Nick's POV

Second.
Again.

The word sat in my chest before I even crossed the stripe. Before Logan said it. Before Reid came on the radio. Before the tower made it official and the scoring pylon burned that number into the sky where every fan, every sponsor, every crew guy, every person who had started believing in this little team could see it.

P2.
Hell of a run.
Great points day.
Momentum.

All the things people said when they were trying to make almost sound like enough.

I knew better.

I came off turn four with my right foot buried in the throttle and the nose pointed at the back bumper of the 6 like sheer wanting might close the gap. The car was free underneath me, used up in the rear, the steering wheel alive in my hands. I could see him. Could see the little wiggle off exit where he was out of tire too. Could see the finish line coming faster than I wanted it to.

One more lap, maybe. Half a lap. A cleaner restart. A better run off two. A thousand tiny almosts.

The checkered flag snapped in the air, and the 6 got there first.

I crossed second. The radio lit up immediately.

"Hell of a job, Nick. Hell of a drive."

Reid first. Crew chief voice steady, proud, already trying to shape the narrative before I could crawl inside the bad part of my own head.

Then Marshall.

"That's a damn good day, son. Damn good."

Then Logan, quieter than the rest. "Good work, bud. You wheeled the hell out of it."

I breathed out through my nose and kept my hands steady on the wheel.

"Yeah," I said, because that was what you said. "Good job, boys. Had a shot."

Had a shot. That was the part that hurt.

If we'd run ninth, I could've handled it. If the car hadn't had speed, if we'd missed the setup, if strategy had buried us or pit road had gone sideways, I could've taken it for what it was and moved on. Racing gave you plenty of days where the math was simple. Bad car. Bad finish. Fix it.
This was different. This was being close enough to taste the first win and still having to swallow second place like it wasn't bitter.

I brought the 28 around on the cooldown lap, waving a hand out the window when the fans stood and clapped. That part hit me, too, in a way I didn't expect. The cheers. The PeakForm hats in the stands. The signs. The people who had decided, for whatever reason, that Kent Motorsports was worth yelling for now.

They didn't sound disappointed. That almost made it worse. Because I was.

I was proud of my team. Proud of the stop. Proud of the car. Proud of every single person who had sweated their ass off to make this little operation look like it belonged up front.

And I was disappointed so deep it felt mean.

That was the tricky thing about wanting something this bad. It didn't leave room for clean emotions.

"Bring it to us," Reid said. "P2. Good points. We'll build on it."

"Copy."

My voice sounded normal. Controlled. Driver voice. The one I'd learned to use years ago when my helmet still smelled like old sweat and borrowed opportunity, and every finish felt like a job interview.

I rolled down pit road toward my stall, and the crowd around the wall came into view. Crew guys leaning over, clapping, some of them grinning like we'd won the damn thing. Marshall stood back behind them with his arms folded, chin lifted, eyes bright in that old-school way of his that meant he was trying not to show too much.

And then I saw Avery. She was near the edge of the crowd, headset half-off, PeakForm quarter-zip zipped up neat, ponytail smooth, face composed. Mostly.

I knew her composed face. I knew the professional polish, the careful posture, the don't look too close because I have already organized the room and decided where all its weaknesses are expression.

This wasn't quite that. This was Avery trying to look like she hadn't lived the last twenty laps through my steering wheel. Something in me loosened. Just a little.

Then the car stopped, and the world rushed in. Heat hit first when I got the window net down. Real heat, not just track heat. The baked-in, fire-suit, adrenaline-sick kind that made the air feel thick. My helmet came off, and the noise doubled. Crew. Fans. Cameras. Somebody saying my name. Somebody else shouting for a quote. A towel landed over my shoulder, and I dragged in a breath that tasted like rubber, sweat, fuel, and second place.

Marshall got to me first. He grabbed the back of my neck, pulled me close, and said low enough that the cameras couldn't catch it, "Don't you dare hang your head."

I huffed a laugh that didn't have much humor in it. "Wasn't planning on it."

"Liar."

I looked at him then. He squeezed once, hard. "That car had a shot because you gave it one. You hear me?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Nick."

"I hear you."

