Avery's POV

Practice, qualifying, Nick's appearance...all checked off the list.

Nick was fast. Smooth on the long run, sharp in traffic. The data guys were happy. Reid was happy. Cameron texted me a string of clapping emojis and a "this is going to work" that loosened something between my ribs that had everything to do with job security and nothing...absolutely nothing to do with the driver in the twenty-eight.

By the time the garage shut down, the PeakForm hospitality tent had been magically converted from "casual lunch buffet" to "intimate brand mixer." String lights. High-top tables with tiny succulents. A bar with craft beer and mocktails. Healthy catering that made Devin whisper, "Tastes like sadness," around a kale slider.

I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my sparkling water.

The tent buzzed with low conversation. Kent polos. PeakForm polos. A couple of media people with lanyards and practiced smiles. Someone had queued up a playlist that said, "Yes, we are cool and modern, but please don't scare the VPs."

I did what I always did in rooms like this: circulated, smiled, translated.

"Hero content is good, but we need day-to-day stuff too. The kids live on vertical video."

"Yes, that anecdote about his first kart is golden, we'll flag it for long-form."

"No, we are not going to script his social media. You want him because he's him, not because he reads cue cards."

Every circuit of the room, my radar came back to the same place.

Nick.

He was annoyingly good at this part too. Talking to engineers with his hands, bending over a tablet with one of the PeakForm creators like he genuinely cared about hydration ratios instead of just nodding along. Then pivoting to a regional marketing director, asking about their kids, their local markets, how race weekends performed versus stick-and-ball sports.

Jordyn floated at the edges of his orbit in a tight black dress and a badge clipped like jewelry. She laughed too loudly at half his jokes, fingers brushing his arm a lot more than necessary.

Every time, he'd either lean in or ease away, depending on who was watching.

He caught me looking once.

Our eyes met over a tray of cucumber bites and branded koozies.

For half a second, the whole tent went muffled. He lifted his beer in the tiniest, private toast.

To what, I had no idea.

The deal. The race. Survival.

I raised my drink back, the corner of my mouth tipping up.

Then someone from the digital team materialized at my elbow asking about "brand-safe but spicy" copy, and the moment snapped.

I stayed in motion as long as I could, but eventually nature, lipstick, and social stamina all ran down at once.

"I'm going to fix my face before I bite someone," I murmured to Marina.

She snorted. "Bathroom's back left. Don't fall in."

I slipped out of the tent and into the attached hospitality unit.

The women's bathroom in hospitality was the unofficial gossip hub.

I didn't plan to eavesdrop. I just wanted to fix my lipstick before I had to go smile at three more people who thought "hero content" was a personality trait.

I stepped out of the stall, washed my hands, and was halfway through reapplying when two voices drifted in from the doorway.

"I'm just saying, don't get your hopes up."

"I'm not!" That was Jordyn. I'd recognize that bright, slightly breathy tone anywhere now. "It's fun. We're having fun."

The other voice snorted. One of the other grid girls, I remembered her from earlier, all winged eyeliner and social-team lanyard. "You tried that line on the last one."

I froze, eyes on my reflection but attention tilted sideways.

"I mean it this time," Jordyn said. "He texts. He actually calls. We spend nights together. The sex is really good. He invited me to dinner with his crew last week. That's, like, boyfriend behavior."

The other woman made a noncommittal noise as they moved toward the mirrors.

"I'm just telling you what I've seen," she said. "I've been on this circuit long enough. Nick Hartley does not do serious. Makenna thought she was The One too, remember?"

My stomach dropped.

I kept my expression bland, like I wasn't listening, and dabbed at the corner of my mouth with a tissue.

"That was forever ago," Jordyn said. "He was a baby. People change."

"Yeah," the social girl said. "And some don't. Since Makenna there's been, what...Kaylee, the yoga girl, that engineer chick, the nurse...they all thought they were special. They all got the same speech when he got bored."

"What speech?" Jordyn asked, softer.

The girl lowered her voice like that made it private. "The 'it's not you, it's the schedule' one. Or 'I'm just not in a place to give you what you deserve.' He's not cruel about it or anything, I'll give him that. But he never stays."

Jordyn was quiet for a moment.

"I'm different," she said finally, and I could hear the stubborn smile in it. "We have a...thing."

