Avery's POV

On the list of things I didn't want before nine a.m. on a Monday, a surprise "all-hands on deck" was right up there with decaf coffee and my mother's texts about grandchildren.

Unfortunately, I had all three.

Grandchildren?? 🥰
-Mom

I jabbed my phone into silent mode with my thumb and shouldered my way into the elevator before anyone could wedge themselves in with small talk. The doors slid shut on the Hartwell & James lobby; a sea of glass, brushed steel, and strategically neutral art.

My reflection in the mirrored panel looked annoyingly capable: navy blazer, cream blouse that hadn't yet met coffee, hair scraped into a low twist that said I am serious, please give me your money.

Inside, my stomach was churning.

"Don't freak out," my colleague Marco had whispered at my desk thirty seconds earlier, eyes too wide. "Just... be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" I'd asked.

He'd already been halfway down the hall. "Big fish," he'd mouthed dramatically, arms wide like he was hugging a whale.

Big fish could mean anything from beverage conglomerate to an energy drink that wanted to "disrupt wellness" by adding more sugar to it.

The elevator dinged at the twelfth floor. The doors slid open onto the main conference level, where the good coffee lived and the carpets didn't have mystery stains.

Hartwell & James Conference A was already half-full. People in blazers and designer sneakers clustered around the long table, phones face down, laptops open. The big screen at the far end showed the company logo and the words:

Q2 Strategic Priority: AUTO VERTICAL

My boss, Helena, stood near the head of the table, talking to Cameron Ellis.

Seeing the CEO of PeakForm Wellness and Athletics casually leaning against our credenza did more for my caffeine level than an espresso shot.

So. Not an energy drink.

"Avery," Helena said when she saw me, lifting a hand. "Grab a seat."

I slid into a chair halfway down, between Marco and Marina from analytics.

"Okay," Helena said once the room was mostly settled. She clapped once, the sound crisp. "I know surprise meetings are everyone's favorite, so I'll get right to it. You all know Cameron from PeakForm.."

"Mornin'," Cameron said, giving a little two-finger salute. Casual black tee, razor-sharp watch, the kind of guy who jogged at five a.m. because he enjoyed it.

"PeakForm has been one of our fastest-growing accounts the last few years," Helena continued. "Apparel, supplements, digital training subscriptions. They've dominated the gym and run space. Now," she nodded toward Cameron, "they're dipping a toe into motorsports."

A little ripple went through the room. Marco elbowed me lightly under the table.

"You're expanding your auto vertical," Marina whispered. "This is your villain origin story."

I kept my expression polite.

Motorsports.

The word slid under my skin like a splinter.

Cameron clicked the remote in his hand. The slide changed to the PeakForm logo overlaid on a blurred shot of a race car.

"Here's the short version," he said. "We've plateaued in a couple of our traditional channels. We want to reach a new audience; blue-collar, adrenaline, weekend warriors. People who think five a.m. alarms and ten-hour days are normal. We kept coming back to one thing: NASCAR."

My pulse did a weird little stutter.

"Now, we're not interested in a one-off car at Daytona," Cameron went on. "We want a long-term partnership. Team, driver, the whole ecosystem. When we asked who could build that for us..." He spread his hands. "We landed here."

Helena smiled the way she did when a commission structure had just taken a growth spurt. "We're honored," she said. "And we have the perfect lead for this project."

Her eyes landed on me.

Every head at the table turned like we were in slow-motion.

I sat up a little straighter. "Happy to hear more," I said, thankful my voice cooperated.

Helena clicked to the next slide. "For those who don't know, Avery cut her teeth in New York with consumer goods, then just recently moved here to our Charlotte office to head up sports and live events. She has a history with motorsports, born and raised in South Carolina, a strong track record with performance brands, and PeakForm already trusts her judgment."

My stomach clenched.

Cameron nodded. "She's the one who talked us out of a pickle-flavored recovery drink," he said. "That alone earns lifetime respect."

A few chuckles floated around the table. My mouth pulled into a tight smile.

"PeakForm's goal," Helena said, "is to own the story of performance in the garage and beyond. That means more than just slapping a logo on a car. It means finding the right driver, the right team, the right narrative. We've been doing preliminary scouting, and I'll let Cameron take it from here."

The slide changed again.

For a second, my brain refused to process the image.

A car, caught mid-corner, nose slightly dipped, tires biting. Matte black and white with PeakForm's minimalist geometric logo along the quarter panel and hood.