His eyes stayed on mine one second longer, old man stubbornness doing battle with driver pride, then he let me go before the cameras swallowed me whole.

The reporter stepped in with a smile too bright for a man about to ask me how I felt about not winning.

"Nick, second place today, another incredibly strong run for this 28 team. How do you sum it up?"

There it was. Another. I could've laughed. Instead I did what drivers did. I put my face where it belonged.

"Yeah, just proud of everybody at Kent Motorsports," I said, wiping sweat off my temple with the towel. "That PeakForm Mustang was really good today. Reid and the guys made great adjustments. Pit crew got us track position late. Just needed a little more there at the end."

A little more. God, I hated that phrase.

The reporter nodded. "You were closing fast on the final lap. Did you think you had anything for him?"

I glanced toward the scoring pylon before I could stop myself.

The 28 sat second. Still.

"I thought we had a shot if I could get to his bumper," I said. "He did a good job protecting the bottom, and once we got to three and four, I was just out of racetrack."

Out of racetrack. Out of time. Out of whatever invisible thing separated guys who almost won from guys who actually did.

"You've now put together two straight runner-up finishes with PeakForm on the car. Does that feel like momentum, or does it make the first win feel even more urgent?"

That one landed closer to bone. I smiled because I had to.

"Both," I said. "Momentum's real. This team's building something. But, yeah, we don't show up to finish second. Nobody on this crew does. So we'll take what we learned, go back to the shop, and keep digging."

Keep digging. Another thing people said when there was nothing else to do but go home and try not to punch a hole in the wall.

The interview wrapped after that. More hands. More congratulations. More hell of a runs. I took all of them. I meant every thank you I gave back, which was the part nobody understood unless they lived inside this sport.

You could be grateful and gutted at the same time. You could love your team and still hate the result. You could stand in the middle of pit road after the best stretch your little underdog operation had seen ever and feel like the universe had handed you a steak dinner with no knife.

Then Avery said, "Hell of a run."

I turned toward her before I thought about it.
She stood close enough that I could see the tiny crease between her brows. The one she got when she was trying to decide how much of herself to show. Her arms were crossed, but not defensively. More like she didn't trust her hands either.

I gave her half a smile. "That's your corporate-approved line?"

"It's the one you're getting."

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to close the space. I wanted to ask if she'd been scared when I got loose, because I already knew she had been, and some reckless, terrible part of me wanted to hear her admit it. So I did.

"Did you get nervous when I got loose?"

Her face did exactly what I thought it would do. Tiny flinch. Instant recovery.

"I was standing on the pit box during a restart. Everybody got nervous."

Liar. Beautiful, polished, stubborn liar.

For one second, the disappointment shifted. Not gone. Nothing that easy. But it moved enough to make room for something warmer. Something worse.

Because she'd watched. Not as a sponsor rep. Not only as the woman responsible for PeakForm's shiny new NASCAR investment. She'd watched like it mattered where I ended up. Like something in her was strapped in with me whether she wanted it to be or not.

That should not have made me feel better. It did anyway.

Then Logan appeared, because apparently the Lord liked testing me on race days.

"There you are," he said. "Aw. Cute. Mutual emotional compromise."

I kept my eyes on Avery. "Go bother someone else."

"Can't. Everyone else here is acting normal."

Avery stepped back like she'd remembered the entire pit road had eyeballs. I hated that step. Hated it more than I had any right to.

"See you before you head out?" I asked her.

I should not have asked that there. Not with Logan breathing oxygen in our general vicinity. Not with cameras still floating around. Not with my fire suit soaked through and my chest still full of second place. But I did.

She hesitated. "I've got post-race stuff."

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

And I did. That was the hell of it. I knew exactly what came first for her because I had watched her choose career, composure, duty, responsibility since we were teenagers. Back then it had been scholarships and Boston and the whole big world opening in front of her. Now it was PeakForm and Hartwell & James and sponsor decks and executive calls and whatever ten thousand invisible things she carried around without letting them wrinkle her blouse.

I had loved her for that. I had hated it too.

"Then maybe," she said.

Maybe. I took it like it was something. Because with Avery, maybe had always been more dangerous than yes.

Marshall called me toward the hauler, and I went because the day wasn't done with me yet.