"You're hot," the girl said. "You're fun. He likes having you around. I'm not saying he doesn't. Just...don't build a house on sand, okay?"

"I'm not building a house," Jordyn said, a little too quickly. "Maybe a cute Airbnb."

They both laughed.

I capped my lipstick, composed my face, and stepped aside so they could squeeze in at the sinks.

"Avery!" Jordyn beamed when she saw me in the mirror. "You look so cute. That blazer is, like, CEO chic."

"Thanks," I said. My voice sounded normal. That felt like an achievement. "You guys ready for content overload?"

The social girl grinned. "Always," she said. "We've got a couple bits planned with you and Nick for later, brand story stuff. You good with that?"

Of course you do.

"Sure," I said. "Whatever we need."

We traded a few more surface-level words; lighting, call times, someone complaining about track wifi. Then they floated out in a cloud of perfume and mutual hype.

The door swung shut behind them.

I met my own eyes in the mirror.

"He never stays," I murmured.

I thought of Briana on that TV screen years ago, her mouth on his in Victory Lane. Of all the unnamed faces that had apparently come after. Of Jordyn now, bright and hopeful, convinced she was the exception.

I also thought of a truck bed under a sky that had actually bothered to show up, and a boy who'd once whispered forever like he meant it.

We were both different now.

He'd turned "all in" into something he reserved for asphalt and engines and lap times.

I'd turned it into case studies and career milestones and anything that didn't require leaning on someone who might leave.

If you asked either of us, we'd probably say we were fine with that.

Independent. Successful. Functional.

But the words in that bathroom stuck to my ribs as I walked back out into the tent.

He never stays.

Except...he had. Once.

And like it or not, I was starting to realize I'd built more of my life around the absence of that than I'd ever acknowledged.

Which made this forced, constant proximity, this partnership, feel less like a neat narrative arc and more like a live grenade I'd been cheerfully juggling.

Back under the string lights, the air felt thicker.
Marina cornered me with a question about UGC strategy, but my brain kept flicking to the other side of the tent, to the guy with the easy smile and the dangerous patterns.

"Earth to Avery," Marina murmured.

I blinked. "Sorry. Spreadsheet brain lag."

She smirked. "Sure. Spreadsheet. Totally not hot, broody race car driver in the corner."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I lied.

Before she could call me on it, someone new slipped into our little circle.

"Hi, I'm Jake," he said, offering his hand first to her, then to me. "Jake Monroe. I drive the thirty-one. We share a couple sponsors with Kent, so I figured I'd come say hi before the free beer runs out."

He was exactly the kind of driver brand decks loved: tall, easy grin, Southern drawl turned down just enough not to be smarmy.

"Hi," Marina said, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Marina Fox, digital lead."

"Avery Cole," I said, taking his hand next. Firm handshake. Warm palm. "Agency side. I'm strategy and brand for the partnership."

"Ah, you're the one I should buy a drink," he said, smile widening. "You're gonna make Kent all the money with your clever taglines."

"Correction," I said. "I'm going to make PeakForm money. You people just keep driving in circles."

He laughed, delighted. "Ouch. She's feisty."

"She's busy," Marina cut in, amused. "If you keep her talking, I'm going to steal her notes later and pretend they were my idea."

We slid into an easy conversation; Jake telling a self-deprecating story about his rookie year, me filing away a few lines for potential cross-promos. He had that effortless, born-for-media vibe that made sponsor decks write themselves.

It should've been purely professional, except I could feel it: that familiar prickle between my shoulder blades.

I glanced up once and caught Nick across the tent, half-listening to something Cameron was saying while absolutely tracking me.

His expression was not neutral.

Not angry. Just...tight. Focused. Like he'd accidentally tuned to the wrong radio channel and couldn't stop listening.

Jordyn followed his gaze, clocked Jake, clocked me. Her smile flickered for half a heartbeat before she turned the wattage back up and said something that made the guy next to her bark out a laugh.

The words from the bathroom echoed: He never stays.

Apparently, everybody knew that but the women he didn't stay for.

"And then my crew chief tells me, 'if you're gonna wreck it, at least do it on TV so the sponsors get their logo time,'" Jake finished.

I realized I'd missed half the story.

