Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The heat had a way of sticking to everything in Miami. It crept through the blinds, pressed against the floorboards, and clung to Logan’s skin even before he got out of bed—or the couch, really. He hadn’t slept in his actual bed for three nights. Something about it felt too official, like lying down in a grave labeled “Plan B.”

He blinked blearily at the ceiling fan, rotating at a speed that felt almost lazy. His phone buzzed somewhere beneath a pillow. Probably his brother. Probably teasing him. Again.

“Still on that early retirement grind, huh?” the last message had read.

Logan didn’t reply. He hadn’t replied to most things lately.

There was food in the fridge, technically. Mostly energy drinks, half a takeout container of curry, and a weird number of protein bars he kept meaning to eat. His routine—if you could call it that—involved waking up too late, jogging to sweat out the guilt, and watching old karting videos in the middle of the night like a ghost haunting his own past.

He wasn’t miserable. Not exactly. But he wasn’t living either. Just… existing. Surfing some days. Sim racing when he had the stomach for it. But the truth was, when Williams dropped him after Zandvoort—after everything—he’d lost something bigger than a race seat.

He’d lost the version of himself he thought he was supposed to be.

He still talked to his family. Mom called once a week. Never pried. She’d ask about food, hydration, sunscreen. He’d give vague answers, but she knew how to read his voice. There wasn’t pressure. Just love. Gentle and constant.

But even love didn’t fix the restlessness.

That night, after a long, hot shower and half a bottle of lukewarm Gatorade, Logan lay on the floor in front of his fan, scrolling through his phone. Instagram was a graveyard—tagged photos from his rookie year, videos with “WTF Happened to This Guy?” captions, DMs he never opened.

Except… tonight, he tapped one. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it didn’t start with a brand request or a weird emoji. Just a name:

@alex_evans_racing

Hi Mr. Sargeant. My name is Alex. I’m 14 and I race in the UK. I saw you race once in 2023 and I thought you were really good. My parents can’t really help much with racing, but I really want to make it. Could you maybe watch this clip? I know you probably won’t see this. Thanks either way.

Attached was a video—one minute long. Shot on a phone from the sideline of some gritty UK karting track, all gray skies and rain-slick corners. The kid took a corner wide, but recovered with control. Not perfect, but there was something there. Something hungry.

Logan watched the video again. And again. His brain started cataloguing details on instinct—the grip angle, throttle hesitations, the rear axle jerk in Turn 3.

His stomach twisted. Not from nerves. From the name.

Alex.

A coincidence, obviously. But the knot in his chest stayed.

He stared at the screen for a long time. Then, almost without thinking, he typed:

What chassis are you running?

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.

Panic surged. Regret. Embarrassment. What was he doing? Coaching a stranger? Getting emotionally involved with a random kid from Instagram? He tossed the phone across the rug like it burned and rolled onto his back, staring at the spinning fan.

The next morning, the DM had a reply.

Tony Kart. But it’s old. My uncle fixed the frame last winter. I’m doing a lot of braking on the rear axle but it locks sometimes. Is that normal?

A real answer. Earnest. Clear.

Logan stared at the message, feeling… something. Something close to hope.

That means your balance is off. Try shifting your weight forward a little and easing your turn-in. Send me a new clip after you try it.

He didn’t reread it before sending.

That afternoon, he FaceTimed his mom. She answered mid-laundry, glasses askew, hair pinned up.

“You look thin,” she said, the moment the camera focused. “Are you eating?”

“Trader Joe’s curry. Real fancy.”

“Mentally?”

He paused. “Microwave curry.”

She laughed. He smiled. And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t fake it.

Later that night, after a dinner of cereal and half a banana, he opened Instagram again. A new clip waited for him.

This one was cleaner. Tighter lines. Less axle drag. Alex had listened.

Logan leaned closer, finger hovering over the pause button as the kid accelerated out of the last corner.

“Damn,” he whispered. “He’s actually got it.”

He sat there in the dark, legs stretched out across the rug, and rewound the video again. It was stupid, maybe. Getting invested. But there was something in the way Alex handled the kart—messy but brave—that reminded Logan of himself at fifteen. That specific brand of fearless hope. Of not knowing yet what the world would take from you.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed that.

Another message appeared.

That helped. Thanks. I’ve got a test next week, but we don’t have new tires. Dad says we can’t keep spending money like this unless someone helps. A team called Cullahams Racing messaged us and wants to sponsor me. Do you know them?

Logan’s stomach dropped.

Cullahams Racing.

Yeah. He knew them.

Not personally, but enough. The kind of team that looked shiny on the surface—flashy Instagram, a smooth-talking rep, gear that looked pro. But their contracts were exploitative. High buy-ins disguised as “development fees.” Legal loopholes that trapped kids for years. Promises that went nowhere.

He’d seen it happen. He’d almost lived it.

He typed back slower this time.

Don’t sign anything. Not yet. I’ll look into them. Just focus on your test, okay?

Alex replied almost instantly.

Okay. Thanks, Mr. Sargeant.

He hesitated. Then sent:

Just Logan.

That night, Logan didn’t sleep. But it wasn’t the restless, empty not-sleep that had haunted him for months.

This time, it was purpose.

Three days passed without a message. Logan didn’t notice at first—he was trying to stay detached. He told himself it was just a one-off thing, some random karting kid with a solid lap and a lucky line.

But the silence itched at him. Until finally, just past midnight, his phone buzzed.

@alex_evans_racing

Hey Logan. Sorry to bug you again. I’m having a problem with my steering. It keeps sticking when I turn left. We tried grease, swapped the column, checked the tie rods—everything looks fine. But it keeps doing it. Could it be the cold? It’s freezing here.

Logan sat up straighter, rereading it twice.

He knew exactly what the kid meant. British winters did brutal things to cheap chassis—especially ones with aging parts and a rough rebuild history. If the column was sticking, it could be a flex issue—or worse, a warped hub bearing. Either way, it was dangerous.

He opened his camera, pointed it at his own karting spares laid out along the back wall of the garage.

What model is your wheel? Can you show me the hub?

Alex sent back a shaky video. Logan paused it at a few frames, zoomed in, then swore softly under his breath.

Of course. One of those old third-party hubs with a cheap center core. Bent just enough to cause resistance under pressure—especially cold weather pressure. And he’d bet money Alex’s steering wheel was a clunky one from a generic brand.

Yeah, that wheel’s part of the problem, Logan typed. And that hub’s gonna keep sticking when temps drop. You’re gonna overcorrect in the wet if you’re not careful.

Alex responded with a long pause. Then:

Crap. We can’t afford a new one right now. I can try to fix it again, but we’re tapped.

Logan didn’t respond immediately.

He stared at his own gear, collecting dust. He hadn’t touched it in months. Some of it had been custom, sure—but some? Some of it was still boxed from the junior series days. Wheels he hadn’t even used twice. One of them was nearly new. Lightweight, suede-wrapped, perfect center response.

He stood up, crossed the garage barefoot, and opened the crate. There it was. Black with a subtle red stripe. Clean as a whistle.

He hesitated. For exactly twelve seconds.

Then he messaged:

Text me your address. I’ve got a spare. Should still be FIA legal. Light as hell. You’ll feel the difference right away.

Are you serious??

Don’t make it weird, Logan replied. Just install it and beat the next kid on the grid.

A pause.

Thanks, Logan. For real.

He didn’t say anything else. Just packed the wheel, padded it in the box, and wrote the address carefully on the shipping label.

Logan walked it down to the post office the next morning in the Miami sun, squinting into the heat. The steering wheel was heavier in his hand than he remembered. Or maybe it just mattered more now.

He passed the box over the counter and slid his hands into his pockets. Outside, Miami was loud—bright cars, sticky sidewalks, someone yelling about iced coffee on the corner—but he barely heard it.

For the first time in months, Logan Sargeant had somewhere to be.

And if some kid across the Atlantic wanted to drive like hell in the karting cold, the least he could do was make sure the wheel turned right.

Chapter Text

The contract was twelve pages long and read like a death sentence written in Comic Sans.

Logan had seen enough of them in his career—short-term, long-term, performance-based, image-rights-twisting, “we-own-your-firstborn” types. This one was short, slick, and predatory in the way cheap paper tries to look expensive.

He sat at the kitchen counter, phone in one hand, laptop open to the Cullahams Racing PDF in the other. His apartment smelled faintly like leftover takeout and motor oil from the bin of old gear he kept forgetting to close.

The exclusivity clause was bad. The early termination fee? Worse. But the clause that really made him swear under his breath was the one about media ownership. They could take any footage of Alex—even footage filmed by someone else—and claim it for promo. They could spin a narrative and lock the kid into their image.

He set his phone down and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He shouldn’t be this invested.

He really shouldn’t.

But every time he tried to pull back, he heard Alex’s voice on that crackly WhatsApp call, talking about how racing made him feel “not invisible.” How he’d never had anyone believe he was good enough to go all the way until Logan messaged him back.

That did something to you. Made it personal whether you wanted it or not.

His laptop buzzed with a calendar notification.

Zoom Call: A. Evans + Parents

Scheduled for: 10:30 AM EST

God help him.

Logan clicked the link and waited.

Then waited longer.

Then—

“Oh no—he’s here! Paul, he’s here—I pressed the thing, why isn’t he moving?”

A blurry image of a kitchen ceiling filled the screen. A mug clattered somewhere off-camera.

“Linda, you muted him—or us? Hang on, let me—nope, I just took a screenshot.”

Logan smiled before he could stop himself.

It was a little disorienting. Seeing them. Alex’s parents were in their late forties, maybe early fifties. Ordinary. Exhausted. His mum wore a floral top and had reading glasses pushed up on her head. His dad looked like someone who owned more than one ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ mug and meant it sincerely.

“I can hear you both now,” Logan offered. “You’re good.”

Linda blinked. “Oh thank God. I thought we locked you out or something.”

“You can do that?” Paul asked.

“I don’t think so,” Logan said, trying not to laugh. “No worries. My parents still think ‘streaming’ means watching NASCAR on the telly.”

That got a genuine laugh from both of them.

The air in the room eased just slightly.

They talked for a few minutes about nothing—weather in Miami, the price of groceries, how Alex had been obsessed with Logan’s F3 wins and once made a diorama of a Red Bull livery in Year Six. Logan didn’t know what to do with that information except store it somewhere dangerously close to his heart.

Then Linda got serious.

“You said the contract looked… dodgy,” she began, shifting in her chair.

Logan nodded. “It’s not just dodgy. It’s dangerous.”

Paul frowned. “But they’re offering him real backing. Gear, travel, media training—”

“And in return,” Logan cut in gently, “they get to shape his entire image, own his footage, and lock him out of other opportunities unless they approve. That’s not sponsorship. That’s control.”

They didn’t answer right away.

Linda chewed her lip. “We’re not lawyers, Logan. It’s not like we’ve done this before.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why they’re targeting you.”

He didn’t say That’s why they targeted me once, too. He didn’t need to.

Paul folded his arms. “But we’re not made of money. If he doesn’t sign with them—what, we tell him to just keep racing locally? Let the dream fizzle out?”

Logan’s tone didn’t rise. If anything, it softened.

“No. I’m saying I’ll help you find a different option.”

Their eyes flicked up in unison.

“I’ve got a couple of honest programs I can reach out to,” Logan continued. “People who actually care about the kids they bring in. I’ll make calls. I’ll use my name if I have to.”

Linda looked like she wanted to believe him. Paul still looked wary.

“What’s in it for you?” he asked, not cruelly—just cautiously.

And that… that hurt more than it should’ve.

Logan forced a breath. “Nothing. Just want to help.”

They didn’t reply for a long moment.

Then Linda said, “He trusts you, you know.”

Logan swallowed hard. “I don’t take that lightly.”

Paul sighed. “Alright. We won’t sign anything. Not yet.”

That was all Logan needed to hear.

Logan leaned back in the chair long after the call ended. The apartment had gone dark around him without him noticing.

His phone buzzed.

Alex Evans: 

Thanks for talking to them.

Dad says he’s ‘not sold’ but he’s ‘listening’ which is like, massive.

And mum says if you say it’s sketchy then she believes you.

Also I told them you didn’t have to help me but you are.

That means something.

(Also I’m working on my turn-ins like you said. Not perfect but better.)

Logan stared at the messages for a long time.

It meant something to him, too.

Right before bed, Logan’s phone buzzed one last time.

Oscar Piastri 🐱

You alive?

Or are you living off microwave pizza and childhood trauma?

Logan snorted.

Both

Oscar replied:

Classy.

You still talking to that kid?

You gonna coach him full time?

Mr. Sargeant’s School for Sad Little Bastards?

Logan stared at the screen.

Then typed, slowly:

You ever heard of Cullahams?

Might need a second opinion on a karting deal.

You free tomorrow?

Oscar didn’t respond right away.

Then:

For you? Always.

Logan couldn’t sleep.

The apartment was dark except for the streetlights bleeding in through the blinds. His bed felt too cold and too wide. Too still.

He grabbed his keys and headed out, hoodie on, no real destination in mind.

Miami at night was quieter than it should’ve been. Maybe it was the offseason, or maybe it was just the way the wind curled in off the bay, soft and slow and full of things that used to matter. Neon signs hummed. A lone cyclist pedaled by. Somewhere, a bass-heavy song thudded out of a car window and disappeared into the dark.

Logan drove the way you only do when you don’t want to think. Fingers loose on the wheel. Windows cracked. The roads unspooling in front of him like an old VHS tape.

He didn’t know why he felt it so hard. The pull toward this kid. Toward fixing things that weren’t really his to fix. But it lingered in his chest like the roar of an engine after the ignition’s cut—still shaking, even when the silence fell.

