Chapter 9: Race Day

I've been staring at Blair's hotel room door for fifteen minutes, feeling like the world's most useless boyfriend. Race day. The hallway's too-bright lights make my eyes ache, but that's nothing compared to the knot in my stomach.

I woke up at 5:30 AM, a full hour before Blair's usual pre-race routine begins. After she told me she "needed space" last night, I spent most of it staring at the ceiling of my room.

I check my watch again. 6:15 AM. I'm dressed in my Team Zenith supporter gear, hair neatly combed, new pants, new shoes, even a bit of make up which i really, really fucking hate to wear. I'm ready to be the perfect paddock boyfriend. My thumb hovers over her contact on my phone, but I pocket it instead. This needs to be face-to-face.

P6. Sixth position. For most drivers, that would be respectable. For Blair West, rising star of Zyn Zenith GP with her electric blue hair and silver eyes that flash like knife blades when she's angry, it's practically an insult.

And I can't shake the feeling that I'm partly to blame. Since our F3 days, I've given her a pre-race massage every single night before she competes. It's our ritual, our superstition. My hands working the tension from her shoulders while she visualizes the track, turn by turn. But last night, for the first time since we became a couple, she went to bed without it.

I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. What if she's still sleeping? What if she's meditating or going through her mental preparation? What if she really doesn't want to see me?

Before I can decide, the door swings open. Blair's face is lit with a predatory grin, like a kid who just pulled off the perfect prank. Then her silver eyes land on me, and the smile vanishes.

"Nick?" Her voice carries none of the warmth I'm used to. She's already in her pre-race outfit, hair perfectly styled, looking past me rather than at me. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to be ready early," I say, trying to sound casual despite the sinking feeling in my chest.

She adjusts the strap of her bag, creating distance without moving. "I thought maybe today we could go separately."

The hallway suddenly feels colder. I swallow hard.

"Blair, I really want to talk about Friday. About you seeing me talking to Ivy."

Her eyes roll so dramatically that I'm surprised they don't fall out of her head. The sigh she releases makes me feel smaller than the dust on her racing boots.

"Come on, Nick. I just got some good news, and I'm not in the mood to be annoyed right now."

Annoyed. That's what I am to her now. An annoyance.

"What's the good news?"

Her smile returns, sharp-edged and triumphant. "The stewards are giving Ivy a five-place grid penalty for missing that yellow flag yesterday." She checks her watch, the limited edition one the team gave her after her first podium. "I'm starting P5 now."

"That's... great," I manage. "Congratulations."

She nods, already looking toward the elevator. There was a time when news like this would have meant a celebration, her lifting me off my feet in excitement, stealing kisses between whispered strategies. Now she's treating me like a random fan who stopped her for an autograph.

Blair glances down at her watch again, her mouth tightening into a thin line. "If you're coming with me, we should leave now." She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. "But I need some quiet time to focus, so... just don't talk to me for a bit, okay?"

The way she says it makes it clear it's not really a request. I nod, trying to ignore how my heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vise.

The elevator ride down to the parking garage might as well be a descent into the arctic. Blair stands as far from me as possible in the small space, eyes fixed on her phone.

The team car waits for us outside, sleek and emblazoned with Zenith's iconic purple. Blair slides in first, immediately putting her earbuds in, a clear "do not disturb" sign if I've ever seen one. I settle into the seat beside her, leaving as much space as possible between us. The driver, a woman with close-cropped hair and a Team Zenith jacket, catches my eye in the rearview mirror with a sympathetic glance.

The twenty-minute drive to the circuit stretches into what feels like hours. The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the occasional notification from Blair's phone. She stares out the window, lips moving slightly as she mentally rehearses the race, corner by corner. I fidget with my paddock pass, wishing I could dissolve into the leather upholstery.

Once, this silence between us would have been comfortable. Now it's like trying to breathe underwater.

When we arrive at the circuit, Blair removes her earbuds but still doesn't speak. She walks ahead of me through security, barely waiting as I fumble with my credentials. The paddock is already buzzing with activity, mechanics rushing around, journalists hunting for quotes, and fans pressing against barriers hoping for a glimpse of their favorite drivers.

Blair's pace quickens as we approach the Zenith hospitality area. Her hand occasionally brushes against mine, but she never takes it. Instead, she plasters on her media smile whenever we pass anyone important, nodding toward me as if to say, "Yes, I brought my boyfriend, as expected." A few photographers snap pictures of us, and she shifts closer for them, her arm stiffly around my waist. The moment they lower their cameras, she steps away.

Just as we're about to enter the main hospitality suite, Blair suddenly grabs my wrist. Her grip is firm, those silver eyes darting around like she's checking for snipers.

"Come with me," she says, the first direct sentence she's spoken to me all morning.

I follow her because, of course, I do. We weave through the paddock, past the garages, where mechanics are making final adjustments to the cars. She leads me toward a smaller structure at the far end, one of the private trailers reserved for the Zenith drivers to escape the chaos before races.