The debrief started with everyone too upbeat. That was how I knew I looked worse than I thought.

Reid had the laptop open, race data already pulled up, lap traces on the screen. Marshall leaned against the counter. Logan stood with his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, unusually quiet. A couple engineers hovered nearby with tablets. The hauler smelled like heat, sweat, rubber, and PeakForm Hydrate + sports drink.

My suit was peeled halfway down now, sleeves tied at my waist, damp cool shirt clinging to my back. I took the water someone handed me and drank half of it before Reid even started talking.

"Good overall balance first run," he said. "We fired off a little snug, but your lap times were stable. Long-run speed was top three all day."

Top three. Not winning. I nodded.

"We lost some drive off during the second stage. Adjustment helped. Pit crew gained us spots on the last stop." Reid continued.

"They killed it," I said immediately.

Because they had. Nobody was putting that on them.

Reid nodded. "They did."

The screen changed. Restart. Final run. My eyes went to the trace before I could stop them. There it was. The whole damn thing flattened into lines and numbers, like heartbreak could be measured in throttle percentage.

"You had him beat into one if the 6 doesn't come down," Reid said.

"Yeah."

"You did the right thing lifting."

I gave him a look. He held it.

"You wreck him there, maybe you win," Reid said. "Maybe you both end up in the fence. You kept it underneath you and still got back to second."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No," Reid said. "It's supposed to remind you you didn't lose the race being stupid."

That shut me up for half a second. Marshall's mouth twitched like he appreciated the bluntness.

Logan did not smile. That made it worse. Logan smiling, I could handle. Logan serious meant he was reading me too clearly.

Reid kept going. "You were better than the 6 center-off. Not better enough in clean air. If we restart outside instead of inside, maybe different story. If caution comes three laps earlier, maybe different. If we free you up one more round, maybe different."

"Lot of maybes."

"That's racing."

I looked down at the water bottle in my hand, twisting the cap until the plastic crackled.

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

I did know. That was the problem. I knew all of it. I knew this was a good day. I knew momentum mattered. I knew two straight seconds with PeakForm on the car was the kind of thing Marshall had probably dreamed about in quiet moments and never said out loud because small-team owners learned not to tempt fate.

I knew we were getting stronger. I knew the win was coming. And I wanted it now. Not later. Not eventually. Not someday when the stars lined up and the caution fell right and the car had half a tenth more drive off.

Now. For Kent. For Marshall. For the crew. For PeakForm, because they'd bet money and reputation on us.

For Avery, because she had walked back into my life polished and untouchable and somehow looked at this place like it was worth believing in.

For the fifteen-year-old kid from Red Creek who had once kissed that girl under the bleachers and told her he was going to make it someday.

I wanted to win with her watching. That was the truth underneath all the rest of it. And it made me feel seventeen different kinds of stupid.

Reid finished the debrief with a plan for the shop. Simulation notes. Aero balance. Rear grip. Restart lane analysis. Normal things. Useful things. I nodded at all the right times and gave answers where I needed to. But by the time everybody started clearing out, I felt like my skin didn't fit.

Marshall waited until most of the others were gone before he stepped in front of me.

"You hear what I told you?"

I rubbed both hands over my face. "Marshall."

"No. You hear me." His voice stayed calm, which was how I knew I wasn't getting out of this. "We are not a team that gets mad at second place like it's failure."

The words hit exactly where I didn't want them to.

I looked at him. "I'm not mad at the team."

"I know that."

"I'm not."

"I said I know that." His eyes softened a little. "You're mad at yourself."

I glanced away.

Marshall sighed through his nose. "That car doesn't run second without you. That sponsor doesn't get on that hood without you. Half those people out there don't even look twice at us without you dragging this team into the conversation every damn week."

"Don't make it sound prettier than it is."

"I'm making it sound true."

I stared at the floor of the hauler.

He stepped closer. "Son, wanting more is why I put you in my race car. But don't let wanting more rob you of what this team just did."

That one stuck. I didn't answer right away. Because he was right. And because I hated when people were right while I was busy being unreasonable.

Finally, I nodded once. "I know."