I snorted anyway. "That sounds...on-brand."

"Oh, totally," he said. "Anyway, if y'all ever want another driver for content, I'm more than happy to be the comic relief. God knows Hartley needs somebody to balance out his tortured-hero thing."

I choked on my drink. "His what now?"

Jake grinned. "You know. Broody underdog. Blue-collar kid made good. Looks like he's thinking about the weight of the world every time he stares off into the middle distance?"

I fought a losing battle with my face. "That's just his concentration look."

"Uh-huh," Jake said. "Whatever you say, Ms. Cole."

He held my gaze a little longer than strictly necessary. Heat pricked up the back of my neck.

Marina's phone buzzed. "I've gotta grab this," she said, stepping away with a knowing little look that I chose, for my sanity, to ignore.

Suddenly, it was just me and Jake and the soft thrum of music and conversation.

"So," he said. "A few of us are heading over to that rooftop bar across from the hotel later. Nothing crazy, just drinks, decompress, talk trash about lap times. You should come."

"Oh, I..." The automatic no was already on my tongue. I have emails. I have slides. I have to stare at my ceiling and overanalyze my entire existence.

"Team's invited too," he added quickly. "PeakForm folks, Kent people, whoever. Safety in numbers. I promise I won't make you talk about 'hero content.'"

That made me smile, helplessly. "Tempting."

He pulled a Sharpie out of his pocket...of course he did, and snagged a cocktail napkin from the bar. "If you change your mind, text me. I'll make sure your brand people don't end up in a TikTok they regret."

He scribbled his number and slid the napkin toward me.

I slid it into my blazer pocket, feeling a little like I was seventeen and passing notes under a desk.

"Thanks," I said. "For the invite."

"Anytime," he said. "Nice to meet you, Avery Cole."

"You too, Jake Monroe."

He tipped an imaginary hat and drifted off toward a cluster of drivers near the bar.

I let out a breath.

When I glanced up again, Nick was no longer where he'd been.

I found him a second later by the back wall, arms folded, listening to Devin and Marco ask something about long-run pace while his eyes kept sliding toward my side of the tent.

When the mixer finally wound down, my voice was hoarse and my feet ached. We said all the right goodbyes, collected all the right "we'll circle back," and spilled out into the heavy, warm night in ones and twos.

I walked a few steps away from the tent, just to breathe without branded air.

Nick was leaning against the canvas side, still in his team polo, head tipped back, eyes closed. For a second, he looked young. Just a tired guy who'd been "on" all day.

Then he opened his eyes and saw me.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I echoed.

We stood there, the distant thrum of haulers and generators filling the space between us.

"Big day tomorrow," I said, because apparently my small talk settings were permanently stuck on corporate. "You ready?"

He huffed. "As I'll ever be."

"I saw you working the room," he added. "Looked like you were trying to win a championship and a TED Talk at the same time."

"Don't project your overachiever complexes on me," I said. "I was just making sure no one said 'synergy' unironically."

His mouth twitched. "You were talking to Monroe for a while."

Heat crept up my neck again. "We were talking about content opportunities," I said, maybe a little too crisp.

"Uh-huh," he said. "Content."

I narrowed my eyes. "Do you have a problem with me talking to other drivers, Hartley?"

He met my gaze, something sparking there.

"No," he said slowly. "I just...didn't know you liked guys who say 'y'all' that much."

"You say 'y'all' all the time."

"That's different."

"How?" I demanded, despite myself.

"Because I meant it when I said 'you all,'" he shot back. "He just wants your number."

My stomach did a stupid little flip.

"You sound jealous," I said before I could stop myself.

He went very still.

For a second, I expected a joke. A deflection. Something light.

Instead, he looked away, jaw flexing. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Maybe I am. Little bit."

The words from the bathroom collided with that admission in my chest.

He never stays.

Except he had. Once. For me. And we both knew it.

"Nick," I said, softer than I meant to. "You're here with your girlfriend."

His flinch was tiny but real.

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

We let that hang there, sticky in the humid air.

"You know it wasn't..." he started, then stopped, like he was arguing with himself. "Jordyn. It's not what you think."

"Nick," I said, holding up a hand. "You don't owe me an explanation about your...dating life."

He looked back at me, eyes tired and painfully earnest.