Maybe it was because he saw too much of himself in Alex. The way the kid joked when he was nervous. The way he only asked for help in half-formed sentences, like he was scared someone would say no.

Logan had been fifteen once, too. Desperate to prove he was worth the money. Worth the risk. Worth believing in.

And no one—no one—had warned him what it felt like when the people who said they had your back turned out to be holding knives.

He pulled into a gas station and sat there for a while. Bought a pack of gum and didn’t chew it. Scrolled through Alex’s Instagram again—karts and garage selfies and a grainy photo of a family dinner where his mum was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.

This was a kid who didn’t need a miracle. He just needed a chance.

Logan didn’t want to be a savior. He just didn’t want Alex to lose himself before he even knew who he was.

He drove home slowly. The roads still empty. His thoughts heavier now but a little more certain.

By the time he walked back into the apartment, Oscar’s text was waiting. Teasing. Familiar. Unspoken offer behind the words.

Logan sat on the edge of the couch and stared at his phone like it held something holy.

He wasn’t alone in this.

Not this time.

Chapter Text

The message came in at 6:04 a.m., Miami time.

Alex Evans:

We signed with Cullahams.

I’m sorry, I know you were going to try stuff. But the kart’s totaled. We couldn’t wait.

Logan blinked awake to the glow of his phone, its buzz tucked under his pillow. He read the message twice, then a third time, and sat up in bed like something had punched through his chest.

His first thought was, I should’ve stayed up later.

Second: I should’ve called Sunday.

Third: I’m too late.

He pulled open the chat thread, thumb hovering over the keyboard, but there wasn’t anything to say that didn’t sound hollow.

He typed, What happened?

Deleted it.

Tried again. You okay?

Alex replied two minutes later.

I will be. Probably. Just wanted to let you know.  

The voice note came later. Hesitant. Tired.

“Um. So. Sunday, I was out testing and some kart left a ton of oil on the track.  It was stupid. I tried to correct but I hit the barrier. The whole right side’s gone, steering column cracked. We got it towed, but Dad said it’s going to cost more than it’s worth to fix.”

A pause.

“And we’ve already… like. Sold stuff. My parents got rid of their car last month. We moved to a flat that has mold, and Mum says it’s ‘character,’ but it’s not. It’s just damp. We tried getting help but no one’s lending anymore. So when Cullahams called again with the bonus and said they’d cover a new kart… we just—”

He didn’t finish. Just ended with, “Sorry.”

By 10 a.m., Logan had burned through two cups of bitter coffee and every known swear word in his vocabulary.

He called. No answer. Tried again. Nothing.

Alex’s parents finally picked up on Zoom after a third email, and it took a solid three minutes for them to get the camera un-mirrored. Mrs. Evans appeared first—bright blue glasses sliding down her nose—and Mr. Evans hovered behind her, trying to figure out the mic.

Logan couldn’t even bring himself to roll his eyes. His parents once printed out instructions just to mute themselves on a Zoom birthday.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Evans said, squinting at the screen. “We’re not great at this. Is it working?”

“Yeah. It’s working,” Logan said gently. “Thanks for taking the call.”

They looked exhausted. The sort of tired that came from months of bad news and no way forward.

“I just—I need to ask,” Logan said. “Why didn’t you wait? I was talking to someone. A good program. I just needed time.”

Mr. Evans sat forward, elbows on the table. “We didn’t have time, Logan. He was dead in the water after Sunday. The kart’s useless. We can’t afford another one. They said they’d cover the replacement and transport, and they gave us a signing bonus that’ll float us for the rest of the season.”

Logan swallowed. “And the fine print?”

“We read it.”

“Did you understand it?”

Silence. Then: “We understood enough.”

Logan exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We didn’t want to tell Alex until it was done,” Mrs. Evans added. “He still thinks you walk on water. But we couldn’t gamble. Not when we’ve tried every bank in London and moved three times already. We didn’t have another move.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was just… truth.

Logan nodded, once. “Okay.”

They didn’t say goodbye. Just clicked out of the call after a long, quiet moment.

By noon, Logan had finally messaged Oscar.

Logan:

Don’t bother reaching out to your karting guy. Kid signed with Cullahams.

His family didn’t wait. Car’s toast, they’re out of options.

Oscar responded faster than expected.

Oscar:

Shit.

That’s rough.

Logan:

Yeah.

There was a longer pause before Oscar sent another.

Oscar:

I know you probably feel like this is on you. But you did what you could.

They were already drowning.

Logan stared at the message. He wanted to throw his phone across the room. He also wanted to fly to London, rip up the contract, and rebuild Alex’s kart with his own hands.

Instead, he just typed:

Logan:

It’s not about blame.

It’s about what happens next.

That night, Logan stood on his balcony with a beer in one hand and the Florida night thick around him.

He thought about the way Alex had said, “Probably. Just wanted to let you know.” Like it didn’t matter what Logan thought anymore. Like the window had shut.

But that was the thing about Logan—he never did well with closed doors.

Even if it wasn’t his name on the contract. Even if it wasn’t his life in the crosshairs. He’d seen too many boys like Alex thrown to the wolves. And no matter what the family had signed, no matter how clean the press release looked when it inevitably hit the karting feeds—Logan knew Cullahams. He knew what they were capable of.

And he knew one thing for sure:

He wasn’t letting that kid go without a fight.

The silence settled in like humidity—dense and impossible to shake.

A week passed. Logan didn’t call, and Alex didn’t ask him to.

There were a few messages—just enough to keep the thread alive.

Alex:

Got my new suit today. Red and black. Looks kinda evil.

They said I need to post about it by Friday.

Logan:

Bet you’ll still look fast in it.

Just make sure you read what they’re tagging you in.

Alex:

Yeah. Mum says they’re making a team TikTok.

After that, nothing for two days.

Logan spent the week hunched over his laptop like it owed him answers. His desktop looked like the conspiracy wall of a man on the brink—contracts, sub-clauses, old interviews, LinkedIn screenshots of Cullahams’ “junior development manager” who had a background in flipping real estate and absolutely nothing in motorsport.

He had Oscar running things past McLaren’s legal team when they weren’t busy. He had Gaëta asking around his contacts in F4 and GB3. Nothing turned up fast enough. No one moved fast enough.

Meanwhile, Alex was being fitted for team kits and prepped for media days. It made Logan sick to think how easily the machine kept turning.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed the kid’s voice until he couldn’t hear it anymore.

By Thursday night, he was staring at an email chain from a mid-tier team that might—might—have room to sponsor an extra driver in their junior program. Logan’s name still meant something. But it didn’t mean fast money, and it didn’t mean replacement karts overnight.

He replied anyway.

Then opened his messages.

Still no new text from Alex.

He typed one out. Deleted it. Tried again.

Logan:

Hope testing’s going alright.

Let me know if anything feels off. Especially in the kart.

No reply came that night.

The message came at 4:07 a.m. Miami time. Logan didn’t see it until nearly noon, groggy and bleary-eyed, still surrounded by open tabs and half-drunk coffee.

From: Mrs. Evans

Subject: A Small Request

Hi Logan,

We really appreciate everything you’ve done. Alex does too. Truly.

But after discussing it as a family, we think it’s best if you give him a bit of space. He’s been a little… off-focus lately. Distracted. It’s a big adjustment, all this change. New team, new expectations.

We’re so grateful for your help getting him here.

But we’d like him to concentrate fully on what’s ahead.

Thank you again for everything.

– Linda Evans

Logan stared at the screen like the words would rearrange themselves into something kinder.

They didn’t.

He didn’t answer right away. What was there to say?

It wasn’t just the door closing. It was the fact that it hadn’t even slammed. It had clicked gently shut, with thanks and a smile.

Logan blinked. Read the email again. And again.

His stomach dropped like it used to before lights out—only this time there was no race, no grid, no escape. Just the sick realization he was already too late.

He stood up too fast. His knees nearly gave.

“Shit,” he breathed. “Shit—no, no, no.”

The silence in the apartment answered back.

Chapter Text

Logan didn’t reply to the email.

He tried. Opened the draft four separate times. Stared at the blinking cursor until it felt like a countdown. What could he even say?

Please let me stay.

You don’t understand what they’re asking him to give up.

I think something’s wrong.

Instead, he left it blank. Closed the tab. Opened another one. If he couldn’t get through to Alex, he’d go through Cullahams instead. He’d find something. A loophole, a red flag, a buried clause in the contract that screamed exploitative bullshit to anyone who knew what to look for.

The problem was… it was tight. Too tight.

Legally binding. No clean exit. Logan had seen enough of those himself. His own junior career had been a mess of signed desperation and quiet regret, tangled with promises no one had any intention of keeping.

This one reeked of the same rot.

He called Gaëtan. Left a voicemail. Called Oscar next.

“Hey,” Oscar answered, voice groggy. “You good?”

Logan almost lied. Then stopped himself.

“No. I need help.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

He got Logan in touch with McLaren’s legal rep, who promised to at least look over the contract—though they were clear: they didn’t do junior disputes pro bono, and the Evans family would need to authorize any deeper involvement. Which… they wouldn’t. Not now.

Still, Logan sent it anyway.

By Wednesday, he had a redlined copy with the words predatory but not technically illegal highlighted in the header.

That night, he lay flat on his apartment floor, staring at the ceiling fan like it might spin out some divine intervention.

He still hadn’t heard from Alex.

Friday morning, he got a single text.

Alex Evans:

Do you think it’s normal for them to say I’m not allowed to post kart onboard stuff anymore?

Logan’s pulse spiked. His fingers hovered over the screen. He wanted to ask a million things.

Instead:

Logan:

No. That’s not normal.

Want to talk about it?

No answer.

He waited. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

Then finally:

Alex Evans:

Sorry. Can’t. They’re taking us to a team dinner.

Followed by a photo of a plate of dry pasta and the caption:

team bonding is pain

Logan laughed, sharp and unsteady. It was the first noise he’d made all day that wasn’t a curse.

He didn’t respond. Not yet. He couldn’t shake the hollow ache that came with reading between the lines.

Alex was still talking to him. But something had changed. There was space now. Not the kind you leave for someone to breathe—the kind someone leaves behind when they’re already halfway gone.

By the weekend, Logan had a plan.

It was barely more than a sketch, but it was better than nothing: if he could just get one other team interested, if he could prove Alex had a better option waiting—he could send it to the Evans family and make them see.

He called in favors. Pulled out his name like an old race suit—creased, slightly out of fashion, but still recognizable.

Someone would take the kid. Someone with a real program. Real support. Not whatever the hell Cullahams was pretending to be.

And if not?

Well. Then Logan would show up himself.

Uninvited.

Unapologetic.

But not until he had something real to offer.

Sunday night, Logan’s phone buzzed while he was mid-scroll through junior team rosters.

Alex Evans:

Hey, um

Would you want to come to my next race?

It’s not a huge one but I’d like if you were there

Logan stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

He wanted to say yes. God, more than anything.

But the email from Linda still sat in his inbox, a silent wall he couldn’t climb.

He couldn’t let Alex think he was ignoring it. Couldn’t make him choose.

Logan:

I’d love to

But I’ve got something going on that weekend

Sorry, kid

The three dots appeared. Vanished. Reappeared.

Alex Evans:

It’s okay

I figured

Just thought i’d ask

Logan closed his eyes, breathing in like that would make the lie sit easier in his chest.

Logan:

Knock ‘em dead anyway

You’ll be brilliant

Alex Evans:

I’ll try

Logan didn’t tell him he already was. That he didn’t need to try, just needed someone to believe in him without strings or silence or secrets.

But it didn’t feel like his place anymore.

So instead, he left his phone facedown on the table and returned to the list of names on his laptop—eyes scanning, heart nowhere near settled, still hoping, still trying.

Still staying, even when he wasn’t wanted.

Logan didn’t remember grabbing his keys. He just remembered the stillness of his apartment, how every wall felt like it was leaning in. So he left.

No music. Just the low purr of the car engine and the warm, heavy night pressing in on him.

He drove with his elbow out the window, hand loose on the wheel, letting the wind whip through his fingers. The streets of Miami blurred past him—familiar but faceless. Everything a little too quiet at this hour, like the city had secrets it only told the insomniacs.

He passed half-lit gas stations and shuttered strip malls. A 24-hour laundromat where someone sat slumped in a plastic chair, headphones in, waiting for something to finish spinning. Neon signs blinked like tired eyes. A man on a street corner smoked like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

Logan didn’t stop anywhere. Didn’t even know where he was going.

He just drove—through Coral Gables, then Pinecrest, looping past Coconut Grove before hitting US-1 and heading south, into the nothing.

The city began to fall away. Palms gave way to mangroves. Billboards disappeared. And eventually, the traffic thinned until it was just him and the night, the air smelling like salt and wet pavement.

When he saw the old coastal pull-off, he turned in without thinking.

It was barely lit, one crooked lamp post buzzing faintly, but it was empty. A faded picnic table sat off to the side, and beyond the low metal barrier was the black shimmer of the ocean, stretching out to nowhere.

He parked. Left the engine running for a beat too long, then shut it off and got out.

The silence hit like a wave.

Not true silence—there was still the soft hush of water, the occasional chirp of some bird that didn’t know it was the middle of the night—but it was the kind of quiet that wrapped around your ribs and made you feel every breath.

Logan leaned against the hood of his car, arms folded, head tipped back to look at the stars. The sky was clearer out here. Less light pollution. More space to think.

He didn’t.

Not right away, at least.

Eventually, his thoughts drifted back to Alex—small, bright-eyed Alex who didn’t know how to hide his hope yet. Who still thought the world might reward hard work and a good attitude.