He clapped my shoulder. "Good. Now go cool off before you scare the sponsor folks."

That got a real laugh out of me, even if it was short. "Too late."

"Probably."

He left me there with Logan, because of course he did.

Logan waited approximately three seconds after the door shut.

"You done pretending you're not pissed?"

I dragged my gaze to him. "I'm not pissed."

"Nick."

"What?"

He tilted his head. I hated that look. The one that said he'd spotted me through enough bad races, good races, heartbreaks, hangovers, and one unfortunate gas station burrito incident to know all my tells.

I threw the water bottle into the trash harder than necessary.

Logan nodded like I'd just confessed. "There he is."

"I'm disappointed," I snapped. "Is that allowed?"

"Very."

"Great. Glad I have your permission."

He didn't take the bait. Rude of him, honestly.

"You drove a hell of a race."

"Everybody keeps saying that."

"Because it's true."

"And the trophy still went somewhere else."

His face shifted then. Not pity. Logan didn't do pity unless somebody was bleeding or dead. This was something steadier. Older than the jokes.

"Yeah," he said. "It did."

That simple agreement took some of the air out of me.

I leaned back against the cabinet and stared at the ceiling of the hauler. "I had him."

"You almost had him."

"Thanks. That distinction really warms the soul."

"You want me to lie?"

"No."

"Then you almost had him."

I shut my eyes. The replay ran again behind them. Restart. Block. Correction. Lost momentum. Clawed back. White flag. Not enough.

"I'm tired of almost," I said.

Logan went quiet. That was the first time I'd said it out loud.

I opened my eyes and looked at him, and there was no point trying to dress it up now.

"I know what this means for the team. I know it's a good finish. I know PeakForm's probably thrilled. I know Marshall's right. I know all of it." I tapped two fingers against my temple. "It's all in here. Every reasonable, grateful, mature thought I'm supposed to have. But I'm tired of being the guy people are proud of because he got close."

Logan's jaw tightened. I swallowed hard, angrier now because the words had found a crack.

"I want to be the guy they celebrate because he finished the damn thing."

The hauler hummed around us. Generator outside. Footsteps overhead. The muffled world of post-race moving on without caring that I had apparently decided to have a small crisis next to the fireproof underwear bin.

Logan scratched his jaw and looked toward the closed door. Then he said, "Is this about the race, or is this about Avery watching you finish second?"

I looked at him.

"Careful."

"Yeah," he said. "Thought so."

I pushed off the cabinet. "I'm not doing this."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm really not."

"You are, because I'm your best friend, and you get mean when you're scared of feeling too much."

That stopped me halfway to the door. I turned back slowly. "I'm not scared."

Logan's eyebrows lifted.

I pointed at him. "I am disappointed about the race. That's it."

"Sure." He said.

"I wanted the win."

"No shit."

"For the team."

"Yep."

"For Marshall."

"Absolutely."

"For PeakForm."

"Mm-hmm."

I stared at him. He stared back. Then he said, softer, "For her."

I hated him a little bit. Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn't.

I looked away first.

Logan let that sit for a second, then said, "You don't have to win a race to prove you're worth coming back to, man."

My chest went tight so fast it pissed me off.

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Maybe not on purpose."

I laughed once, sharp and humorless. "You got a psychology degree up there in the spotter stand now?"

"No, but I do get a pretty good view of stupid from high places."

Despite everything, that almost got me. Almost.

I dragged a hand through my damp hair. "She's got nothing to do with the finish."

"She has everything to do with how loud it feels."

I hated that too. Because the truth was, if Avery hadn't been here, second still would've hurt. I would've still sat with it. Still replayed it. Still hated that the first win had slipped away again.
But with her here, it felt exposed. Like every lap had been me trying to show her who I was now. Not the kid she'd left behind. Not the boy with dirt under his nails and a dream too big for his bank account. Not the almost man who had kissed her goodbye and told himself letting her go was love.

This version. Cup driver. Team leader. PeakForm athlete. The guy people were starting to believe could take an underfunded single-car team and shove it into the front of the field by pure stubbornness.

And then I'd gotten second. Again.

Logan's voice gentled. "She looked proud of you."

I looked over at him.

He shrugged. "For what it's worth."

