoughts from straying back to Noah.

Selfies followed; the fans’ excitement contagious as it grated on the part of me that wanted to be me for a few minutes longer. Their voices buzzed around me, questions firing off like rapid-fire bullets, one after another.

“Why did you retire?”

“You were so close to winning!”

“Are you making a comeback?”

“Are you back with Jemima?”

“Is Jemody back on-track?”

“Is it true that?—”

I tuned them all out, the noise blurring into a dull hum. My smile stayed in place, practiced and automatic, as I posed for another photo, signed another notebook, and nodded to another eager fan. But inside? I was somewhere else.

The truth was, I didn’t have answers for them—not the kind they wanted, anyway. Why did I retire? Because my life depended on it. Because I didn’t have a choice. But none of them could know that. The polished lie the PR team had spun—about stepping back to explore new opportunities—was what they’d cling to, no matter how fake it sounded.

So, I kept my head down, kept my responses vague, and kept moving. Because letting any of it sink in—letting myself feel the weight of their questions—would’ve been too much.

I wasn’t their Brody Vance anymore. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I was mine.

When the crowd thinned, I waved them off with a practiced charm, climbed into my Maserati—gutted I couldn’t stay and talk to Noah—and revved the engine.

Through the windshield, I saw Noah and Blake still where I’d left them. Noah was watching me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes stayed locked on mine until I pulled out of the lot.

I left them standing there, my pulse still racing for reasons unrelated to the car's speed.

* * *

I woke up in my hotel room to the faint hum of traffic outside, the sunlight streaming through the cheap blinds that didn’t quite close all the way. I’d deliberately picked this place—small, in the middle of nowhere, far enough outside Harrisburg that no one would connect the dots. So far, no one had asked questions or looked at me twice.

The first thing I did was check my phone, and I regretted it. The motorsport press had gone wild with its speculation.

Brody Vance Spotted in Pennsylvania—Is He Eyeing a New Team?

Jemima’s ex slumming it?

Brody Vance’s Mysterious Karting Adventure—Comeback in the Works?

And worse.

Brody Vance: The Driver Who Walked Away—Why Did The Quitter Desert His Team on the Verge of Victory?

Quitter? I wasn’t a damn quitter. But that didn’t stop some gutter media from painting me as one. Every article and social post dissected my decision as if they had the right to. As if they knew me, as if they understood what I’d been through. They didn’t feel the ache in my chest every time I thought about what I’d lost—what I’d been forced to walk away from.

But that didn’t matter. To them, I was just another story. A name that fell from the headlines of glory into the pit of controversy. A driver who’d given up when he was only points away from the championship.

I didn’t quit. I survived. And sometimes surviving looks an awful lot like walking away. What if Noah saw this and judged me, and I wouldn’t get a chance to show him I wasn’t an asshole without telling him the whole story.

I can’t tell anyone.

“Fuck this,” I told my phone and switched it off.

Now what? I had no plans but to see Noah. I wanted to talk to him, but how did I see him? Should I call? I didn’t have his number.

I could find it if I wanted to, or I could see him, talk to him, and exchange numbers naturally as normal people do.

I had to turn my phone back on, ignoring the notifications. Instead, I did some quick searching and found out the Railers team was at their practice facility, with guys like Noah trying to make the cut.

“I’m going there incognito. I’m going to ask him out for coffee. I can apologize some more. We’ll have sex, and I will get him out of my system and then, I can move on. Decision made.”

My coffee maker wasn’t impressed by my decision, letting out what sounded like a sigh as the final coffee dripped into the mug.

Outside, ready to leave, I stared at my Maserati. If I wanted to stay low-key, maybe it wasn’t about dark glasses and a hat—it was about ditching the car. So now what?

“Nice car,” Eddie murmured. He and Joan were an older couple who ran the hotel, and he’d followed me outside with some packages to post.

“Yeah,” I said, and it hit me. “Any chance you’ve got something I could borrow for the day? A little more… low-key?”

Eddie glanced at me, and I could see his confusion. However, his expression softened when he called Joan out, and I offered them a way-over-the-odds amount to rent their Toyota for the day. Money has a way of smoothing out questions.

Eddie handed me the keys to an ancient silver Corolla, muttering something about “not driving it like one of those race cars.” Tall and lanky, he’d been the last to drive it, so I had to adjust the seat to fit my five-nine frame.

“Weird guy,” I heard Joan whisper to him as I drove off. But they were satisfied with the money, so that was that.

The drive into Harrisburg was quiet, my phone directing me to the Railers training complex. I still didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I wasn’t a hockey guy—I’d grown up in motorsport, which had consumed my life. I parked the Corolla in the back of the lot, grateful for how nondescript it was, and made my way inside, keeping my head low. The complex was open to the public, so I didn’t have to talk my way past anyone at the entrance, and apart from a bag check—I had nothing—they let me in.

The stands weren’t packed, but enough people were scattered around to make it feel as if every eye was on me. I slunk up to the top row and sat down, hoping no one here cared enough about motorsport to notice me.

What was I doing here? I didn’t know a thing about hockey, and from what I could tell, this wasn’t a real game. On the ice, the players were scattered, most kneeling as the guy in charge—probably the coach—gestured and barked orders.

I leaned back in my seat, watching the organized chaos unfold below me. Noah was easy to spot, even after he put on his helmet, his sharp movements and focus setting him apart. He looked good out there—damn good.

I felt like an idiot. Cars had consumed my life, and sitting alone in a hockey rink, I was pretending I wasn’t here for reasons I couldn’t quite admit to myself.

The pitiful excuses I'd prepared sounded better in my head than they did out loud. Still, I told myself I wasn’t stalking Noah. I was… curious. Curious enough to know where he trained, when he was on the ice, and—okay, yes—I was a stalking stalker. But hell, I wasn’t doing anything nefarious with the information.