Who had parents clawing for air and grabbing the first lifeline, even if it was wrapped in barbed wire.

And then there was the email. The one that had asked him—nicely—to stop. Said he was distracting. That Alex’s focus had slipped. That the relationship wasn’t “conducive to his development.”

Logan wanted to laugh. Or maybe scream.

He’d heard it all before. Had the same words said to his own parents once, back when the money had run out and the sponsors never called back. When someone in a pressed shirt told his mom that “Logan’s ceiling is lower than you think.”

Except he’d broken through it.

Only to fall from higher.

He ran a hand through his hair, then scrubbed his palms over his face.

“You always think you can change the ending,” he muttered, to no one. “And maybe that’s the problem.”

The ocean didn’t answer.

He stood there for a long time. Just breathing. Just being.

Eventually, a breeze rolled in off the water—cooler than expected, lifting his shirt collar and brushing over the fading sunburn on his arms.

Logan closed his eyes.

He didn’t feel better. Not really.

But he didn’t feel worse either.

And for now, that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

The race was scheduled for Saturday. Some regional karting meet in Kent—nothing big, nothing fancy. But Logan had already bookmarked the livestream link on his laptop, despite telling Alex he wouldn’t be watching.

It felt like a lie.

It was a lie.

But he told himself he was doing what was best. Respecting the parents’ request. Keeping his distance, like they’d asked. “Too distracting,” the message had said. “Alex needs focus.”

It hadn’t even come from Alex’s number. Just his mum’s email, sent sometime around four in the morning Miami time. Logan hadn’t replied. He still didn’t know how.

He wanted to say, I was never trying to distract him. I was just trying to help. But saying that would sound selfish. Defensive. Like a man who couldn’t let go.

And maybe that’s exactly what he was.

Oscar had sent over the McLaren rep’s notes two days ago. The contract was worse than Logan remembered—buried clauses, performance penalties, a lock-in period that spanned nearly four years if certain conditions were met. It practically guaranteed Cullahams a cut of Alex’s career whether he made it to F4, F3, or never broke out of karting.

It was exploitation with legalese lipstick.

Logan had read it three times and then gone for another drive. No music, just the sound of his tires on wet pavement and the distant ache in his temples.

Oscar called that afternoon. Not for an update—just to talk. But Logan could hear the unspoken concern behind every casual question.

“You’re not going to give up on this, are you?” Oscar had asked, somewhere between silence and static.

“No,” Logan had said. “I’m just… waiting for the right moment.”

“Moments are overrated,” Oscar replied. “Sometimes you’ve just got to kick the door in.”

On Saturday morning, Logan didn’t sleep in. He got up early. Showered. Put on a plain black hoodie and sat at the kitchen counter with his laptop open to the livestream, coffee untouched beside him.

The race was supposed to start at 11 a.m. London time—6 a.m. in Miami.

The feed was shaky, filmed from someone’s phone perched on a folding chair, but Logan spotted Alex instantly. Helmet tucked under his arm, racing suit half-zipped down to his waist, curls wild from the wind.

He looked focused. Serious. Like someone trying not to think too hard.

When he got into the kart, Logan could see him flex his fingers on the steering wheel once, twice. A little habit. Just like Logan used to.

The kid didn’t win.

He came second—tight battle for first, clipped a curb just slightly wrong in the penultimate lap. But it was clean. Smart. And fast.

Logan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The feed cut not long after. Just a shaky shot of a trophy presentation, then feet walking past the phone.

Logan stared at the frozen screen for a long time.

Then, finally, he picked up his phone.

Logan: Nice race.

No reply came.

He didn’t expect one.

But five minutes later, a voice note arrived.

He opened it without hesitation.

“Did you watch?” Alex’s voice asked, a little too calm, too quiet. “I thought maybe you would.”

There was a pause. A rustle. Someone calling his name in the background.

“I know they told you not to talk to me anymore. I figured it out. It’s fine. I just wanted you to know… I listened. About turn three. I didn’t brake too late this time.”

Another pause.

“You were right.”

The note ended.

And Logan closed his eyes.

Logan didn’t listen to the message again. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he clicked open his calendar and joined the Zoom link Oscar had sent over an hour earlier.

Oscar’s face popped up first—sharp and well-lit, probably from his apartment in Monaco, hair still a little damp from a shower. He gave Logan a short nod, one that felt more like a reassurance than a greeting.

“Morning,” Logan muttered.

“Evening here. And you look like you haven’t slept.”

“Didn’t.”

Another window joined the screen. A woman in her thirties, hair twisted up in a neat bun, eyes sharp behind thin rectangular glasses. Eloise D’Arcy—contract specialist with McLaren’s legal division. Oscar had roped her in after Logan told him just how bad the Cullahams paperwork was.

“Gentlemen,” she said coolly. “I’ll be upfront. I’m only still on this call because Oscar personally vouched for you both.”

Oscar raised a hand like he was owning up in class. “My fault.”

Eloise didn’t smile. “Without parental consent, I cannot engage in direct negotiation on Alexander Evans’s behalf. Full stop.”

Logan nodded. He expected this.

“I’m not asking you to,” he said. “I just need someone to confirm that what I’m seeing in this contract is as bad as I think it is. Because they’ve already signed.”

Eloise raised an eyebrow. “Signed?”

Logan nodded again, jaw tight. “Last Monday. Kid had an accident—kart’s busted. Parents couldn’t afford repairs. They didn’t wait for me to check in. Took the offer from Cullahams before I was even awake.”

She swore quietly under her breath. Professional, but genuine.

“I’ve looked over the PDF you sent,” she said, flipping through notes in a leather folder beside her. “It’s a textbook trap. Back-end-loaded financial structure, exit fees buried in sub-clauses, and a marketing exclusivity clause that would essentially make any competing sponsor completely off-limits. If they try to leave within the next eighteen months, they’ll be liable for over forty thousand pounds in damages.”

Oscar let out a low whistle. “They won’t be able to afford that.”

“They’re not supposed to,” Eloise said. “That’s how Cullahams locks them in. You either pay to get out, or you sell every inch of the kid’s future to keep going.”

Logan ran a hand through his hair. “Is there anything we can do?”

Eloise hesitated. That alone was telling—she didn’t strike Logan as the type to waffle.

“Well,” she said slowly, “if you can find a credible party willing to take on Alex’s development contract—and if that party is willing to absorb the cost of the exit fees or legally challenge the ethics of the current contract—there might be a path forward.”

“McLaren?” Logan asked.

Oscar shook his head before Eloise could speak.

“She can’t offer anything unless the parents request it.”

“And they’ve already told me to back off,” Logan muttered.

Eloise gave a tight, sympathetic smile. “Then unless the boy reaches out again—publicly, independently—or unless something goes wrong on Cullahams’ side, I’m afraid we’re in a holding pattern.”

Oscar leaned in, elbows on the desk. “So what you’re saying is… if we want to help, we need to wait for the kid to scream.”

Eloise closed her folder. “Or crash. But yes.”

The screen froze for a second on Logan’s end. When it caught up, Eloise had already signed off, her square replaced by the bland black void of a corporate Zoom logout.

Oscar stared at him for a moment.

“Do you think he will?” he asked.

Logan didn’t answer right away.

He just looked out the window, sunlight turning the edge of his countertop gold.

“I think,” he said slowly, “he already did.”

Oscar didn’t say anything for a while after. Just leaned back in his chair, the low hum of his apartment filtering through the speakers—distant traffic, maybe a dishwasher running. Logan stared at the screen, feeling the kind of stillness that settled into the body when panic had nowhere left to run.

Then, quietly, Oscar said:

“Well… there’s always kidnapping.”

Logan blinked. “What?”

Oscar tilted his head, expression blank. “We steal the child. Take him to Monaco. Raise him on the principles of free will, healthy dietary habits, and good contract law.”

Logan stared. “Are you serious right now?”

Oscar didn’t blink. “Naturally. We’ll rename him. Put him in sunglasses. Start small—underground karting circuits in rural France. Slowly work our way up. In a year, he’s fluent in French and sponsored by L’Oréal. It’s foolproof.”

There was a beat of silence, then Logan laughed—just once, sharp and exhausted.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “That’s your solution?”

Oscar cracked the smallest smile, eyes glinting. “I said it was a last-ditch option. Not a good one.”

Logan shook his head, running a hand through his hair again. But the knot in his chest loosened just slightly. Something in Oscar’s voice—calm, dry, a little bit smug—felt like a hand pressed gently to his back, not pushing, just steadying.

“You’re insane.”

“Arguably,” Oscar agreed. “But I’m also not wrong. The right people can make this go away. We just… need to be clever about it.”

Logan looked back at the screen.

“You’re saying if we can’t go through the front door…”

“We find the side entrance,” Oscar said.

Logan shouldn’t have done it.

He knew he shouldn’t have done it.

But logic had never really been his strong suit. Not when his chest was tight and his fingers were twitching and Oscar had just made the idea of criminal activity sound kind of like a warm hug.

So he did it anyway.

He opened his laptop—again—and pulled up his inbox. His fingers hovered for a moment, then typed out a short, painfully polite email.

Hello, again.

If you have ten minutes—just ten—I’d appreciate the chance to talk. Not about Alex’s focus or anything like that. Just about what’s been offered, and what might still be possible. I’ve set up a Zoom call for your afternoon, my early morning.

No pressure. But I hope you’ll come.

He attached the link. Reread it three times. Debated adding something about how this wasn’t about taking control, just trying to offer a path they hadn’t seen yet. Then deleted it all because it sounded too much like begging.

He hit send before he could think about it too hard.

Then flopped back on his couch, stared at the ceiling, and sighed like he’d just committed a federal crime.

After a few seconds of lying there in quiet guilt, he mumbled, “If I have to schedule one more Zoom call this month, I swear to god someone better offer me a brand partnership with them.”

He didn’t expect a reply right away. Honestly, he didn’t expect a reply at all.

But the call was set for 2 p.m. London time, 9 a.m. Miami time—early enough that the morning sun would barely be crawling across the floorboards when the little ding of the meeting invite lit up his screen. That is, if they clicked it.

If they showed.

And if they didn’t?

Well.

He’d still be there anyway. Just in case.

Chapter Text

Logan was awake before his alarm.

He didn’t mean to be. He hadn’t planned it. But his eyes blinked open at 7:34 a.m., and that was that. His brain decided sleep was canceled.

He lay there for a minute, arms flopped over his face, trying not to think about what he’d done. About the email. About the link. About the slim, needle-thread chance that Alex’s parents would even bother to show up.

Instead, he got up and started moving before he could talk himself out of it.

First step: shower. Second step: breakfast. Third step: spiral.

He ordered from the little café around the corner while waiting for the water to heat up. Egg sandwich, iced coffee. Something with protein so he wouldn’t pass out during the call. He set the pickup for 8:30. Plenty of time. He even double-checked the delivery instructions, like that might somehow make the universe go easier on him.

Back in the bathroom, he ran the water hotter than normal and leaned his forehead against the wall while steam filled the space. He told himself he wasn’t nervous, just preparing. He wasn’t invested, just… making an effort.

After the shower, he towel-dried his hair and pulled on a polo shirt in a dull, forgettable gray. Something unassuming. Professional enough for Zoom. Not something he’d wear to a meeting if it were serious—but not something that screamed, “I woke up ten minutes ago and only care about race cars.”

Cargo shorts. Because they’d never know. Because dignity didn’t extend below the desk.

He checked his laptop—77% battery. Plugged it in anyway.

It was only 8:13 when everything was ready. The call wasn’t for another forty-seven minutes.

Logan sat down on the edge of his bed, fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, then got back up again.

The apartment was still. Outside, Miami was stretching awake, sun glinting hard off the windows and sidewalks. It would be hot later. That kind of humid, Florida heat that clung like a second skin. But right now it was just light—clean and blinding and kind of unreal.

By 8:27, the knock came. He signed for the breakfast, murmured a “thanks” to the delivery guy, and brought it back inside.

He didn’t really eat it.

Picked at the sandwich. Sipped the coffee. Let his stomach curl inward, acidy and uncertain.

At 8:53, he sat down properly. Adjusted the laptop camera. Smoothed his hair like an idiot.

This is so dumb, he thought, for the hundredth time. They’re not gonna show.

But at 8:58, the waiting room pinged.

And Logan’s heart almost fell out of his chest.

The name in the Zoom waiting room wasn’t even properly filled out.

Just: Evans Family.

Logan stared at it for a full three seconds, like the words might vanish if he moved too fast. Then, trying not to show how his hands were sweating, he clicked Admit.

The screen flickered—and there they were.

Alex’s parents appeared in a small, slightly fuzzy video window. Mrs. Evans was angled too far to the left, half her face out of frame. Mr. Evans looked like he was sitting too close, only his chin and a bit of his polo visible. The camera quality was terrible. Their internet, worse. But they’d shown up.

Logan cleared his throat. “Hi,” he said quickly. “Good afternoon—I mean, uh, for you. Morning here.”

“Hello,” Mr. Evans said, leaning back so his full face came into view. “Sorry, we—we’re not great with all this Zooming. Alex used to set it up.”

Mrs. Evans was fumbling with the angle, muttering to herself. “Honestly, don’t know how he makes it look so easy…”

Logan’s mouth twitched. “No worries. My parents still think Zoom is a brand of toothpaste.”

That earned him a brief smile from Mrs. Evans, and a grunted, amused sound from her husband.

“I just wanted to say,” Logan continued, carefully, “thanks for coming on. I know I kind of sent the link out of nowhere.”