It was worth too much. That was the problem. I left the hauler before he could say anything else useful and annoying.

Outside, the track was starting to empty in that strange post-race way where everything got louder and quieter at the same time. Fans still hanging on the fence. Crew members pushing equipment. Reporters chasing final quotes. Sponsor people laughing with that post-event relief in their shoulders. The sun had dropped lower, throwing long shadows over the asphalt.

I did the rest of what I had to do. Signed hats. Took pictures. Thanked PeakForm guests. Let Cameron clap me on the shoulder and tell me they were thrilled while his eyes said he knew better than to use the word thrilled too many times in a row.

"You gave us a show," he said.

"Would've preferred to give you a trophy."

His smile softened into something less CEO and more human. "I know. We'll take the show today."

"Generous."

"Strategic," he corrected. "People remember almost-wins when they can feel the win coming."

I studied him. Cameron Ellis was slick, sure. Corporate polish. Big smile. Expensive watch. The kind of guy who could say brand alignment without choking on it. But he wasn't stupid. And he wasn't fake.

He looked toward pit road, where crew guys were loading up the 28. "This story is working, Nick. Not because you're perfect. Because people can see you fighting for it."

I exhaled. "That's a nicer way of saying I'm still losing."

"No," he said. "It's a smarter way of saying the climb matters."

I wanted to argue. I didn't. Because out of the corner of my eye, I saw Avery.

She stood a few yards away with Marina, Marco and Devin, laughing politely at something one of the guests said. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was professional. But her eyes flicked toward me once. Quick. Automatic. Caught.

I looked away first this time. Not because I wanted to. Because I didn't trust what my face might do if I didn't.

By the time I finally made it back to the coach, I was running on fumes. The adrenaline had burned down into that hollow, restless ache that came after a race where your body was done but your brain was still driving.

I shut the door behind me and stood there in the quiet.

The coach still smelled like coffee. That got me worse than anything else had all day.

Two mugs sat in the sink now. One mine. One hers. She must've come back at some point to clean up, because of course she had. Avery Cole could emotionally spiral in a man's motorcoach and still leave the kitchen neater than she found it.

I leaned back against the door and closed my eyes. Second. Again.

I saw the stripe. The 6 ahead. The gap. The checkered flag.

Then Avery on pit road.

You looked good out there.

Not nice job. Not good exposure. Not strong brand moment. You looked good.

From anybody else, it would've meant nothing. From her, it had crawled under my ribs and stayed there.

I pushed off the door and started stripping out of the rest of my race suit. Boots first. Gloves tossed onto the counter. Base layer peeled away from my back. I moved on autopilot, dropping things where I'd have to pick them up later but couldn't make myself care yet.

The shower helped some. Hot water, then colder. Sweat and frustration washing down the drain. My hands braced on the wall, head bowed, the race replaying over and over until the edges blurred.

I tried to think like a professional. The car was good. The team executed. We gained points. The sponsor was happy. The win was coming.
None of it changed the fact that I had driven into turn three on the last lap knowing I had one chance, and I hadn't made it happen.

When I came out of the bathroom in clean joggers and a faded Kent Motorsports shirt, there was a knock on the door.

I stopped dead. For one stupid second, I knew it was her. Then Logan's voice came through.

"Open up. I brought emotional support carbs."

I shut my eyes. "Go away."

"No."

"I'm naked."

"You're not."

"You don't know that."

"I unfortunately know you too well. Open the door before I start yelling personal facts."

I yanked it open. Logan stood there holding a paper bag and two bottles of water. He took one look at my face and nodded.

"Yep. You need fries."

"I don't need fries."

"Everybody needs fries. Some people need fries and therapy, but we'll start with what's available."

He pushed past me into the coach like he paid rent, dropped the bag on the dinette, and started unpacking food.

I stared at him. "Make yourself at home."

"I have. For years."

"Tragic."

He tossed a fry at me. It hit my chest and fell to the floor. We both looked at it.

He pointed. "That's where your mood is. On the floor."

Despite myself, I laughed. Not much. But enough.

He looked pleased. "There we go. Normal human expression."

"Everybody's really attached to that phrase today."

