Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“She didn’t,” Nash says. “I saw the footage. When the Matterhorn spun out, no one could have avoided that mess.”
“I know,” I murmur. But that doesn’t matter to Francesca. I tried to tell her that a bit ago, but she walked away from me to stand sentry at the window.
A cup of coffee appears under my nose and I glance up to see Luca standing there with the offer. My stomach rebels at the idea, but I take it anyway. “Thank you.”
I watch as Giulia and Alessio enter the waiting room, moving to Francesca’s side at the window. I met her brother for the first time about an hour ago when we all arrived and we’ve barely said two words to each other. As they should, they’re rallying around Francesca, but I can see she’s not responding to them any better than she did to me.
“She’ll be all right,” Luca says softly, and my gaze turns back to him. “She’s strong.”
I know she is, but everyone has their limits. I cannot adequately begin to catalog the storm of emotions within me right now, but the main one is worry for my girl.
A stillness permeates the room, and I turn to see a doctor walking in, pulling a surgical mask off his face. He glances around at the crowd, seeming to be at a loss as to who to talk to. The Union Jack team principal moves to him, dread on his face. I stand up and start making my way back to Francesca. She turns, and it crushes me to see her eyes filled with hope. It hurts because I can tell by the look on the doctor’s face it’s not good.
I reach Francesca’s side just as the doctor addresses everyone in the room.
Calm, clinical, mercilessly final. “I’m sorry. We did everything we could. He never regained consciousness.”
A warbled sound issues from Francesca and I step in to wrap her in a hug. Her mother squeezes her shoulder, tears flowing freely. The doctor continues to talk, explaining the injury.
“We did everything we could, but the injuries Carlos sustained were too severe. The protective cell of the car held up, but the force of the crash caused catastrophic trauma to his brain. When a car stops that suddenly, the body can be held by belts, but the brain still moves inside the skull. That movement tore connections that simply can’t be repaired.”
I tune the doctor out. That’s an injury we all know too well in this sport. The cars we drive have become so sophisticated in their safety measures, creating a survival cell that can keep most of the body intact. And yet, they haven’t been able to figure out how to protect the brain from such sudden force. Carlos isn’t the first to perish this way.
A sudden wave of grief hits me because although I wasn’t super close to Carlos, we had become better friends. And no matter, any time we lose one of our own, whether we’re friends or enemies, it hits way down deep.
Nash swears under his breath. Bex covers her mouth with one hand, her eyes squeezing shut. Posey bows her head, and Lex rubs a hand over his face, features tight.
Francesca doesn’t move. I squeeze her gently and wait for a reaction—tears, anger, anything. But when she finally lifts her head, it’s worse than I imagined. Her eyes are flat, her face carved from stone.
“That’s it, then,” she says quietly. Her voice doesn’t break. It doesn’t even waver. “I’m done.”
The words hang there, cold and absolute.
Giulia makes a sound of dismay. “Oh, no… please don’t say that. You just—”
Francesca cuts her off, pulling away from me so violently, I have no choice but to let her go. I exchange a worried look with her brother.
“I caused this,” she says, loud enough to carry through the room. Everyone turns to look at her. “It’s my fault he’s dead. My wheel clipped him and that’s what caused the crash.”
“That’s not what happened,” I say, but she glares at me, silencing my words.
“Don’t. I don’t want speeches about how these things happen or that Carlos would want me to keep racing. I don’t care.”
I reach out to her, intent on keeping my thoughts to myself and only offering support, but she jerks away like my hand burns her.
Her eyes snap to mine, blazing now, not with tears but with fury. “Don’t you dare, Ronan. Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay. Don’t tell me to keep going. I’m done.”
The words gut me, not just because of what she’s saying but because of what’s buried inside them. She’s not angry at me—she’s terrified. She can’t bear the thought of ever going through this again.
I want to tell her the chances of this happening again are slim. That I’ll never let it happen. But I can’t promise her that, not in this world. Not when I’ve seen too many crashes, too many funerals.