Practice shifted into something more intense, the players breaking off into teams—gray shirts against blue. Even from the nosebleeds, I could see the change in pace, the way every pass and play was more deliberate. The rubber disc—puck, I reminded myself—skated across the ice, but my focus was on Noah.

He was the best out there. He moved as if he’d been born to do this. His speed was ridiculous, and I caught glimpses of other players darting across the ice, but they barely registered. Noah commanded my attention, his every movement pulling me in. How he twisted around other skaters trying to stop him, the sharp snap of his wrist sending the puck sailing into the net—amazing.

So, fucking sexy.

My chest tightened as I watched him skate back to the center, his shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath. He was unstoppable, powerful, and beautiful.

And me? I was sitting in the shadows, trying to convince myself I was here to watch a practice, not to lose myself in how he made me feel like I couldn’t look elsewhere.

I turned my phone back on to check something—anything—that would stop me losing my shit and heading out on the ice to talk to him. The only messages I focused on were one from my grandfather insisting I return home, and the other… well, that I could handle—a message from Jemima.

Jemima: Hey you

Brody: Hey you, back

Jemima: You doing okay, sweetheart?

She added several hearts and kisses—definitely on-brand for the queen of pop.

No, I’m losing my shit, my head hurts, everything is fucked up.

Of course, I didn’t send that.

Brody: I think I’m bisexual

Well, I never expected to send that!

Jemima: I know you are

Brody: ????

Jemima: You remember our midnight chats about Davey?

Shit, yes, I remembered Davey, a roadie, him of the purple hair and the pretty blue eyes and the…

Shit.

I’m bisexual for sure.

Brody: Fuck

Jemima: LOL. It’s okay. Are you with someone? Interested in someone? Do you want to call and talk?

Brody. No, yes, and no, I can’t talk right now.

I paused for a moment.

Brody: If I come out as bi, will it cause you trouble?

There was a pause at her end.

Jemima: If I come out as poly, will it cause YOU trouble?

What?

Brody: Of course not

Jemima: Likewise

I smiled. She was so matter-of-fact and down to earth—if only things had worked out with her, then I wouldn’t be facing my existential crisis.

I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be attracted to Noah. Or fuck his hand. Or kiss him.

Brody: I met a guy

Jemima: I met a girl

Jemima: I have to go. Xxx

Jemima: Love you B

Brody: Back at ya J xx

I was drawn down to the Plexiglass surrounding the training rink, which I assumed was to stop random pucks from hitting viewers. I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t rational, and it wasn’t planned—I found myself moving down the steps of the bleachers, closer to the ice. There was something magnetic about him, something I couldn’t resist.

I needed to be nearer to get a better look. Watching from a distance wasn’t enough—I wanted to be closer. The sharp hiss of his skates cutting into the ice echoed in the arena, and I swear, I felt it in my chest.

I stopped at the edge, my breath fogging the surface of the glass as I leaned closer, desperate to see more. He was entirely focused, his face set, and the intensity of his expression made my pulse quicken.

I needed to be closer. I needed to feel like I was in his orbit, even if he didn’t know I was there and didn’t understand why I couldn’t stay away.

I wanted him to see me.

I was desperate for it.

But he didn’t notice me at first. Blake gave me an exaggerated wave, then elbowed Noah as they broke for drinks.

Noah turned so fast I thought he’d fall on his ass, but no, he glided toward me, then stopped and indicated for me to walk to the gap near some benches.

He won’t think I’m stalking him. Right?

“You’re stalking me,” he said, his voice sharp, the accusation cutting through the air between us like a slap.

I blinked, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I’m not exactly stalking you.”

“Oh really?” Noah’s brows shot up, his hands on his hips. He was still in his practice gear, his curls damp with sweat, and damn if he didn’t look good while staring at me. “Because it sure seems like you’ve been everywhere I’ve been lately, Brody.”

“I happened to be here,” I said, shrugging as if my pulse wasn’t hammering. “It’s a public place. People are allowed to watch hockey practice.”

“Right,” he said, crossing his arms. “You just happened to be at the rink in Harrisburg during practice. Just like you happened to show up at the karting. And you just happened to?—”

“Okay, fine!” I threw up my hands, exhaling. “Maybe I was curious. But it’s not stalking. I wasn’t hiding in the shadows or planting a tracker on your car or whatever you think I’m doing.”

His eyes widened in horror. “You’re what now?”

“No, I’m not doing that.”

Noah’s expression softened a little, but his gaze still searched mine. “Why, Brody?”

The question hit harder than it should have. I hesitated, my gaze dropping to the polished floor. Why, indeed? Why couldn’t I stay away from him? Why did I feel I could breathe easier around him, even if he glared at me as if I’d just keyed his car?

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice quieter. “I just… I wanted to see you.”

Noah’s stance relaxed, his arms uncrossing. “You could’ve just called.”

My chest tightened, and I let out a dry laugh. “I don’t have your number.”

“You’re a rich guy with endless contacts.”

“Yeah, but it would have been weird. ‘Hey, Noah, remember me? I got your number from my PI. I’m the guy you kissed, who then acted like an asshole? Want to hang out?’”

“You’ve hired a PI.”

“No. I wouldn’t. I’m not that guy.”

“What do you want from me, Brody?”

“More kisses. Lunch. To talk. I don’t know.”

He tilted his head. “Okay, then, what do you need?” he asked.

For a moment, I couldn’t answer. Because the truth—the pull I felt toward him, the way his presence calmed the chaos in my head—was too much to admit. Instead, I met his gaze, something raw and unspoken passing between us.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “But it scares the hell out of me.”