"Because your face has been doing tortured underdog for months, and now suddenly Avery shows up and your mouth remembers how to smile."

I dropped into the booth across from him. "You are dangerously close to losing fry privileges."

"These are my fries."

"Then I'll throw you and the fries out."

"No, you won't. You're too tired."

I was. Deeply. Annoyingly tired.

We ate in silence for a minute. The kind of silence only Logan could make not awkward because he'd never needed to fill space just to prove he existed.

Finally, he said, "You gonna talk to her?"

I stared at the half-empty fry carton. "About what?"

He gave me a look.

I sighed. "She's working."

"She's always working."

"Yeah. That's kind of her thing."

"And your thing is pretending you're fine until your jaw cracks."

"I'm not pretending I'm fine."

"No, you're pretending you're only mad about second place."

I leaned back, irritated because he kept landing punches without raising his voice.

"I am mad about second place."

"Right. And?"

"And nothing."

"Nick."

I ran both hands over my face. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth would be nice."

I glared at him. He waited.

That was the problem with Logan. He could be the biggest idiot alive for twenty-three hours a day, then suddenly he'd go still and make you feel like lying would be insulting both of you.

I looked toward the bedroom door. The one Avery had locked last night. The one I had told her to lock because I didn't trust myself to want her quietly.

"I wanted to win with her here," I said.

Logan didn't react. Just let it come.

I swallowed. "That's all. I know it's not rational. I know it doesn't change anything. But I wanted..." I shook my head, frustrated with how pathetic it sounded before I even got it out. "I wanted her to see me finish it."

"She did."

I looked back at him.

"She saw you fight for it," he said. "That counts."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"I know."

There was no joke in that one. No smart-ass twist. Just the truth.

"Second place feels like asking someone to believe in the ending before I've earned one," I said quietly.

Logan's face changed. I hated that too. Hated being seen this clearly by a man who once ate gas station sushi on a dare.

"Bud," he said, "Avery already knows what you're made of."

I laughed under my breath. "Does she?"

"Yeah. She knew when you were sixteen and dumb enough to think teaching her stick shift on a backroad was a romantic activity."

"It was romantic."

"It was a mechanical hostage situation."

"She only stalled eight times."

"She threatened your life twice."

"Foreplay."

Logan pointed at me. "There's the idiot I know."

I smiled despite myself, then it faded.
"She looked at me today like..." I stopped.

Like it mattered. Like I mattered. Like time had done damage but not erased the map.

Logan's voice came softer. "Like what?"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

He let me have that one.

A few minutes later, another knock came at the door. This one was softer.

Logan looked at me. I looked at the door. My chest knew before my brain did.

Logan stood, grabbed his water, and tucked the fry bag under one arm.

I frowned. "Where are you going?"

He gave me an offended look. "I may be a menace, but I am not stupid."

"Debatable."

He passed me on the way to the door and muttered low, "Don't turn second place into a reason to push her away."

Before I could answer, he opened the door.
Avery stood on the steps. She'd changed out of her PeakForm quarter-zip into a soft white blouse under a blazer, like she'd had more sponsor obligations after pit road. Her ponytail was lower now, a few pieces loose around her face. She looked tired. Polished still, because Avery could probably look polished during a tornado warning, but tired around the eyes.

Logan smiled at her. "Perfect timing. He's brooding but fed."

Her gaze flicked past him to me. I did not move.

"Good to know," she said.

Logan stepped out onto the top stair, then paused beside her. "He's less scary than he looks."

"I know."

Two words. Simple. Aimed at Logan, maybe. They hit me anyway.

Logan's expression softened in that way I wished he'd stop doing in public, then he hopped down the steps. "I'll be somewhere not here."

The door shut behind him. Avery and I stood there with ten feet between us and enough unsaid to crowd the whole coach.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

God. Brilliant. Truly elite conversational work from a grown man.

She glanced around, eyes catching on the food, the half-empty waters, the mess of my race gear.

"I can come back later."

"No." Too fast. I cleared my throat. "No, you're good."

She stepped fully inside and shut the door behind her. The click of it was small. I heard it everywhere.

She stayed near the door at first, hands loosely clasped in front of her. "I just wanted to check on you before I headed out."