There was a beat of silence. Mr. Evans gave a small nod, folding his arms. “We weren’t going to, at first. But Alex… he asked if we had.”

“And we hadn’t,” Mrs. Evans added, almost guiltily. “He didn’t say much. Just that it might be important.”

Logan swallowed. “It is.”

He exhaled slowly. Tried to sit upright, even though the shirt was clinging a little from nerves and humidity.

“I know you’ve signed with Cullahams,” he said. “And I’m not here to rip that apart. I get it—really, I do. It’s hard to get help in this sport if you’re not backed by money or a big name or a last name that gets you in the door.”

The screen flickered slightly, but he pressed on.

“I just… I want to make sure you understand the kind of team they are. They prey on kids with promise who don’t have a lot of options. Their contracts have fine print that looks generous up front—bonuses, incentives, parts discounts—but it locks drivers in. They’ll make money off of Alex’s success without giving him the path to move up. They’ll tie him down, not build him up.”

Mr. Evans’ mouth had gone tight. Mrs. Evans glanced at her husband, then looked back at Logan. “We’ve… we’ve read it over. We don’t know racing contracts the way you do, but we’re not naive.”

“I’m not saying you are,” Logan said quickly. “I just—look, I’ve seen deals like this. I’ve signed one.”

That got their attention.

Mrs. Evans blinked. “You have?”

“I was fifteen. I had no leverage and no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even read the last four pages—I just wanted to drive.” Logan gave a rueful half-smile. “I spent the next year realizing I’d basically handed my career to people who didn’t give a shit about it.”

The silence this time stretched longer. Logan could almost hear the ticking of the cheap wall clock behind them.

“We weren’t trying to cut you out,” Mr. Evans said after a moment. “But Alex crashed his kart last Sunday. Right sides destroyed, steering’s sticking. He was gutted. The repair bill—well, you know what those cost.”

Logan nodded, throat tight.

“We couldn’t afford it,” Mr. Evans said. “Not after the move. Not after everything else. Cullahams said they’d cover it. Said they’d fix it and let him race next weekend.”

“And we thought,” Mrs. Evans added softly, “what else were we supposed to do?”

Logan didn’t have a clean answer for that. He didn’t blame them. Not for trying. Not for taking the offer.

“I get it,” he said again, quietly. “But I’m still trying to find another option. I’ve got a McLaren guy looking at the paperwork now. There might be a way out. And if there is—if we find one—will you at least let me show it to you before you sign anything else?”

Mr. Evans looked uncertain. Mrs. Evans just looked tired. But after a pause, she gave a small, slow nod.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll listen.”

Just as Mrs. Evans gave her quiet okay, something shifted in the background.

Movement—quick, small. Just over her shoulder. Logan’s eyes flicked toward it automatically.

A blur of motion. A pause.

Then: a head of black hair ducking back into view, sheepish and a little too obvious to be an accident.

Alex.

The kid was crouched like he thought he was being subtle, one eye and half a grin visible around the edge of the doorway. He held still for a beat when he saw Logan was looking—and then, with a little twitch of uncertainty, lifted one hand and gave a wave.

It was quick. Hesitant. Almost guilty.

Logan’s chest squeezed unexpectedly tight.

He didn’t wave back—not exactly. Just dipped his chin in the smallest nod and let his mouth tug upward, barely a smile, just enough that Alex would know he’d been seen. That he wasn’t in trouble.

Mrs. Evans turned slightly, following Logan’s line of sight.

“Alex, I told you not to hover—”

“Wasn’t hovering,” came the teenager’s voice from somewhere just out of view. “Was passing by. For hydration.”

Logan’s quiet laugh escaped before he could help it. “Tell him hi from me,” he said.

Mrs. Evans sighed, but she looked a little less stern now. “He can tell you himself later. Assuming he finishes that essay he’s been putting off all week.”

From the hallway: “I heard that!”

The screen wobbled slightly as Mr. Evans chuckled. Logan smiled fully this time, the warmth of it spreading just enough to keep him grounded.

There was still work to do. Still a long way to go to fix this mess.

But maybe—maybe—it wasn’t completely hopeless.

Logan clicked out of the Zoom meeting and slumped back in his chair with a groan, rubbing both hands down his face. His stupid polo shirt was sticking to his back, and he’d sweated through the waistband of his cargo shorts. Professionalism, he thought dryly. Pure class.

He didn’t even bother checking his breakfast bag—cold hash browns were practically a rite of passage at this point. Instead, he grabbed his phone and tapped Oscar’s name with a thumb that still felt slightly trembly.

Logan: they came.

Logan: the parents actually showed.

Logan: and alex waved at me from the hallway like some kind of gremlin.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly, then disappeared, then came back again. Logan stared at it like it was a medical monitor.

Oscar: define “came”

Oscar: did they yell at you? threaten legal action? throw a mug at the screen?

Logan snorted.

Logan: no yelling. just a very British “we’re skeptical but not unreasonable.”

Logan: also, they’re apparently held together by tea and the vague hope of scholarships.

Logan: but i think… maybe they’re listening.

A pause.

Oscar: …that’s terrifying.

Oscar: incredible. but terrifying.

Oscar: you want to jump on with me and the mclaren rep later? we can prep something in case they do decide to consider other offers.

Logan leaned his head against the back of the chair. Stared at the ceiling. Exhaled slow.

Logan: yeah. i’ll be there.

Logan: and hey.

Logan: thanks.

Oscar’s response came fast.

Oscar: don’t be weird about it.

Oscar: but yeah. same.

Logan smiled faintly, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He didn’t reply. Not yet.

Instead, he leaned forward and finally opened the crumpled bag of cold breakfast, chewing absently as his mind spun ahead. Contracts, next steps, Alex’s kart. Whatever it took.

He’d find a way.

His phone buzzed again as he was halfway through his second soggy hash brown.

Alex Evans: Sorry if I wasn’t supposed to wave

Logan stared at the message.

Then he put the food down and leaned forward, typing slower this time, more careful.

Logan: You were.

Logan: I’m glad you did anyway.

Three dots appeared, vanished, came back. Then:

Alex Evans: Me too

Nothing else. No emojis, no jokes. Just that.

Logan sat back in his chair, eyes burning more than they should’ve been. He didn’t reply. Not yet. Maybe not at all tonight.

But the message stayed there, glowing quietly on the screen. A tether, thin and stubborn, refusing to snap.

Chapter Text

It was too early for this.

Logan rubbed at his eyes and tried to remember if he’d already had coffee or just hallucinated it. Across the screen, Oscar looked irritatingly fresh for someone on a Zoom call before 8 a.m. Miami time.

The third person in the call, Eloise—McLaren’s legal liaison—spoke with clipped efficiency and a voice that suggested she had absolutely no time for anyone’s nonsense, especially not Logan’s sleep-deprived confusion.

“—but without the parents’ formal withdrawal, we still can’t void the Cullahams contract,” she was saying. “Best case scenario, we get a statement of intent. Worst case, litigation.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, sipping what was definitely coffee. “So medium case—we all grow old together and start a podcast about junior formula drama.”

Eloise didn’t look up. “Exactly.”

Logan sighed. “Okay, so if we even get them to consider another offer, we’re still stuck unless they pull Alex out officially?”

Eloise nodded, typing something that sounded aggressive. “They have full legal guardianship. Any contract he signs is signed by them, not him.”

“Right.” Logan leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Great. Guess I’ll just go find a fairy godmother with an F4 seat to spare and the patience of a saint.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Actually… maybe not that stupid.”

Logan blinked. “Please don’t tell me you know a fairy godmother.”

Oscar held up a finger. “No wings involved. But I know someone who might be our version of a motorsport guardian angel.”

“Okay,” Logan said cautiously. “Hit me.”

Oscar tapped something on his screen and pulled up a name on the shared doc: Arlo Jennings.

“Used to run in F4 and F3 circles. Managed a team that fed into MP Motorsport,” he explained. “Now runs his own small development program in France. Has a reputation for being a bit of a hardass, but he’s known for protecting his drivers. Like, actually protecting them—not just saying he does in sponsor videos.”

Eloise looked vaguely impressed. “I’ve heard of Jennings. If you want, I can reach out through one of our European reps and get a preliminary read.”

“No,” Logan said quickly. “Let me talk to him first. It should come from someone who actually knows Alex.”

Oscar arched an eyebrow. “Look at you. ‘Knows Alex.’ You’ve got the mentorship bug bad.”

Logan shot him a look. “Shut up.”

That night, Logan sat on his tiny balcony, the Miami humidity clinging to his skin like static, a beer warming in his hand and his phone glowing with a single new message.

Alex: how long does it take to get out of a bad contract?

He stared at it for a moment, the words soft and sharp at once. He could see the kid’s face in his head—frowning, probably frustrated, pretending not to care as much as he clearly did.

Logan: depends. how stubborn are your parents?

Alex: Well, mums really stubborn

Logan almost smiled.

Logan: figures.

A pause.

Alex: thanks for trying anyway.

Something about that didn’t sit right. Logan felt it land in his chest with a dull thud, like someone had dropped a lead paperweight onto his sternum.

Logan: i’m not trying.

Logan: i’m doing.

Logan: don’t count me out yet, alex.

He watched the little “read” icon appear. Then disappear. Then reappear. No reply followed, but Logan could feel the thread still holding, just barely.

Two days later, Oscar texted him again.

Oscar: you free for another Zoom? Jennings replied.

Logan almost dropped his fork. He abandoned his half-eaten bowl of cereal and shoved his laptop open, joining the call just as Oscar and Eloise came online.

“Arlo’s interested,” Oscar said without preamble. “Wants to see race footage, telemetry if you have it, and a general performance profile.”

“I’ve got all of that,” Logan said. “I even made a stupid highlight reel from his last regional. It’s rough but—”

“That’s perfect,” Eloise cut in. “The more data we give him, the easier it’ll be to convince his board it’s worth the investment.”

Logan paused. “Wait—he has a board?”

Oscar nodded. “Tiny one, yeah. Mostly investors, a couple of advisors. It’s not just a garage-and-go setup.”

Logan suddenly felt self-conscious about the shaky GoPro footage he’d edited together in iMovie.

That afternoon, he spent three hours tightening up the edit. He added lap time overlays, cleaned up the shaky footage, and threw in a voiceover explaining Alex’s kart damage from the previous week. By the time he finished, he wasn’t even hungry—just wired, sweating, and more nervous than he wanted to admit.

He sent it off, then immediately texted Oscar.

Logan:  I haven’t  felt this stressed since quali in Monaco.

Oscar: And this time no one’s yelling in your ear.

Oscar: Expect me. i’m yelling in your ear. but gently.

Three days passed.

Jennings finally replied with a terse but encouraging message: “He’s got something. Reminds me of one of my old drivers. Let’s talk options.”

Logan barely breathed for a full ten seconds. Then he sat back and laughed—actually laughed, a real laugh, loud enough to make the neighbor’s cat flee from his windowsill.

Later that night, another message came through. Alex again.

Alex Evans: still not counting you out.

Just that. Logan didn’t reply right away. He didn’t have to.

Alex’s pov

The shouting wasn’t loud—not really. Not angry either. But it carried.

Alex pressed his pillow tighter over his head, wishing it would muffle more than it did. He could still hear his mum’s voice, sharp at the edges, like she was trying to whisper but couldn’t help the way her tone rose when the numbers didn’t add up.

His dad answered softly, always softer. Apologetic even when it wasn’t his fault. None of it was their fault. Alex knew that. But it didn’t stop the weight in his stomach every time it happened.

He glanced at his broken headphones lying uselessly on his desk, the left ear duct-taped and the jack permanently bent. He’d meant to ask for new ones last month—but then the kart got damaged. And the radiator cracked. And the tires needed replacing. And suddenly, even thinking about asking felt selfish.

So he didn’t. He just tried to sleep faster.

The floorboards creaked down the hall. One of them was pacing. Maybe his mum. She always paced when she was worried. Her work hours had been cut back again, and his dad’s second job was so far away now that petrol was becoming another line on the spreadsheet of problems.

Alex closed his eyes.

None of it was their fault.

But it still felt like his.

The kart had spun because of an oil patch—someone else’s mess, not his. But the damage was still real. His parents were still the ones who had to take the call from Cullahams when they offered to “help,” their voices careful and sales-pitch smooth. Sponsorship money, a new chassis, guaranteed race entries through the end of the year.

It sounded too good to be true.

It was.

Alex knew that the second Logan called the deal a trap. The way his voice went flat and tight around the edges, like he was trying not to yell, trying not to make Alex feel worse than he already did.

But what were they supposed to do?

There weren’t any other options. Not in time. Not with the kart in pieces, not with the season already underway, not with bills on the kitchen table and his mum pacing holes in the carpet.

So they signed.

And now—

Now, Logan barely messaged. Not that Alex blamed him. He probably had better things to do than deal with a kid who couldn’t even hold onto a set of headphones.

Still, he missed him.

Logan had this way of making things feel bigger and smaller at the same time. Like, yeah, the problem was huge—but also, it wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe Alex could actually handle it, even when everything felt too sharp and too fast.

He’d almost told him once. Not about the shouting, or the headphones, or how sometimes he didn’t eat breakfast so his little sister could have an extra piece of toast. Just… that he felt like he was holding everything together with duct tape and borrowed hope.

But Logan didn’t need to hear that.

He was trying so hard already.

Alex sat up and looked out his window. It was still light out—barely. The sun streaked the sky in dull gold, and the trees cast long shadows over the cul-de-sac. He could hear the neighbors’ TV through the open window: a football match, probably. Or a cooking show. Something normal.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He grabbed it too fast.

Logan Sargeant: Got some news.

Logan Sargeant:  Zoom tomorrow if you’re free.