"Maybe not," he said. "But I kinda want to give you one anyway."

My heart did a nervous little tap dance. "Why?"

"Because you're here," he said simply. "And because you saw the worst edited version of my life from eight hundred miles away, and I never got to tell you what any of it felt like from inside the helmet."

I thought of the bathroom. Of Jordyn insisting, I'm different. Of her friend saying, He never stays.

"This is not a great time for an ESPN docuseries confessional," I managed.

He huffed a laugh. "Yeah," he said. "You're probably right."

A golf cart whizzed by, someone yelling about an early call time. The moment fractured.

"Go sleep," I said. "Try not to dream in telemetry."

He pushed off the tent, giving me one last long look that felt like it pinned me to the gravel. "Try not to dream in bullet points," he shot back.

"Rude," I said, but the smile pulling at my mouth was real. Helpless.

He grinned, exhaustion still there but softer at the edges. "Goodnight, Cole."

"Goodnight, Hartley."

I watched him walk toward the haulers, shoulders squaring as he stepped into the floodlights. A few seconds later I saw a flash of black dress, Jordyn, falling into step beside him.
The ache in my chest expanded, sharp and familiar.

Back in my hotel room, I kicked off my heels, collapsed onto the bed, and finally pulled the cocktail napkin out of my pocket.

Jake's number stared up at me in black Sharpie.
For a long time, I just lay there, thumb tracing the ink, thinking about seventeen and meteor showers and windshield hearts and a boy who once whispered forever under a meteor-lit sky.

Then, very deliberately, I slid the napkin into my notebook instead of the trash.

A maybe, folded into paper.

Tomorrow, there'd be green flags and scanner chatter and sponsor mentions.

Tonight, there was just this: We were both here.
On the same track again.

And for the first time in a very long time, I had no idea which direction I actually wanted my life to turn.

🏁🏁🏁

Flashback

The BU common room TV was usually reserved for two things: playoff games and dramas where everybody whispered and cheated on each other.

Today, apparently, it was for NASCAR.

"Tell me again why we're watching cars go in circles?" Tessa asked, flopping down next to me with a bag of pretzels.

"First of all, it's trucks not cars. Second, I promised my dad I'd at least check the results," I said, pretending my pulse wasn't already doing a weird skipping thing. "And because the Bruins don't play until later, and nobody else claimed the remote."

Also because I'd seen a tweet earlier that said:
HARTLEY ON THE POLE. KID'S ON A MISSION TODAY.

Fox's pre-race show droned on about tire wear and track temp while graphics whooshed across the screen. My roommates drifted in and out, grabbing snacks, half-paying attention, making jokes about sponsor names.

I sat on the edge of the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed up, ankles crossed tight. The camera cut to the grid: rows of trucks. Crews. Helmeted drivers leaning against their machines.

The No. 28 flashed past; black, white, clean Kent Motorsports on the hood.

Nick stood beside it in a black firesuit, hair a little longer than a month and a half ago. He laughed at something his crew chief said, eyes crinkling. Someone handed him his helmet and he tucked it under his arm, looking straight down the barrel of the camera for a second.

I felt it like a punch to my stomach.

"How do they all have the same jawline?" my other roommate, Nina, asked from the kitchen. "Is there a race car driver factory somewhere?"

"Would explain a lot," Tessa said.

The reporter stuck a mic in his face. "Nick, you've got the truck to beat today. What's it gonna take to close it out?"

He smiled, that old, crooked, too-honest smile.

"Don't screw up?" he said. "Keep it clean, keep it smart. We've got speed. Just gotta put it together."

My chest hurt.

He sounded different. More polished. Still him.

I texted my dad:
Watching. You owe me ice cream for this.

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji

The race started. I told myself I'd watch the first stage, then go back to my marketing ethics reading. I watched all three.

Every caution. Every restart. Every time the commentators said "Hartley's really matured this season" or "look at the patience he's showing in traffic" like they hadn't watched him claw his way there with the same stubbornness.

The more laps he led, the tighter my body wound.

By the time they came to the white flag, he was out front by three seconds.

"Okay, underdog, let's see it," Tessa said around a mouthful of pretzels. "I'm invested now."

"Don't call him that," I snapped sharper than I meant to.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Wow, sorry. Sensitive subject."