"Corporate wellness visit?"

Her mouth tugged faintly. "Something like that."

I leaned back against the edge of the dinette. "Cameron send you?"

"No."

That answer was quick enough to matter. I nodded once, looking down.

She took a few steps closer. "You did really well today."

There it was again. The good version. The kind that didn't sound like a consolation prize from her mouth. I tried to let it land right. Tried to be normal about it.

Instead I said, "I finished second."

Her face shifted. Not surprised. More like she'd expected the bruise and had finally found it.

"Yes," she said. "You did."

I laughed once under my breath and looked away. "That's the part where most people add but."

"I'm not most people."

No. No, she was not.

I looked back at her. She held my gaze, and there was nothing sponsor-safe in her face now. Nothing polished. Just Avery. My Avery, some traitorous part of me thought before I could stop it.

"You're allowed to be disappointed," she said.

Something in my chest went still. She stepped closer again, slower this time. Like I was a spooked animal, which was insulting mostly because it was accurate.

"You don't have to convince me it was enough if it doesn't feel like enough yet."

I looked down at the floor, jaw tight.

"That obvious?"

"To me?" Her voice softened. "Yes."

That was worse than Logan seeing it. Better too.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Everybody's happy."

"They should be."

"I know."

"And you're not."

I dragged in a breath. "I'm proud of them."

"I know that too."

"I'm not being ungrateful."

"I didn't think you were."

My eyes lifted to hers. She said it so simply. No hesitation. No judgment. I hadn't realized how badly I needed someone to know that. For a second, I couldn't answer.

The coach was quiet around us, the outside world dulled by walls and distance. Post-race was still happening somewhere beyond the door. Trucks loading. Fans leaving. Golf carts buzzing past. But in here it was just her and me and the ache I'd been trying to outrun since the checkered flag.

"I had him," I said.

Her expression tightened a little, like she'd felt that one in her own body.

"I know."

"One more lap, maybe I get there."

"I know."

"I got tight off two after the restart. Lost the run. Had to use too much getting back to him."

"I saw."

Of course she had. I looked at her then. Really looked.

"You saw?"

Her brows lifted slightly. "I was on the pit box, Nick."

"Yeah, but..."

"But what?" she asked.

I didn't know how to say it without sounding like an idiot.

But I didn't think you'd remember what that looked like.

But I didn't think you'd still know how to read my car.

But I didn't think you'd still be able to hurt me this gently.

I shook my head. "Nothing."

Her eyes narrowed. "Liar."

It hit so familiar that I almost smiled.

She moved to the dinette and sat, not across from me exactly, but close enough that the air changed. I stayed standing because sitting felt like admitting I wanted her to stay. Which I did. Badly.

"I did see," she said. "You got loose on the restart because the 6 threw a late block and killed your momentum. You saved it. Then you had to burn up more than you wanted getting back to second. By the time you got clean air, there wasn't enough time."

I stared at her. She glanced away like she'd said too much.

"I paid attention," she added.

Paid attention. Like that didn't crack something open.

I sat down slowly across from her. "You always did."

Her eyes came back to mine. For a second, neither one of us was in the present.

We were sixteen on a tailgate, her stealing my fries while pretending she didn't like track food. We were seventeen in the stands at a Friday night feature, her with a notebook open because she had a test Monday, me thinking she was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen under bad fluorescent lights. We were eighteen, preparing me for Road To The 28. Then nineteen saying goodbye like two idiots who thought love was nobler when you let it bleed quietly.

Then she blinked, and we were back in my coach.

"I know this doesn't help," she said, "but from where I was standing, it looked like the win is close."

I leaned back, staring at her. "That does help."

Her face softened.

"Also makes it worse," I admitted.

A small smile touched her mouth. "Yeah. I figured."

I laughed quietly. "You here to comfort me or professionally diagnose my emotional instability?"

"Can't it be both?"

"Efficient."

"I'm known for that."

The smile faded after a moment. She looked down at her hands. "For what it's worth, I wasn't thinking you failed."

I went still.

She kept her eyes down. "When you crossed second. I wasn't thinking that. I was thinking you looked like yourself out there."