His chest did something strange—light and tight all at once.

He didn’t ask what the news was. He didn’t want to ruin it by knowing too soon.

Alex: Yeah I’m free.

He didn’t say that he was always free. That Cullahams was already starting to flake on their promises. That the new kart wasn’t as new as they’d said, and that one of the guys on the team kept calling him “kid” like it was a curse.

Instead, he plugged in the busted headphones and hoped maybe—just maybe—he’d get to hear something that made the shouting go away for a little while.

The shouting had stopped, or maybe it had just moved into silence—the kind that felt worse than the noise.

Alex waited another five minutes before slipping out of bed. His door creaked like it always did, and he winced, freezing in the frame. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Just the distant hum of the fridge and the slow tick of the living room clock.

He padded down the hall in socks, careful not to step on the part of the floorboard near the corner that always groaned like an old man.

Madeline’s door was slightly open, a sliver of soft yellow light spilling out across the carpet.

He knocked gently before pushing it open.

She was still awake, curled up in a nest of blankets with a battered stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. Her room smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and whatever glittery perfume she’d smuggled from their mum’s dresser.

“You’re not asleep,” Alex whispered, stepping inside.

Madeline didn’t look surprised. “Neither are you.”

He smiled, dropping to sit at the edge of her bed. “Couldn’t. Your walls are made of paper.”

She huffed, dramatic, and poked his arm. “You always say that like it’s my fault.”

“It kind of is. You keep stealing all the insulation for your blanket forts.”

She grinned—same crooked grin as their dad—and tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders. The resemblance was stupid. Same light brown hair, same warm hazel eyes. If he hadn’t watched her be born with his own two eyes (traumatizing), he’d swear she’d been cloned straight from their father.

“You okay?” he asked after a moment.

Madeline shrugged. “I don’t like when they argue.”

“They’re not really arguing.”

“They are.” Her voice was quieter now. “They don’t yell like the kids at school think arguing sounds like. But it’s worse sometimes. Like they’re trying really hard not to cry.”

Alex didn’t have a good answer for that. Just reached over and ruffled her hair, letting her bat his hand away like she always did.

“I don’t like the new kart,” she added, out of nowhere.

He blinked. “You’ve seen it?”

“I saw it when Mum and I picked you up from practice. The back looked crooked. Like a turtle shell, but bad.”

Alex snorted despite himself. “An insult to turtles everywhere.”

Madeline gave him a serious look. “I don’t trust that team. They smell like vending machine cheese crisps.”

He pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle the laugh that wanted to escape. “You know that’s not a valid business assessment, right?”

She leaned forward, whispering like it was classified intel. “Mum said the one guy kept calling you ‘kid’ in a weird voice. I hated it.”

“Me too,” he admitted, softer now.

They sat in the quiet together, the weight of everything a little easier to carry when she was beside him. She might’ve only been ten, but she got it—maybe not all of it, but enough.

“I’ve got a Zoom tomorrow,” he said finally. “With Logan.”

“Good.” She yawned, burrowing deeper into her nest. “Tell him I said hi. And that he should come visit. And that you’re being a grump.”

Alex smiled, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Will do.”

He waited until her breathing evened out before slipping back into the hall, closing the door gently behind him.

Chapter Text

The Zoom ringtone was starting to haunt him.

He stared at the spinning blue circle on his screen, the connection lagging for just a moment before resolving into the slightly grainy image of Alex, sitting at a desk with a too-small hoodie pulled halfway over his head. There was a lamp behind him, casting a dull yellow light across one side of his face.

“Hey,” Logan said, voice softer than he meant it to be.

“Hi,” Alex replied, and for a second—just a second—his face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside him. Then it dimmed again, flickering into something more cautious.

Logan noticed the way the kid didn’t ask why they hadn’t talked in a while. He probably already knew. Or maybe he was too polite to bring it up. That was worse.

“Sorry I’ve been…busy,” Logan said, scratching at the side of his jaw. “Didn’t want to distract you too much.”

Alex tilted his head. “It’s okay.” He said it like he meant it, but not like he believed it. “You’ve been trying to help.”

Logan nodded. He had a dozen browser tabs open behind the Zoom window: one with a breakdown of the Cullahams Racing fine structure, another with a detailed McLaren draft proposal, two more for foundation applications and financial aid programs, and a cursed little spreadsheet labeled alex_plan_dont_panic.xlsx.

He had, in fact, panicked while making it.

“I’m planning to call your parents later this week,” Logan said carefully. “I want to talk through some things with them. There’s a couple potential options we’re working on. If we can get funding—just the right support, I think we can get you out of this contract.”

He didn’t mention the $40,000 fine. The one that was still looming like a storm cloud, hiding in every third line of the legal document. He prayed—actually prayed—that Alex’s parents hadn’t mentioned it.

Alex blinked slowly. “You think someone might actually sponsor me?”

“I think someone might. And if they won’t,” Logan hesitated, “we’ll figure something else out.”

There was a silence. Not an uncomfortable one—just the kind that stretched when both people were thinking the same thing.

“You don’t have to keep doing all this,” Alex said, voice barely audible. “It’s not your responsibility.”

“You’re right,” Logan said. “I don’t have to. But I want to.”

Alex blinked a few times too fast, like maybe his eyes were stinging, and then he ducked his head, his hoodie pulling forward with the movement. “Okay,” he said. Then, a little lighter, “I’ve got a race next weekend.”

“Yeah?” Logan leaned forward slightly.

“If you wanted to come, I mean. You don’t have to, obviously. But—just so you know. It’s going to be colder than usual. Weather’s been weird.”

Logan smiled at that. “Thanks for the meteorology update.”

“You’re welcome,” Alex said, deadpan, then added: “Bring gloves if you come. Like, the thick ones. I can already feel my fingers threatening mutiny.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They lapsed into quiet again. This one a little warmer. A little easier.

“I should let you go,” Logan said, after a moment. “Just wanted to check in. Say hi. Let you know I’m still in your corner.”

“I know,” Alex said, and the words landed in Logan’s chest like a warm weight.

“Goodnight, kid.”

“Night, Logan.”

Logan clicked the red button, the screen blinking back to his cluttered desktop. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. The spreadsheet was still open. The fine still existed. The sponsorships were still uncertain.

Logan stared at his phone for a full minute before he tapped Oscar’s name.

It was 3:02 p.m. in Miami. Which meant it was 9:02 p.m. in Monaco. Monaco, with its stupid glowing coastline and calm, perfect sidewalks. With its alarmingly expensive produce and its silence after sundown.

Oscar’s voice picked up after two rings. “Hey.”

There was the unmistakable sound of teeth being brushed in the background.

Logan snorted. “Did I catch you in the middle of your nighttime toddler routine?”

Oscar made a small phfft sound, then the brushing stopped. “You’re lucky I like you,” he said, mouth clearly still full of toothpaste. “Otherwise I’d hang up.”

“That implies you do like me.”

A pause. Then, blandly: “It’s a loose definition.”

Logan rolled his eyes and leaned back against his couch cushions, dragging a hand through his hair. “You got a minute?”

“Technically,” Oscar said. “I have thirty-eight until I’m in bed. Forty-five if I’m reckless. What’s going on?”

Logan let the humor fade just enough to show the edge underneath. “I talked to the kid.”

Oscar’s tone shifted instantly. “How’d it go?”

“He doesn’t know about the fine,” Logan said quietly. “I’m trying to keep it that way. I just—I need to talk to the parents again. I’ve got a Zoom set up for later this week. And I need to make it count.”

He paused. “You still think we’ve got a shot?”

There was the soft sound of running water, a towel being grabbed. Then Oscar’s voice again, steadier now, more focused. “The McLaren rep’s working through the contract line by line. They’ve already flagged five clauses that would never hold up in court. We can’t undo what they’ve signed, but if we can get a competing offer with backing, and maybe some media interest…”

“Media?” Logan’s brows lifted.

“I’m not saying go public. Yet,” Oscar said. “But if we keep a record of the shady stuff, and if the right people start asking questions, it might light a fire.”

“Right,” Logan murmured. Then, “Thanks for still helping. I know it’s messy.”

“It’s always messy,” Oscar said. “But you give a shit. That counts for something.”

There was a silence, the kind that stretched and shifted like it might turn into something else if either of them dared to let it.

Then Oscar, dry as ever, added: “Also, if I’m helping a child, maybe the FIA will finally stop calling me emotionally repressed.”

Logan snorted. “That’s never going to happen.”

“You’re right. They’d still say I flinch when people hug me.”

Logan grinned, even as his chest stayed tight. “Still. Thanks, man.”

A pause. Then Oscar’s voice, a little more careful: “You okay?”

Logan hesitated. “I’m trying.”

That seemed to satisfy him. “Let me know how the Zoom goes. I’ll be around.”

“Yeah,” Logan said. “I will.”

He didn’t hang up for another three seconds after Oscar did.

Just sat there, phone still in his hand, heart beating a little too loudly in a quiet room.

Logan had triple-checked the time zones.

Monaco: 3 p.m.

London: 2 p.m.

Miami: 9 a.m.—and he was still thirty minutes early, sitting in front of his laptop with a half-drunk smoothie, his leg bouncing under the table like it had a mind of its own.

Oscar had promised he’d be there, and Eloise—stoic and unnervingly polished as ever—had already sent a pre-meeting agenda via email, because of course she had. Arlo Jennings, the wildcard in all this, was a maybe. His representative had confirmed attendance. No one knew what Arlo himself was doing, which Logan found deeply relatable.

He clicked the Zoom link, the familiar blue spinning circle loading until the waiting room popped up.

Oscar Piastri has joined the meeting.

“Hey,” Oscar said, voice warm, camera slightly tilted like he’d propped his phone on a stack of books. His background was the McLaren hospitality room—clean, modern, sterile if not for the obvious coffee mug that read: I Survived Another McLaren Media Day.

“Did you sleep?” Logan asked, adjusting his camera, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.

“Define sleep,” Oscar replied. “If you mean the standard four hours while being haunted by Cullahams Racing’s existence—yes.”

Logan barked a laugh, only half amused.

Eloise Lancaster has joined the meeting.

The McLaren rep’s square loaded, her hair pulled back, wearing a blazer sharp enough to commit crimes with.

“Good morning,” she said crisply. “Or afternoon. Or—whatever we’re calling this.”

Logan nodded. “Thanks again for being here.”

Before Eloise could reply, the screen pinged again.

Mr. and Mrs. Evans have joined the meeting.

Their camera loaded upside-down at first.

“Sh—hang on, love, it’s flipped again—”

“I told you not to touch it—just give it here—”

Logan watched, trying not to smile. Oscar did not try. He full-on grinned, leaning slightly off screen to stifle his laugh.

Eventually, the frame righted itself. Alex’s parents were seated together, still a little pixelated. His dad wore a sweatshirt with paint speckles. His mum’s hair was pulled back in a bun, baby spit-up on the shoulder of her jumper.

“Sorry,” Mr. Evans said. “We’re not great with this sort of thing.”

Logan shook his head. “No worries.”

Oscar waved politely. Eloise just nodded, lips tight.

Then came the next ping.

Arlo Jennings has joined the meeting.

Natalie Easton (Jennings Rep) has joined the meeting.

Arlo’s camera came on, centered and crisp. He was in some hotel room, probably mid-track event, his curls damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He looked younger on camera than in the media photos—barefoot, hoodie half-zipped.

“Hi,” Arlo said, blinking. “I brought Natalie. She said I wasn’t allowed to say yes to anything alone.”

“You’re learning,” Eloise muttered.

Natalie appeared beside him, all business in navy. “We appreciate the invitation.”

Logan gave a small breath through his nose. “Thanks for making the time. I know this is a bit… weird.”

“No,” Natalie said. “It’s resourceful.”

The meeting settled. A few awkward silences, some throat clearing, and then Eloise took the reins, giving a quick rundown on what they’d reviewed. Logan tuned in and out—he already knew the bones. The Cullahams contract was bad. Predatory, almost certainly unenforceable in some clauses, but it was binding enough to scare most sponsors off.

Then came the part Logan hated.

“The exit penalty sits at forty thousand pounds,” Eloise said gently. “Due immediately upon breach.”

He saw Mrs. Evans flinch.

Logan spoke quickly, “We’re not asking you to pay that. I’ve been working on finding alternative backing. That’s part of what this meeting is for.”

Oscar nodded. “We don’t want to put you in a worse position. We want Alex in a good kart, with good people behind him, where he’s not being… leveraged.”

Arlo coughed, drawing attention. “Can I just say—this isn’t normal. I mean, I had some shady offers when I was coming up, but Cullahams is another level. They’ve got this reputation, right? Overpromising, underdelivering, and locking kids into these loophole-loaded deals.”

Natalie gave him a quick look, but didn’t contradict him.

“Exactly,” Logan said. “That’s why I reached out. Because if we can break this—”

“—we’re still back to funding,” Mr. Evans said, voice heavy. “I get it. We want better too. But this contract was the only option on the table.”

There was a pause. No one wanted to say what they were all thinking: and it still might be.

But Logan couldn’t let it end there.

He leaned in, elbows on the desk.

“I’m not done,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what it’ll take yet. But I’m not walking away.”

Mrs. Evans exhaled. “You care a lot about our boy.”

“I do,” Logan said. “He reminds me of me. But better.”

A moment passed. And then—just behind the Evans—something shifted.

A blur of black hair ducked into frame, pausing as if caught.

Alex.

His hand rose in a small wave before his mum turned, startled.

“Alex—go back to your room, darling—”

Logan smiled. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

The screen settled again, and Logan could hear Oscar typing beside him, probably shooting off emails already. Arlo looked thoughtful. Natalie was scribbling something.

