Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Cam locked the phone and shoved it face-down onto the table. Immediately he wanted to check it again.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, running a hand over his face.
One of the engineers glanced over. “Everything okay?”
Cam forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Fine.”
The engineer returned to his laptop.
Cam stared at the telemetry screen in front of him. Rows of numbers blurred together.
His phone remained silent.
And despite everything—the championship fight, the pressure, the millions of people watching, the career he was supposed to be protecting—all he could think about was whether Scott had seen the message yet.
Or whether he was busy with someone else.
***
To Cam’s growing irritation, his phone was all he could think about during Free Practice 2.
The session itself was a blur. He hit his marks, he gave feedback, he adjusted brake bias and chased balance issues and discussed tire temperatures over the radio. But his concentration felt fractured, split between the car and the device sitting inside the garage.
Every time he drove past the pit wall, he caught himself wondering whether Scott had replied.
By the final run, he was actively counting down the laps. The moment the checkered flag fell, Cam was heading to the pit lane.
The car rolled into the garage. Before it had even stopped completely, Cam was undoing his belts. He barely had the patience to pull himself out of the cockpit. His helmet came off, then the balaclava, then his gloves—he practically ripped them off and headed straight toward his assistant. “Phone.”
She blinked before handing it over. “Cam, you’re due in the media pen in ten minutes.”
Irritation flared, but of course he was due in the media pen. Everyone wanted a piece of him—sponsors, journalists, engineers, fans—everyone except the one person he actually wanted to see.
Cam gave a curt nod and unlocked his phone. A message waited at the top of the screen.
Scott: I figured it was a good idea to let everyone see there’s nothing between us and that I’m seeing someone else.
Cam went completely still.
For a second, all the noise around him seemed to disappear.
Nothing between us. Seeing someone else.
His eyes locked on those words, his pulse thudding heavily in his ears.
Nothing in the message suggested Scott’s relationship with Nico Laurent wasn’t real. Nothing suggested this was merely a cover story. No. This had to be part of the plan. A publicity stunt. Damage control. The alternative made something ugly and insane twist inside his chest.
Before he could think better of it, his thumbs were already moving.
Cam: I need to see you.
Scott was online. He’d seen the message, but he didn’t reply.
One minute passed, then another.
The tight, ugly knot in his stomach grew with every second.
Finally the screen lit up.
Scott: I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should focus on the championship.
Cam’s jaw clenched.
Cam: Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll come.
This time the answer arrived quickly.
Scott: Don’t.
A pause.
Then another message.
Scott: I’m sharing a room with Nico.
Until now Cam had always assumed the expression seeing red was metaphorical. Apparently it wasn’t. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, tinting red.
Sharing a room.
With Nico.
Logically, there were dozens of explanations. Vegas hotels were expensive. Friends shared rooms all the time. The arrangement was probably intentional, part of the cover story. None of those thoughts helped.
Cam typed before common sense could intervene.
Cam: Come to my room instead.
Cam: Resorts World. Room 411.
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Cam found himself staring at the dots with embarrassing intensity.
Come on.
Finally, the reply arrived.
Scott: We shouldn’t be seen together.
Another message followed immediately.
Scott: It’s not good for your career.
Cam glared at the screen.
His career. Always his bloody career.
His fingers moved sharply across the keyboard.
Cam: I don’t give a fuck.
Cam: Come to my room.
A long pause followed.
Long enough that Cam checked to make sure the message had actually been sent.
Then:
Scott: When?
The knot in Cam’s chest loosened slightly, his heart starting to beat faster.
Cam: Two hours. I have media obligations and team debrief first.
A few seconds later:
Scott: OK.
Cam stared at the message.
Just that.
OK.
There was no smiley face or teasing comment. No champ or babe. No ridiculous kissing emoji that used to make Cam roll his eyes every single time. For months Scott had flirted shamelessly just to annoy him, sending stupid heart emojis, calling him pretty and handsome, and making outrageous comments whenever Cam posted a photo. Cam had always pretended he found it annoying and childish. Now the absence of it felt like a physical thing. A silence where noise should have been.
He found himself scrolling upward through old messages. From months ago. A sea of hearts and jokes and relentless affection. Back when Scott had apparently thought Cam was worth them.
“Cam?”
He looked up.
One of the press officers was standing nearby. “The journalists are waiting for you.”
For a second Cam just stared at her blankly. The journalists. The championship. The race weekend. The things that were supposed to matter.