My throat tightened before I could stop it. Avery looked up at me then.

"And I know that probably isn't enough right now," she said. "But it mattered."

I had no defense for that. None. The worst thing she could have done was walk in here and tell me all the things everyone else had told me. Great points day. Strong run. Sponsor win. Momentum. Instead she found the thing underneath.

You looked like yourself.

I looked down, breathing once through the pressure behind my ribs.

"I wanted to win with you here," I said.

The words came out low. Rougher than I meant them to. Honest enough that I almost wished I could pull them back.

Avery didn't move. I forced myself to look at her. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came right away. So I kept going, because apparently I had chosen emotional self-destruction as a post-race activity.

"I know that's not fair to put anywhere near you. I know it's not your responsibility. I know it's got nothing to do with the actual race. But I wanted it." I swallowed. "I wanted you to see me win."

Something vulnerable moved across her face so fast she couldn't hide it.

"Nick..."

"Yeah." I huffed a humorless laugh and looked away. "I know."

"No." Her voice was quiet. "Look at me."

I did. She looked shaken now. Not scared. Not upset. Just hit.

"I did see you," she said.

My chest tightened. She held my gaze like she was making herself say every word. "I saw you fight for it. I saw you keep your head when a lot of drivers would've overdriven it. I saw the team rally around you. I saw the crowd care. I saw a driver who is so close to winning that everybody in that garage knows it's coming."

I couldn't speak. Her voice dropped softer.

"And I saw the boy who used to talk about this like it was a prayer turn into the man actually doing it."

That ruined me a little. Quietly. Completely.
I looked down and pressed my thumb against the edge of the table like that might keep me grounded.

For a few seconds, neither of us said anything.
Then she laughed softly, almost embarrassed.

"Sorry. That was probably not very corporate."

I looked up.

"No," I said. "It wasn't."

Her cheeks colored.

I smiled then, just barely. "Thank God."

That got her. A small laugh. Real one. Tired and soft and familiar enough to hurt.

The disappointment was still there. It hadn't vanished because Avery Cole said something beautiful in my motorcoach. Life wasn't that neat.

But it changed shape. It stopped being a stone in my chest and became something I could hold without letting it drag me under.

Second still hurt. But she had seen me. Not the finish. Me.

And damn if that didn't matter more than I was ready to admit.

She stood after a moment, brushing invisible wrinkles from her jeans. "I really do need to head back. Cameron has a post-race call, and I'm supposed to pretend I'm not emotionally compromised."

"Good luck with that."

Her mouth curved. "Thanks."

I stood too. Neither of us moved toward the door right away. The air shifted again. Same as that morning. Same as every almost between us lately. Too much history in too small a space. Too many reasons to be careful. Too much wanting underneath all the careful.

She looked toward the sink. "I cleaned the mugs earlier."

"I saw."

"It felt weird leaving them."

"Very scandalous. Two mugs."

"Apparently everyone already knows the mugs are emotionally significant."

I laughed, and this time it felt almost normal.

Then her eyes softened again. "I'm sorry about second."

I nodded. "Me too."

"But I'm not sorry I was here."

My heart kicked hard once.

I held her gaze. "Me either."

For a second, I thought she might say something else. Something dangerous. Something that would make the locked bedroom door and the tiny morning touches and the pit road looks feel like a line we were finally brave enough to name.

Instead she stepped toward the door. Because Avery was still Avery. And maybe was still maybe.

Before she opened it, she looked back at me.
"You're going to get the win, Nick."

I leaned one shoulder against the wall, trying to look steadier than I felt. "That's your professional opinion?"

"No," she said. "That's me knowing you. And I will be here when it happens."

Then she left. The door shut softly behind her. I stood there for a long time after she was gone, staring at the place she'd been.

Outside, the haulers kept loading. The track kept emptying. The whole damn world kept moving on from a race that had felt, for a few laps, like it might change everything.

Second. Again. It still hurt. But now it sat beside something else. Her voice.

I did see you.

I let out a slow breath and looked toward the sink, where the two clean mugs sat side by side. Then I laughed under my breath. Because maybe Logan was right. Maybe I didn't have to win a race to prove I was worth coming back to.

But God help the field when I finally did.