I forced a laugh. "Just...pet peeve. Lazy commentary. They've been calling him an underdog since last year."

The checkered flag waved. Nick crossed the line first.

The grandstands blurred past him on TV; the in-car camera showed him screaming something wordless, fist slamming the wheel. Static on the radio. Crew guys losing their minds on pit road.

The familiar mix of pride and pain surged so fast I almost choked on it.

"That's your guy, right?" Nina asked. "The one from home?"

"He's not..." I started, then stopped myself.
Was. Not is.

On screen, he wheeled the truck to the frontstretch, smoking the rear tires until they crossfaded to Victory Lane.

"Kent Motorsports has to be thrilled. First truck series win," one commentator said. "What a way to put the rest of the field on notice. A dominant win and a driver who's not afraid to show some emotion."

The camera cut to the small stage, Kent Motorsports banners everywhere. Crew guys swarmed him. Someone shoved a bottle of something non-alcoholic but bubbly in his hand.

He popped the top and sprayed everyone in range, laughing and soaked.

And then she appeared.

Blonde. Tiny. Spray-tan perfect. Wearing a black cropped Hartley t-shirt and tight jeans.

She stepped into frame like she'd been waiting just out of sight for her cue.

He grinned, and after the obligatory photos, the sponsor hat, the Fox questions, he turned back toward her.

And kissed her.

Quick, sure. Like he'd done it before. Not some peck on the cheek, either. A real kiss. One hand on the small of her back, trophy still in the other.
The camera caught it perfectly.

"Wooooow," Tessa said. "That escalated quickly."

Nina popped her head around the corner. "Is that trophy girl his girlfriend?"

My stomach lurched.

"I...don't know," I managed.

The commentators filled in the blanks.

"There's nineteen year old Nick Hartley getting his first truck series win for Kent Motorsports and a very happy Victory Lane celebration," one of them said, chuckling. "We've seen that young lady around his pit box a few times. This might be some new motivation for the twenty-eight team."

"Nothing like a little off-track incentive," the other laughed.

The director cut to a close-up. Her hand on his chest. His mouth saying something into her hair. The way he bent down a little to hear her over the noise.

The world narrowed to the TV and the roaring in my ears.

I knew, intellectually, that it had only been a month and a half.

I knew, rationally, that we'd broken up. That he didn't owe me some monk like period of mourning.

I knew all of that but my stupid, raw, still-bleeding heart did not care.

"Oh," Tessa said quietly, catching my face. "Shit. That's...."

"Yes," I said, voice thin. "That's my...Nick."

"And the blonde?"

"New friend," I said. The words scraped. "Apparently."

The broadcast rolled on; owner interview, crew chief soundbite, cutaway to highlights. Every time they flashed back to Victory Lane, she was there. Clapping. Hugging him. Standing on the edge of the celebration like she'd earned it too.
I couldn't unsee her hand on the back of his neck when he leaned in for that kiss.

Couldn't un-hear the commentary about "motivation" and "a little extra something in Victory Lane tonight."

My brain knew what it was probably seeing:
A pretty girl in the right place at the right time. PR-friendly "human interest" moment. Something that might not even be that serious.

My chest translated it as: you were easy to move on from.

My phone buzzed with texts.

Dad:
HELL YEAH 28!!!! Did you see that finish??

Mom:
Are you watching? Your dad is screaming at the TV 😂

Kelsey, my high school best friend:
YOUR BOY

I forced my thumb to work.

Yeah. I saw.
Congrats to the hometown hero.

Three dots from Kelsey.
You okay?

I stared at the question.
Am I okay?

I was watching the boy I'd cried over in a truck bed a month and a half ago kiss someone else in high definition.

My eyes stung.

I'm fine.

Lie.

Tessa plucked the remote from my hand, hit mute, and leaned back to look at me. "You do not look fine," she said.

"I knew this would happen," I said, hating how shaky my voice sounded. "We broke up. He's young, attractive, talented. Of course there's...her."

"The Very Blonde trophy girl?" Tessa said.

I huffed something that might've been a laugh. "Yeah."

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

"No," I said automatically. "I'm not. We ended things. I'm the one who moved away. I'm the one who said long-distance wasn't working. I don't get to be mad that he...did what people do."