“We’ll be in touch,” she said at last. “Soon.”

The meeting ended. One by one, the squares disappeared.

Logan sat back, eyes dry, brain spinning. He reached for his smoothie, took a sip, and then realized he had no idea what flavor it even was.

Logan sighed like he was eighty, the kind of exhale that felt like it came from somewhere between his ribs and his soul. The apartment was too quiet now, the hum of the air conditioner not quite enough to fill the space where that Zoom call had lived only ten minutes ago.

He pushed himself up with a grunt, joints popping, and wandered toward his dresser.

He really needed to clean this thing out.

A tangle of socks and boxers threatened to spill the moment he yanked the top drawer open. He knew the swim trunks weren’t in there—he knew—but he checked anyway. Bad habit. A lifetime of not organizing his clothes meant every drawer was a roulette spin.

T-shirts? No.

Old racing merch he never wore? No.

A completely empty sunglasses case? Why?

A single sock that may or may not have belonged to Oscar once upon a time? Also no.

Finally, the middle drawer. Buried beneath a pair of track pants he hadn’t worn since Bahrain: navy blue trunks. Black drawstrings. Silver eyelets around them, the kind that always made him think of something nautical, like he was going to cannonball off a yacht instead of slouch into the Atlantic like some emotionally complex sea creature.

They were his only pair now. All the others had mysteriously vanished. Probably in the same void that swallowed Tupperware lids and phone chargers.

He grabbed a towel, shoved it under one arm, then swapped his Zoom shirt for a looser tank top. Sandals next. The cracked ones that always gave him blisters between his toes. He didn’t care.

He hesitated at the door.

Keys: check.

Wallet: check.

Phone—

He stared at it on the kitchen counter.

For a moment, he thought about leaving it behind. About driving to the beach with nothing but himself and the ocean and maybe the faint hope of peace. But eventually, with a reluctant sigh, he snatched it anyway. Just in case. If Oscar called. If Eloise sent an update. If Alex texted.

If.

He was halfway down the hall before the air hit him—humid, salty, clinging already to his skin. The kind of heat that made everything feel sticky, like you were living inside a glass of lukewarm lemonade.

By the time he got to the car, he was already sweating.

The drive was fast, the way Logan always drove when his head was too full. Windows down, elbow out. No music. Just the noise of the road, the whoosh of cars, the occasional scream of someone else’s radio at a red light.

He thought about the call. About Mrs. Evans’ face, tight with worry. About Alex’s wave from behind her, sheepish and soft. He thought about Arlo Jennings, surprisingly mature for a kid who probably still had braces a year ago. He thought about the forty-thousand-dollar fine and the way Eloise had said it like it might break something.

Maybe it would.

The parking lot by the beach was half full, but the crowd looked sparse. Some tourists, a couple of families, a guy in a tank top trying to sell coconuts from a cooler.

Logan parked under a leaning palm tree and pulled his shirt off, wadded it into the backseat. He left his towel slung over one shoulder, slipping his sandals off before he even hit the sand.

The ocean was there, steady and blue, not asking anything of him.

He stood for a minute just letting the wind hit him.

Then, without ceremony, he jogged toward the water, body moving before his brain could second-guess him. The first crash of waves around his ankles was bracing, cold in that sharp Floridian way that didn’t last.

By the time he dove in, everything else—the call, the money, the tension in his chest—went quiet.

Just water. Just breath. Just this.

Logan lay back in the sand, still damp, towel tucked under his head like a half-hearted pillow. The sun was starting to dip, softening everything around him in gold and peach, the sky starting to turn that faint, cotton-candy kind of purple that only happened near the ocean.

His hair was drying in salt-stiff curls. His chest rose and fell slowly.

For once, his mind wasn’t running. Just quiet.

He could almost fall asleep here. Maybe he would. Maybe he’d let the tide roll in and cover him up like a secret.

Then his phone buzzed against the towel.

He groaned. Loudly. Like an ancient, cursed cryptid disturbed from its cave.

He didn’t even look right away. He just stared up at the sky and counted to five, like that would somehow change the notification.

It didn’t.

Eventually, he rolled onto his side, sand sticking to his arm, and grabbed the phone.

Oscar Piastri:

u alive?

i assume yes but. logistics.

also eloise wants to know if u saw her email

Logan snorted. Of course. Oscar had this uncanny ability to ping him at exactly the moment Logan remembered he existed.

Logan (typing back):

Barely

Also tell Eloise I’m at the beach and I’ll read her email when the sand in my ears is dry

Oscar was already typing.

Oscar:

i will not

but she’ll love that

should i tell her you’re swimming around like a lonely seal again

Logan:

that’s offensive

seals are social

and I’m clearly a manatee

Oscar didn’t respond immediately.

Logan let his eyes drift back up toward the darkening sky. A few clouds, light like brush strokes. The water lapped softly in the distance.

Then his phone buzzed again.

Oscar:

fine.

sea cow.

don’t disappear too long, okay?

Logan stared at that for a long second.

Then he smiled.

The kind that didn’t stretch far. Just sat there, quietly, like it belonged.

He tucked the phone under his towel and let the waves keep talking.

The drive home was quiet. He left the windows half-down, letting the salt air dry his skin, hair still damp and stiff from the ocean. There was sand on the back of his thighs, clinging to his calves like the beach was trying to hitch a ride.

He stopped at a little Cuban place tucked between a mechanic’s shop and a barber that never seemed to be open. Ordered lechón with rice and black beans, plantains, a cold soda. Ate half the maduros in the car before he even pulled out of the parking lot.

By the time he got home, the sky was darkening properly, the kind of dusky blue that signaled the real end of day.

His apartment was quiet, cool from the AC. He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door, kicked his sandals off somewhere near the couch, and carried the brown paper bag to the kitchen. Unpacked everything carefully—because if he didn’t do it deliberately, he wouldn’t do it at all. Plate, fork, napkin. He even opened the soda and poured it into a glass, like that would trick his brain into believing this was a moment of leisure.

It wasn’t.

He sat down at the table, sighed through his nose, and stared at the closed laptop like it had personally wronged him.

He didn’t want to open it.

He wanted to eat. Watch a stupid show. Maybe something with explosions and terrible dialogue. Maybe one of those dating shows Oscar always pretended he wasn’t watching when Logan walked in on him during race weekends.

But the laptop sat there. Silent. Smug.

He groaned, dragged it toward him, and flipped it open. Sand still fell from somewhere—maybe his elbow, maybe his soul.

There were three new emails.

He ignored the two spammy-looking ones and clicked on the one from Eloise D’Arcy – McLaren F1 Team.

Subject: Follow-Up: Sponsorship Inquiry for Alexander Evans

Hi Logan,

Just looping back in after our call this morning. I’ve attached a preliminary draft of the possible offer sheet from Arlo’s team. Please note that it still requires review by legal on our end—and of course, we can’t move forward without parental consent.

That said, I’ve pulled together some talking points that might be helpful for your next conversation with the family. I know they’ve been hesitant to engage, but with the contract Alex is currently under, I believe we have a very tight timeline if we want to intervene before it’s finalized in full.

Let me know once you’ve had time to review everything. I’ll be online until 10 p.m. Monaco time if you want to set up a call.

Best,

Eloise

He closed the email without clicking the attachments. Leaned back in his chair. Pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until fireworks danced across his eyelids.

He wasn’t mad at Eloise. She was doing her job.

He was just so damn tired of everything feeling like a ticking clock.

He hadn’t even told Alex about the $40,000 clause. Couldn’t bring himself to. The kid wasn’t even fifteen. He didn’t need that weight. Not yet.

Logan reached for his fork, stabbing a piece of pork absently, like it had personally offended him.

It tasted amazing. But he barely noticed.

His laptop chimed again.

Another email.

He ignored it this time. Just chewed, slow and quiet, the glow of the screen lighting his face in the growing dark.

Chapter Text

The laptop was already open, Eloise’s email glowing on the screen like a polite, professional bomb.

Subject: Follow-Up: Sponsorship Inquiry for Alexander Evans

Logan didn’t need to reread it. He’d already gone through it twice, then again with a slice of pork halfway to his mouth, then again when he’d put the leftovers away like an adult. But still—he didn’t move to reply.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his face with both hands before dragging them through his hair. His fingers curled briefly in the strands, pulling just enough to ground himself.

The preliminary offer from Arlo’s team was good. Really good, actually. The kind of thing that could change the whole trajectory of Alex’s career. Assuming, of course, that anything could be done about the disaster Cullahams had lured him into.

And assuming, even more optimistically, that Linda and Paul Evans didn’t ghost him again.

They’d surprised him last time.

He’d expected the door to slam shut for good after they asked—very politely, and then very firmly—that he stop reaching out to Alex. And okay, technically, Logan had respected that. For exactly two and a half days.

Then Alex had texted.

He still didn’t know if the kid had done it out of stubbornness, or if he’d even known about the message his parents had sent. Logan hadn’t brought it up. He didn’t have the heart to. He just… replied.

Now, here he was. Somehow still in it. Somehow still the guy pushing this boulder up the hill.

He dragged the cursor to Reply and stared at the blinking insertion point for longer than he’d like to admit. Finally, he typed.

Subject: Re: Follow-Up: Sponsorship Inquiry for Alexander Evans

From: Logan Sargeant

To: [email protected]

Hi Eloise,

Thanks for the follow-up—and for pulling everything together so quickly. I’ve looked over the draft and the talking points. It’s all incredibly helpful, especially with how tight the window seems to be.

I’m planning to reach back out to Linda and Paul this week. They’ve shown some willingness to stay in the conversation, which is more than I honestly expected after they asked me to stop contacting Alex. (Too bad he reached out anyway—kid’s got timing.)

I’ll do what I can to get their consent locked down or, at the very least, get them on another call with you or Arlo’s rep. If it helps, I’ll take whatever role you need—just say the word.

Let’s keep aiming for something by week’s end. I’ll circle back after I speak with them again.

Best,

Logan

He reread it once. Didn’t delete anything. Didn’t over-explain.

Just hit send.

Then sat back again, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the buzzing knot in his chest to quiet down.

It didn’t.

But at least he was doing something.

Logan was lounging sideways on his couch, hair still damp from a shower, a glass of water sweating onto a coaster beside his laptop. He didn’t bother to hide his yawn as Alex popped into view on-screen.

“You look like you just fought a bear,” Alex commented dryly.

“I fought something worse,” Logan groaned. “My inbox.”

Alex grinned. “Anything important?”

Logan hesitated, then gave a half-shrug. “Bit of back and forth. Trying to get some paperwork sorted. Just wanted to check in with you before I go back to pretending I’m organized.”

Alex squinted. “You don’t look that disorganized.”

“That’s because the laptop is blocking the rest of the war zone,” Logan replied, gesturing vaguely behind him. “Anyway—you still racing next week?”

“Yeah,” Alex nodded, tucking his legs up under him. “Weather’s supposed to be gross though. Cold and wet. You sure you still want to come?”

Logan leaned into the camera, deadpan. “Alex, I live in Florida. I think the only thing I fear more than humidity is watching you race and not being there when you spin out dramatically.”

Alex snorted. “Rude. But okay, fair.”

There was a pause. Comfortable, at first. Then a shift—Alex’s expression flickered. A shadow crossing his face, like he’d heard something. He glanced over his shoulder.

Logan frowned. “You okay?”

“Yeah—yeah, just—hang on,” Alex said, reaching to mute himself—but missed.

Alex’s pov

Alex hadn’t meant to listen.

He’d meant to mute himself—he really had—but his thumb slipped, or maybe he just didn’t press hard enough, and now Logan was looking at him through the screen like he could sense something had shifted.

Because something had shifted.

“…forty thousand pounds by the end of the quarter—”

Alex heard it again. His mum’s voice, tight and low. Frayed with exhaustion.

“I thought we had a lawyer.”

“We didn’t. That guy was just a glorified salesman.”

The voices faded as they walked down the hall, but it was too late. The number clung to the air like smoke.

Alex stared straight ahead. Blinked once. Twice.

“Alex,” Logan said carefully. “You alright?”

“That—” Alex swallowed, mouth dry. “That can’t be right. Forty thousand? That’s more than uni. That’s more than some people make in a year. That—” His voice cracked, and he stopped.

Logan’s face softened. “Hey—”

Alex cut him off, his voice low. “You weren’t gonna tell me, were you?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Logan said quickly. “You’ve already got enough on your plate—”

“But I should know!” Alex’s voice rose for the first time, brittle and sharp. “I’m the one who signed the contract. I’m the one who got us into this.”

“No, you didn’t,” Logan said firmly. “You’re a kid, Alex. You shouldn’t have to—”

“I didn’t think it was that much,” Alex said, voice dropping again, like the weight of it was suddenly too heavy to yell about. “I didn’t think I was—” He shook his head. “I didn’t think I was that much of a burden.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I didn’t want you to pay for this. Or them. Or anyone. I just wanted to drive.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick and full of grief.

Logan exhaled slowly, like he wanted to reach through the screen. “It’s not a mistake. But it’s not your fault either. And you’re not a burden.”

Alex didn’t answer. He just nodded, too fast, and wiped at his face like maybe he could scrub the heat out of his eyes before Logan noticed.

“I’ll be at your race,” Logan said softly. “We’ll talk more then.”

Alex didn’t say anything for a long second. Then a rough, “Okay.”

Alex stayed in the chair long after the call ended.

The screen had gone dark—Logan’s face replaced by his own ghosted reflection—but he hadn’t moved. Not even to close the lid. The laptop’s hum was the only thing left in the room, quiet and steady, like it hadn’t just delivered something world-ending.