The No. 28. Ford.

Young, fit driver climbing out, one hand gripping the edge of the window, the other raised to a cheering grandstand. Even in the grainy shot, his grin was familiar. Wild and disbelieving and sharp enough to cut.

A name bar appeared along the bottom of the screen with a little chime.

NICK HARTLEY - DRIVER, NO. 28

The room didn't tilt, but it felt like it should have.
Sound blurred, the rustle of sleeves, someone's quiet "oh, I know him," the scrape of a chair.

My fingers dug into the underside of the table.
There he was.

A little older, taller, shoulders broader in a black fire suit with a sponsor patch where his last name used to be scrawled in Sharpie. Jawline a little sharper, smile lines cut deeper into his cheeks. The same eyes, though.

The same eyes that had watched a meteor shower with me from the bed of a truck and said I love you like it was the easiest, truest thing in the world.

"Nick Hartley," Cameron was saying, as if he were introducing the concept of gravity. "Age twenty-eight. Cup Series driver for Kent Motorsports. Blue-collar background, came up through Trucks and Xfinity the hard way. Nearly ten years in the system without burning out, no major scandals, strong team behind him. Not a household name...yet. But the data on him is compelling."

He flicked to another slide: engagement metrics, follower growth, demographic breakdowns. Nick's face in the corner, laughing at something off-camera.

"His audience isn't the biggest," Cameron said, "but it's solid. High comment quality, high share rate. People trust him. When he says 'this is what training actually looks like,' people believe him. That's what we want."

"Plus that origin story," Helena added. "Road To The 28 right?"

Another slide: a still from the reality show that gave him his big break. Eighteen-year-old Nick, hat backwards, cheeks still holding the softness he'd later lose to cameras and helmets.

"If you're walking into a marketplace where fans assume every driver bought their way in," Cameron said, "having a guy whose entire story is 'I got here through one insane Hail Mary on national TV' is...well. It writes itself."

The room hummed with interest.

Marco leaned over, whispering, "He's hot, actually. Do we get to meet him or is this a long-distance parasocial thing?"

My mouth was too dry to answer.

We'd always joked he'd end up on a screen someday.

We just hadn't accounted for me being in a boardroom when it happened.

If anyone asked, I could pull it together. I could talk about demographics and brand affinity and how PeakForm's pared-back aesthetic played against the messiness of a race weekend. I could do my job.

What I couldn't do, apparently, was make my heart behave.

"Avery?" Helena's voice cut through my spiraling. "Thoughts?"

Every head turned again.

Nick's frozen image smiled down at me from the screen, oblivious.

"Yes," I heard myself say. "He makes sense."

Cameron's brows lifted. "You're familiar with him?"

Understatement of the century.

"We're the right audience for each other," I said carefully. "His story aligns with PeakForm's 'earned, not given' thesis. The reality-show origin gives us rich archival content to pull from for digital. His engagement numbers are solid, as you said. And he's not overexposed, there's room to grow the narrative."

"So you support moving forward with him as our primary target?" Helena asked.

I swallowed.

This is your job, I reminded myself. This is what you wanted. Big brands. Big rooms. Big decisions.

"Pending a full due diligence and a meeting with Kent Motorsports," I said, "yes. I think he's an ideal fit for PeakForm."

The words felt surreal in my mouth.

"Great," Helena said, clapping once. "Then here's the plan. We're moving quickly. The goal is to have a preliminary framework in place before the next quarter. Avery, you'll lead. Marco, you'll support on creative. Marina, metrics. Everyone else, expect to be looped in as needed."

Cameron smiled. "I'll make the intro to Marshall Kent. We can arrange a visit to the shop this week. Meet the team. Meet Nick."

My chest squeezed around his name.

"Perfect," I said, voice cool, professional, like we weren't talking about the boy who'd once put his whole future on a bus and watched me ride away.

The meeting rolled on into timelines and budgets and campaign pillars.

I took notes. I asked intelligent questions. I nodded in all the right places.

The whole time, the big screen glowed at the end of the table.

No. 28. PeakForm. Hartley.

The life he'd wished on a meteor shower, printed in high-resolution pixels.

Ten years ago, on the back of his truck, I'd told him we'd figure it out, even if we weren't in the same place for a while.

Apparently, the universe had decided "a while" was over.

Now, my carefully constructed life in glass conference rooms and color-coded decks were about to collide with the one person I'd spent nearly a decade avoiding.

And for the first time in my career, I had no idea how to spin that.