She watched me a second. "Pretty sure your feelings didn't sign that contract," she said.

On screen, they replayed the finish. The last ten laps. The burnout. The kiss.

I couldn't watch it again.

"I have to..." I stood up too fast. "I've got this pitch campaign brief due, and if I don't start it tonight, Future Me is going to murder Present Me."

"Avery," Tessa said gently. "You don't have to..."

"I know," I said, already backing away. "I'm good. Really."

I escaped down the hall to my room and shut the door with more force than necessary.

For a second, I just stood there, hands pressed flat against the wood, heart trying to climb into my throat.

Then I crossed to my desk, opened my laptop, and did the only thing I knew how to do when my life felt out of control.

I made a list.

Reasons I Don't Get To Be Mad About The Blonde In Victory Lane

1 We broke up.
2 I told him to go chase his career, no strings.
3 I accepted a scholarship 800 miles away.
4 He is allowed to have a life that doesn't revolve around me.
5 I am not his girlfriend. Not anymore.

The list did nothing to stop the tears. They came hot and fast, all the grief I'd been holding in since that night in the truck bed flooding out now that there was a clear, televised image to attach it to.

It wasn't that I'd expected him to pine forever.
I wasn't naïve. It was how visible it was. How public. How...easy it looked.

He'd always been a physical person; touchy, affectionate, comfortable in his skin. Seeing him like that with someone else, though, eyes bright, hands on her made all the air leave my lungs.

I'd imagined his life without me plenty of times. Sponsorship deals. Wins. Fans in the stands with his number on their shirts.

I hadn't been prepared for the blonde with perfect hair and wearing his merch standing where I used to stand in my battered hoodie and smudged eyeliner, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world because he'd pulled me into his arms in front of a victory banner and kissed me like we were the only two people there.

Except that had never actually happened.
We'd never gotten that version.

We'd gotten backroads and dirt tracks and truck cabs and the quiet corner of the shop after a test, him smelling like brake dust and sweat, me smelling like cheap coffee and nerves.

Of course someone else would get the picture-perfect version. Of course it would be televised.

I scrubbed at my face with the heel of my hand and opened another window.

Nick's Instagram.

I hadn't unfollowed him after the break-up.
Torture, really.

The top post was already there: Victory Lane photo, Kent Motorsports hat, grin wide enough to split his face.

And there, tucked into the edge of the frame, was her.

Caption:
no words. this team. this truck. LFG!!! 🏁

Hundreds of likes. Comments from other drivers, fans, brands.

I scrolled.

Past pictures of the hauler at sunrise. Past a boomerang of a gym rep. Past a shot of the 28 tucked into its garage stall with the simple caption "home."

There she was again in a carousel from last race weekend. Leaning in, laughing at something he'd said, lanyard around her neck.

Tag: @briana_xo.

I tapped.

Private account.

Bio: 💚 model | promo | "kinda extra" 💚

The petty part of me wondered if she knew what he looked like in the morning before coffee, hair in seventeen directions, voice scratchy. If she knew about me. If she'd ever sat in the passenger seat of his truck with a stack of college brochures and felt like they were building a life out of paper.

Probably not. She knew a different version.
Grid girl Nick. Kent Motorsports Nick. Victory Lane Nick.

I closed the app.

For a moment, the urge to text him was so strong I actually picked up my phone.
I typed:

Congratulations.

I stared at the word. What was I going to add? "Saw you kissing the blonde, she seems...fine"?

Delete.

I put the phone down like it had burned me.
On my desk, the list sat there, mocking.
I added one more line.

6 He deserves to be happy. So do I.

I underlined it twice.

I went back to his Instagram and hit the unfollow button.

Then I opened a fresh document, titled it Q3 Campaign Concepts, and forced myself to start typing.

Later, much later, I'd be able to look at that Victory Lane clip without wanting to crawl out of my skin.

I'd be able to see it as what it was: a moment in his career. A right-place-right-time kiss. Not a verdict on what we'd had.

But for now, alone in my Boston dorm room while the Bruins game started on someone else's TV down the hall, all it felt like was the universe had made its choice.

Nick Hartley's life was happening without me now and mine, whether I liked it or not, was going to have to learn how to do the same.