He drew his knees up to his chest and folded his arms over them, tucking his face down like he could disappear into himself.

The tears weren’t loud. Not the kind that choked or shook. But they kept coming, blurring his vision even with his eyes squeezed shut, his breath catching in his throat in little hitches he couldn’t control.

He felt—

He didn’t know how he felt.

Weird, maybe.

Wrong.

Like his skin didn’t quite fit.

Like his lungs weren’t working the way they were supposed to—too shallow, too sharp, too full, all at once.

His mouth tasted like static.

He tried to focus on something, anything—his socks, the chipped edge of his desk, the sound of a car outside—but everything slipped sideways, unreachable. His brain felt like a radio that wouldn’t tune in right. Just buzzing.

$40,000.

His parents hadn’t said it like it was a mistake. They’d said it like it was real. Like it was looming over them, something they had to brace for.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Twenty thousand would’ve been bad. Ten would’ve been worse. But forty? He didn’t even know what number came after that in a way that made sense for a teenager. He hadn’t even made four hundred on his last race weekend. And that had been with a podium.

Why hadn’t they told him?

Why hadn’t Logan?

He’d trusted Logan. Still did, maybe. But something about hearing it this way—half a hallway away, like it was a secret—made the bottom fall out of his stomach.

He didn’t want to cry more.

He didn’t want to cry at all.

But he was. Quiet and curled in on himself and shaking slightly like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that everything was supposed to stay contained.

He didn’t even hear Madeline’s knock at first.

Just the soft tap tap on the door, then her voice, small and careful:

“Alex?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could.

Another pause.

Then: “I brought the biscuits you like.”

There was a rustle. She must’ve left them on the floor.

Then retreating footsteps, the squeak of the hallway floorboards.

He stayed curled up for a long while after that. Long enough that the laptop went to sleep. Long enough that his breathing evened out but still felt shallow. Long enough that the sunlight creeping through the blinds shifted across the room and made him blink.

Eventually, he sat up. His back ached from being hunched over. His eyes were hot.

The biscuits were still outside his door.

He didn’t eat the biscuits.

He just held them in his hands, the foil packet slightly crumpled where he’d squeezed it too tight without realizing. The sugar stars on the front looked stupid. Juvenile. Like something for a kid, not someone whose existence came with a forty-thousand-dollar price tag.

He sat down on his bed and stared at the wall across from him, trying to focus on the crack in the paint near the ceiling. His mum had promised they’d repaint the room when they moved in, but they never got around to it. Same as the bookshelves that still leaned a little too far forward, the window that always stuck on cold mornings.

He used to think those things were just temporary. Now he wasn’t sure anything was.

He pulled his knees back up, resting the biscuit packet on top of them.

He didn’t want to be a burden.

He didn’t want to be this much.

He kept thinking about it—$40,000. The way his mum’s voice had lowered when she said it. Like she hadn’t meant to say it in front of him. Like it was supposed to stay behind closed doors.

Logan hadn’t told him either. Not even when Alex had asked about the race, not when he’d tried to be brave and offer something—anything—to show he wasn’t just a helpless kid waiting around for people to save him.

He thought he’d been doing okay. Thought maybe if he kept his head down and drove well and didn’t ask for things—like new headphones, or better boots, or a kart that didn’t jolt his wrists every time he hit a corner too hard—that things would sort themselves out eventually.

But this?

This wasn’t something you just drove your way out of.

He didn’t even know what Logan did for money. Didn’t know how the hell he was planning to help him get out of this mess. And now his parents were talking to Logan again—without him. Making plans and arrangements and calls like he was a toddler too young to be trusted with the real numbers.

It stung more than he wanted to admit.

His phone buzzed from where it had fallen on the carpet. One buzz. Then another. Probably Logan. Maybe his mum.

He didn’t check.

He knew he should.

But he couldn’t—not yet.

Instead, he laid down slowly, curling onto his side with the unopened packet of biscuits tucked against his chest like a pillow. He stared at the wall again. Same crack. Same peeling edge.

The ache in his chest hadn’t gone away. It was still there, low and steady, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Alex didn’t cry this time.

But he didn’t move either.

Chapter Text

Logan sat back in his chair, ankle balanced on his knee, laptop glowing faintly on the desk in front of him. Another Zoom call. Another hour of polite negotiations dressed up like progress.

He knew the formula by now: Eloise leading the discussion with calm authority, Jennings and his legal rep dropping in the occasional tight-lipped comment, and the Evans parents hovering just on the edge of civility. None of it was hostile—but none of it was easy, either. They were still trying to decide if Alex was good enough to warrant this kind of investment. If he was “worth” a break clause that cost more than Logan’s last two cars combined.

It made Logan’s teeth hurt.

Eloise was talking now—something about timing and signatures and contingent guarantees—but Logan wasn’t really listening. Not entirely. His gaze had drifted to the corner of the screen where Linda Evans sat, arms crossed, face unreadable. Paul looked more tired than anything else. They were worn down, he could tell. Still proud. Still upright. But there was an exhaustion in the way they nodded along, like they were trying to keep the dam from breaking.

If I just paid it myself…

The thought came back again, louder this time. He could do it. Technically. Not easily, not without hurting a little, but it wasn’t impossible. Not if he liquidated some savings, called in a favor or two. But he could already picture the look on Linda’s face if he said that. The way her jaw would tighten. The sharp-edged gratitude that wasn’t really gratitude at all—more like defeat.

They wouldn’t accept charity. Not from a former F1 driver with too much time and not enough direction. Not for their son.

But maybe… maybe if it didn’t look like charity?

Logan leaned forward, elbow on the desk, thumb resting against his lips.

What if he got multiple parties involved? McLaren was already circling, and Jennings’s camp was interested too. Maybe if he pulled in a smaller sponsor—someone more local, someone who didn’t care about the flash of it all but saw potential in Alex as a long-term investment. If he broke up the funding into separate streams, no one would see it as a handout. Just a patchwork of support. A community effort. Not a lifeline, but a ladder.

His inbox pinged softly. Another follow-up from Eloise, attaching an updated version of the sponsorship sheet. Logan didn’t open it yet.

Instead, he clicked open a new tab. Started drafting an email.

To an old contact at a Miami-based youth foundation. Someone who owed him a favor.

Maybe this wasn’t about finding one big “yes.” Maybe it was about stitching together enough small ones to fake a net.

He closed the laptop before he could second-guess himself. Then sat back again, eyes drifting to the ceiling, wondering just how far he could stretch this thread before it snapped.

And if it did—if it all fell apart—was he willing to fall with it?

The answer came, fast and silent, from somewhere deep in his chest.

Yeah. For the kid? He was.

Logan squinted at the draft on his screen, one hand rubbing absently at his jaw. The wording was wrong. Too personal. Too stiff. Too… desperate. He backspaced half the sentence, rewrote it, then deleted it again.

His cursor blinked, mocking him.

Dear Ramon,

He still wasn’t sure if asking a guy he hadn’t spoken to in two years to cough up ten grand in the name of goodwill and junior motorsport development was bold or delusional.

Before he could decide, his laptop lit up with a FaceTime notification.

Oscar Piastri is calling…

Logan blinked. Then frowned.

Oscar never FaceTimed.

Technically, he wasn’t even supposed to—Android phone, McLaren partnership, all that. But Logan knew damn well Oscar kept a second phone. Had spotted the edge of an iPhone more than once, tucked in his hoodie pocket like it wasn’t a federal crime.

Logan accepted the call, still a little confused. “Didn’t know you remembered what FaceTime was.”

Oscar’s face appeared, smirking faintly. His curls were a little messy, the collar of his hoodie skewed. He looked like he was sitting on his couch, possibly halfway through dismantling a Rubik’s Cube. “I’m not supposed to,” he said, tone dry. “So if anyone asks, this is a very vivid dream.”

“You dreaming about me again?” Logan quipped, because he was tired and half-delirious and had no self-preservation.

Oscar gave him a flat look. “You look like you’re plotting something.”

Logan blinked. “I—what?”

“That face,” Oscar said, pointing at the screen. “Your ‘I’m about to do something reckless and possibly illegal for a good cause’ face. I’ve seen it before.”

“I don’t have that face.”

“You absolutely do. You had it right before you convinced that media intern to sneak us onto the rooftop in Zandvoort. And again when you ordered ten shots for a man who literally just turned 18.”

“Okay, but in my defense, both of those worked out fine.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “Did they?”

Logan sighed and leaned back, rubbing both hands over his face. “I’m trying to stitch together funding for Alex without making it look like I’m swooping in to save the day.”

“Because you are swooping in to save the day.”

“I know, but I can’t look like I am. His parents won’t take it if it looks like charity. I need to disguise it.”

Oscar paused. Then tilted his head. “You know that’s insane, right?”

“Yeah.”

“But it’s also very on brand for you.”

“Is that… a compliment?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Oscar leaned in closer to his camera, squinting. “What did Eloise say?”

“Sent a revised sponsorship sheet. Wants me to move on it fast. I’ve got maybe five days before the current contract locks in permanently.”

Oscar whistled low. “No pressure.”

Logan grimaced. “Thanks.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Oscar asked, softer, “You sure you can pull this off?”

“Nope.” Logan ran a hand through his hair, looking away. “But I’m gonna try.”

Another pause.

Then Oscar said, “I know a guy. Well—not a guy, more like a very rich old woman who owes me a favor and likes to throw money at things that annoy her ex-husband. Motorsport counts.”

Logan blinked. “What?”

Oscar smirked. “Don’t worry. She hates kids, but she loves spite. I’ll text you her assistant’s number.”

Logan stared at him.

Oscar shrugged. “Just don’t tell Eloise I used the forbidden iPhone. I’ll lose my very underwhelming Android privileges.”

Logan laughed—actually laughed—and felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “That’s concerning.”

Logan’s finger hovered above the number for what felt like forever. The contact sat there innocently enough in his phone, the name absurdly long for a person who probably owned multiple yachts: Elowen V. D’Evreux – Referral (Oscar). The kind of name you didn’t say aloud unless you were announcing her entrance into a gala.

He sighed and pressed call. If this went poorly, maybe he could at least say he’d tried.

The line rang twice.

“D’Evreux family office,” a crisp voice said, startlingly fast. “Elowen’s line. This is Sage.”

Logan froze for a half-second, brain rebooting. That… was not the voice he expected. Not clipped and upper-crusty. Not the intimidating tone of a power-wielding assistant who referred to herself only in the third person. This sounded like a millennial—or even Gen Z. American, possibly. Fast-talking, unfazed.

“Uh, hi,” Logan managed. “This is Logan Sargeant.”

“Figured,” the voice said without missing a beat. “You’re calling from the number Oscar flagged.”

He blinked. “Oscar… flagged me?”

“Gave me a heads-up, yeah. Said you might call. Told me not to ghost you.”

“Well… thanks. Appreciate that.”

“You need money, right?”

That made him laugh out loud, a short, incredulous sound. “Jesus. You guys don’t ease into anything, huh?”

Sage’s voice was smooth. “You’re not calling to discuss hedge fund strategy, are you?”

“No,” Logan said, still recovering. “Definitely not. I’m trying to get a junior driver out of a predatory sponsorship deal. His name’s Alexander Evans. He’s fourteen—almost fifteen—and he’s stuck in a bad situation. It’s a buyout clause thing, and they didn’t tell the family what they were signing until they were desperate enough to take the offer. Now they’re on the hook for $40,000 just to get him out.”

There was a brief pause. Logan could hear typing in the background.

“He’s not one of McLaren’s kids?”

“No, not officially,” Logan said. “But McLaren’s involved in discussions. Eloise—Eloise D’Arcy, their legal representative—is trying to help. So is Arlo Jennings. And we’ve got FIA eyes on this too. It’s not just me begging on my knees, I swear. There are legitimate people circling. But none of them can move forward unless the family can break the original deal. We just… need a bridge. Some help getting that penalty covered.”

He stopped. That was too many words. Maybe even too much honesty. But if Sage was the gatekeeper, Logan figured it was better to go in with everything upfront. No pretending this wasn’t urgent. Or that it didn’t matter.

“You’re saying there are multiple parties involved?” Sage asked, not unkindly. “Like this wouldn’t be a solo donation?”

“Right,” Logan said. “That’s… kind of why I’m calling. The family doesn’t want charity. Especially not a full handout. But if it was coming from multiple sources—spread out, with everyone pitching in—I think they could accept that. It wouldn’t feel like pity. It would feel like belief. Support.”

“Hmm,” Sage said. “That makes a difference. Elowen’s not interested in writing one big flashy check for photo ops. But she is interested in being part of something strategic. Especially if it’s designed to kneecap people who exploit kids for profit.”

“That’s exactly what’s happening here,” Logan said, his voice hardening slightly. “They’re bleeding this family dry. And the worst part is, they knew. They knew Alex had real talent and no financial backing. That made him easy to corner.”

There was more typing. A few clicks.

“Elowen usually doesn’t support drivers under eighteen,” Sage said finally. “She says they remind her too much of her boarding school years. But… she does love underdogs. Especially the kind who don’t know how close they are to giving up.”

Logan exhaled. The pressure in his chest eased a millimeter. “He’s not giving up. Not yet. But if this deal goes through—if he’s stuck racing for the team that cornered him—he’ll be done before he ever gets a chance to start. They don’t care about his development. They just want to own him.”

“Do you have documentation?” Sage asked. “The contract, the terms of the buyout, proof of what the family signed?”

“I do,” Logan said. “I can send over everything—the Cullahams contract, the McLaren proposal, a summary from the FIA junior commission. Arlo’s rep even offered to write a note verifying Alex’s test results and sim data.”