Blair punches in a code on the keypad, and the door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. She gestures for me to enter first, which I do, stepping into the cool, dimly lit space. It smells faintly of energy drinks.

She follows me in, immediately moving through the small kitchenette and lounge area, checking the bathroom and small meditation room. Satisfied that we're alone, she turns to face me, leaning against the counter.

The sigh that escapes her is so heavy it seems to deflate her entire body. Her shoulders slump slightly, and for a moment, I see the Blair I fell in love with, vulnerable, real. But then her spine straightens, and her chin lifts.

"Look, Nick," she says, her voice steady but quieter than usual. "I think we should break up."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Even though I've been expecting this, dreading it. The reality of it knocks the air from my lungs.

"Is this because of Ivy?" I manage to ask, my voice embarrassingly small in the quiet room.

"No," Blair says, her voice sharp with irritation. "But you were talking to her after I specifically told you not to."

"She talked at me," I fire back, my hands balling into fists at my sides. "I didn't say shit to her! What was I supposed to do, run away?"

Blair shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose like I'm some kind of frustrating math problem she can't solve. The gesture makes my blood boil.

"Look, Nick," she says with that patronizing tone she's perfected lately. "I think we've outgrown each other. We want different things now."

"Why didn't you just do this at the hotel!" I bark at her.

"I just decided."

Something inside me snaps. The hurt and confusion I've been swallowing for weeks rises up like bile, and I can feel hot tears threatening to spill over. I blink them back furiously, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

"Fuck you!" The words explode out of me, bouncing off the walls of the small trailer. "We're happy together. We've always been happy! You're just... you're just forgetting that!"

Blair's eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting this reaction from her usually agreeable boyfriend. For a split second, I see uncertainty flicker across her face.

"Nick…" she starts, but I'm not done.

"What, you get one win, and suddenly you're too good for me?" I ask, my voice cracking. The words taste bitter but honest. "You used to say you needed me, Blair. Remember? That I helped you relax? That I kept you sane when everything on the track got to be too much?"

I'm shaking now, every bottled-up emotion spilling out. My hands gesture wildly, trying to grasp at something solid in this conversation that keeps slipping away from me.

Blair's expression hardens, her silver eyes turning to steel. "Yeah, well, I don't need you anymore, Nick." Her voice is clinical, like she's discussing a part that's been upgraded on her car. "You're in the way."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

"In the way?" I repeat, the anger rising in me like a tide. "In the way of what? Your precious career? The career I've supported since day one?"

She doesn't even flinch. Just checks her watch again.

"Look, stay here for a while and cool off," she says, already turning toward the door. "Or don't. I don't care. I have a race I need to go win."

And just like that, she's gone, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft mechanical click that somehow hurts more than if she'd slammed it.

The moment she's gone, my knees give out. I collapse to the floor of the trailer, a pathetic heap of Team Zenith purple merchandise and broken dreams. The tears come hot and fast, burning trails down my cheeks as I slam my fist against the cold tile.

"Fuck you, Blair!" I scream at the empty room, my voice cracking. "FUCK YOU!"

I'm shaking, rage pulsing through me in waves. I want to break something, preferably something expensive that she loves. I want her to hurt like I'm hurting. I want...

But the anger starts dissolving, melting into something worse, something that feels like my chest is being hollowed out with a rusty spoon. Four years. Four fucking years of my life devoted to her. I've turned my life upside down to follow her across continents. I've learned to cook the specific pre-race meals she likes. I've massaged her shoulders until my hands cramped. I've held her while she cried after bad qualifying sessions and cheered myself hoarse during her victories.

"I loved you," I whisper, the words dissolving into a sob that wracks my entire body. "I loved you so much."

The memory of her smile, her real smile, not the media-ready one, flashes through my mind. The way she used to look at me like I was her sanctuary in a world of chaos. The nights spent planning our future together, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my chest.

All gone. All fucking gone because she thinks she's outgrown me?

I curl forward, forehead touching the cool floor, arms wrapped around my middle like I'm physically trying to hold myself together. The paddock pass around my neck feels like it's choking me now. I should rip it off. I should leave.

'I guess I can go live with Dad? Or Maybe follow Melissa?'

The electronic door hisses open with such force it bounces against its stopper. I jerk upright, heart leaping stupidly with hope that Blair's returned, that she's realized her mistake.

But it's not Blair.

It's Ivy Hunt, her purple-highlighted black hair wild around her face, eyes blazing with a fury that makes my blood run cold. She stalks into the trailer like a panther, not even registering my presence on the floor.

"I KNOW YOU'RE IN HERE, BLAIR, YOU FUCKING PUSSY!" she screams, her voice echoing off the walls. "COME OUT AND FACE ME, YOU BACKSTABBING CUNT!"