“Good,” Sage said. “Put it in an email. Keep it short. Bullet points up top. Elowen doesn’t read past the fold unless there’s blood.”

Logan made a soft noise. “Got it. Minimal drama, maximal impact.”

“Exactly.”

She paused again, then added, “Oscar said something else. Said you’ve been sticking your neck out. That you’re doing this because the kid reminds you of someone.”

Logan didn’t answer at first.

Then: “Yeah. Me.”

There was a long silence. No typing now.

“She read your interviews, you know,” Sage said, gentler now. “Back from your F2 days. The ones where you talked about pressure. Anxiety. Losing sleep because you were terrified of being labeled a fluke.”

He didn’t say anything.

“She liked you,” Sage added. “Said it was nice to see a boy cry on television without trying to turn it into a brand.”

A lump formed in his throat, sharp and sudden. “I didn’t know anyone read those.”

“People read more than you think, Logan,” Sage said. “And some of us don’t forget the ones who keep trying.”

It had been six days since that call. Since Alex had accidentally overheard the number—forty thousand dollars—and everything inside him had scrambled. He hadn’t asked about it. Hadn’t brought it up. He wasn’t sure how.

Instead, he’d withdrawn a little. Still texted Logan when he had to. Still responded to the occasional check-in. But he didn’t initiate. He didn’t ask for another call.

Until now.

The message came in at 3:14 p.m., just as Logan was halfway through stuffing a clean pair of jeans into a duffel bag. He’d already packed the important stuff—toiletries, chargers, his McLaren team pullover in case the weather turned. He was just being fussy now. Folding, refolding. Making space that didn’t really need to be made.

Alex Evans:

Hey.

I was watching some of the karting footage again. i keep messing up turn 6.

like consistently. can’t get the balance right.

A few seconds passed.

Alex Evans:

Do you know when you’re flying out? for the race?

Logan stared at the screen. The texts weren’t emotional. Weren’t dramatic. Weren’t even capitalized. But something about them made his chest ache a little.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and typed carefully.

Logan:

I’m flying out Thursday morning. I’ve got a hotel about 15 min from the track.

Booked it a few days ago. Was just packing now, actually.

There was a long pause. The three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then reappeared.

Alex Evans:

Okay.

Cool.

Alex Evans:

Are you still coming even if they don’t approve the new contract?

Logan swallowed. He could imagine exactly how hard it was for Alex to ask that.

Logan:

Yeah. I’m still coming.

Even if nothing’s finalized yet, I’m not going to miss your race.

Logan:

(Also, I already prepaid the hotel. So.)

That got a typing bubble back quicker.

Alex Evans:

You could’ve just cancelled

Logan:

Yeah, but then I’d miss turn 6.

And you know how emotionally attached I am to watching you biff it on corner exit.

It earned him a read receipt and a half-minute of silence before another message popped up.

Alex Evans:

Thanks.

I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to come

Logan:

Alex, I booked the trip.

I don’t care how awkward this stuff gets. I want to be there.

Logan:

Also, I brought my laptop. So if you want to go over turn 6 before the race… just say when.

Alex Evans:

Okay. maybe tomorrow?

Logan:

Tomorrow works.

And hey—

You’re not a burden, alright? Not even close.

No response came after that.

But Logan didn’t need one.

Logan set his phone down carefully on the nightstand, as though jostling it too hard might shatter the fragile peace the conversation had left him with.

He sat there for a while, elbows on his knees, hands steepled under his chin. The Florida afternoon was soft and golden through the blinds, dust motes drifting in lazy spirals, like the world had decided—for once—to take its foot off the gas.

It was easier not to think, sometimes. Easier to stay busy, to pack and re-pack, to scroll through sponsorship emails and legal documents and pretend it was all just business. But then Alex would text. Or say something quiet and careful. Or ask if he was still coming, like Logan hadn’t already rearranged his entire week just to be there.

He leaned back slowly on his hands and exhaled.

When had he started caring this much?

Not just about the racing. That had always been there, humming quietly under the surface. But about Alex. This kid who was too sharp for his own good, who’d had to grow up too fast, who tried so hard to act like he didn’t need anyone.

And now—now he’d finally asked for help again. Just a little. Just a corner.

Logan could work with that.

He stood up, stretched, and walked into the kitchen, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. His laptop was still open on the table, Eloise’s email waiting like a polite tap on the shoulder.

There was still so much to do. Contracts to finalize. Loopholes to find. People to convince. But tomorrow, he’d walk Alex through turn 6. And this weekend, he’d stand at the edge of a karting circuit and make damn sure someone was watching him race.

Even if no one else showed up, Logan would be there. He was already there.

Maybe that’s what this was really about.

Not fixing everything.

Just showing up.

Chapter Text

The suitcase was open on the bed like a wound. Clothes folded with more care than usual—button-downs, a weatherproof jacket, even a pair of jeans that didn’t look like they belonged to someone who spent most of his time alone in a Miami apartment. Logan stood over it, holding a tiny bottle of travel-sized shampoo like it had just personally offended him.

“Three ounces,” he muttered. “Everything’s three bloody ounces. Who decided that.”

He dropped it into his toiletry bag and zipped it shut with a sigh, then glanced at the time on his phone. 11:02 AM. Flight in five hours. Boarding in three. And somewhere out there in the UK, it was already the evening before race day.

His stomach curled—not dread, not quite. Something tighter. Like stage fright, but with higher stakes.

Alex was going to be there. Alex. Probably already in bed, or brushing his teeth, or fidgeting with the sleeves of a karting jacket that still looked a size too big.

Logan exhaled and rubbed a hand down his face. It wasn’t just a race. It was his race.

The one Logan had promised to come to.

He’d booked the flight the same night they spoke. Reserved a hotel room not too far from the track, even sprang for the slightly upgraded rental car like some overcompensating uncle on his first chaperoning gig. He didn’t even know what Alex’s favorite snack was—but he’d Googled what karting kids usually brought in their gear bags. Just in case.

His phone buzzed.

Alex:

Hey, I can’t sleep.

Do you want to go over the S-curve again?

It’s giving me weird dreams lol.

Logan blinked, then smiled—soft and crooked.

Logan:

Sure. Give me five minutes to boot up my laptop.

Then we’ll tame the nightmare S-curve together.

He hit send, then sat on the edge of the bed. Outside, Miami was loud and humid and oblivious. But here, in the quiet pocket between timezone math and long-haul nerves, Logan felt a small, almost sacred kind of clarity.

He was doing the right thing.

And for once, he didn’t want to run from it.

Logan set his laptop on the kitchen counter, because the table was covered in receipts and half a protein bar he’d abandoned yesterday. His headphones connected with a soft chime, and a second later, Alex popped up on the screen, a blur of blanket and messy hair.

“Hey,” Alex mumbled, rubbing at his eye. “Sorry. I know it’s late. Or early. Or… whatever it is for you.”

Logan smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I was awake.”

“You were packing.”

“Psychic now, are we?”

“No,” Alex said. “You mentioned it earlier. When I asked if you were bringing snacks.”

“Right.” Logan laughed softly. “Gotta keep the priorities straight.”

Alex tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders and leaned closer to the screen. “I can’t get that stupid corner out of my head. You know the one after sector two? The long double-right that tightens at the exit?”

“The one that dips a little?” Logan clicked over to the track map, already annotated with his notes. “Yeah. It’s tricky.”

“I keep turning in too early in my head.”

“You’re overcompensating. Last race, you were late on entry. Now your brain’s trying to fix it before you even get there.”

Alex sighed, long and tired. “That’s dumb.”

“That’s racing,” Logan said. “Your brain remembers everything—especially what scared it.”

There was a quiet pause. Not uncomfortable, just… still. Then Alex said, “Thanks for coming. For real. I know you’ve got other stuff going on.”

“Not as important as this.”

Alex didn’t say anything to that. He just looked away for a second, blinking like the screen had gotten too bright. Then: “I think my mom’s baking muffins for the trip.”

“I’ll bring an empty duffle bag.”

That earned a quiet snort. “They’re banana chocolate chip.”

“Even better.” Logan hesitated, then leaned in a little. “You doing okay, Alex? For real?”

Alex bit his bottom lip. “I think so. It’s just… I keep thinking about that number. The forty thousand. I know I’m not supposed to—but I do.”

Logan’s chest tightened. “Hey. That’s not on you. I’ve got people helping. Eloise, Arlo’s team, Elowen…”

Alex blinked. “That’s a lot of E names.”

“I know, it’s weirdly thematic,” Logan murmured, smile flickering. “The point is, it’s being handled. You just focus on the race.”

Alex nodded slowly. “Okay.”

A quiet beat passed, and then:

“I really want to win.”

Logan looked at him—at the tired but determined face on the screen, at the kid who texted him for help with a corner at what had to be one in the morning UK time—and he felt that same weightless, aching, protective thing in his chest.

“You will,” Logan said, voice low. “But even if you don’t, I’ll still be there. Watching. Yelling at your brake points under my breath.”

Alex grinned. “Deal.”

And for the first time in days, the screen dimmed with a little more peace than it began with.

Logan tossed his carry-on into the trunk, slammed it shut with more force than necessary, and slid into the driver’s seat. His phone chimed again—Oscar, sending some meme that probably didn’t make sense. Logan ignored it.

The car’s engine turned over with a low grumble, headlights flickering to life. It was still dark enough that Miami hadn’t decided whether it was night or morning. The streets were mostly empty. Good. Logan didn’t trust himself not to make a wrong turn right now, not with the way his thoughts kept slipping sideways.

He wasn’t the one racing. He wasn’t even the one being evaluated, not really. But his heart still beat a little too fast when he checked the time on the dash and saw how close he was cutting it. He was sweating, and not just from the muggy heat pressing against the windshield.

“It’s not your race,” he muttered under his breath, pulling onto the main road. “It’s not your race.”

Except it was. In its own way.

He’d watched kids race before. Mentored a couple, coached some unofficially when he’d had the time. But this was different. This was a kid who trusted him—who reached out even when he wasn’t supposed to. This was a kid who made Logan remember why he ever cared about karting in the first place. Who reminded him that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t failed out of the sport. Maybe there was still something left in him that mattered.

The sign for Miami International blurred past. Logan merged into the airport exit lane, checking his mirrors out of habit. The sun was just beginning to bleed into the sky, pale orange and hesitant.

In the passenger seat, his phone buzzed again. He glanced at it—Oscar this time, again. Just one word: Breathe.

Logan barked a laugh, more nerves than amusement, and shook his head. “He’s worse than me.”

Still, he did take a breath. One long, full inhale. Then another.

He pulled into long-term parking, grabbed his duffel, and stepped out into the day.

Next stop: London.

The wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt sharp enough to yank Logan out of whatever half-dream he’d been sinking into. His neck hurt. His back ached. And he was ninety percent sure the baby in 14C had been crying since over the Atlantic. He blinked blearily at the seatback in front of him as the flight attendant chirped something too cheerful about “local time in London.”

8:02 a.m.

Right on time. Unfortunately.

He yawned so hard his jaw popped and scrubbed at his face with both hands. His skin felt like it had been marinated in plane air—dry, tight, a little greasy. Not ideal for meeting sponsors or emotionally exhausted parents. But then again, maybe no one would be looking too closely at him. Hopefully. If the adrenaline didn’t kill him, the embarrassment might.

By the time he was off the plane and through customs, he’d worked himself into a quiet panic spiral about breakfast. It wasn’t that he was hungry—though he was—but he needed something hot, preferably drowned in caffeine, and the idea of walking into this day without food felt like asking to black out mid-conversation.

Outside, London was overcast and brisk. June in Miami meant sweat. June in London meant damp pavement and a chill that snuck through his hoodie. He pulled it tighter, hunched into himself as he caught a cab.

“Know anywhere that does strong coffee?” he asked the driver. “Like… wake-the-dead strong.”

The guy looked at him in the mirror. “You American?”

Logan nodded.

The driver smirked. “I’ll take you somewhere.”

Ten minutes later, Logan was holding what had to be the strongest flat white he’d ever had in his life and shoveling eggs and toast into his mouth with the desperation of a man trying to physically anchor himself to the earth. His phone buzzed beside his plate. A text from Alex.

Alex Evans: Just checking—still coming today?

Logan: Already here. Got in an hour ago. Just inhaling caffeine. See you soon.

He almost added proud of you already, but deleted it. Alex didn’t need more pressure right now.

Another text chimed in, this one from Eloise.

Eloise: Let me know when you’re with the Evans. Arlo will be at the track by 3. The rep might stop by during the race.

Logan responded with a thumbs up and tucked the phone into his jacket.

By the time he finished eating, it was just past nine. He still had a few hours to kill. Not enough to sleep—definitely not. But maybe enough to go over the offer sheet one more time, let the nerves settle into something manageable. Maybe enough to remember that this wasn’t about him looking good. This was about Alex.

And Alex, who had every reason to give up on trust, had still chosen to trust him.

So yeah. The race wasn’t his.

But it mattered.

He pulled out his phone again, this time to check the directions to the track. Then he stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out into the cloudy London morning—heart hammering, stomach full, and eyes already on the road ahead.

The karting track looked smaller in person.

Or maybe Logan was just bigger now—taller, older, more weathered than he’d been the last time he stood on one like this. Still, there was something familiar about the bite of fuel in the air, the metallic clatter of tools being shuffled around, the low hum of engines in the background. It was comforting and sharp all at once, like muscle memory wrapped around a live wire.

He spotted them before they spotted him.

Paul and Linda Evans stood near the edge of the paddock area, talking quietly with a woman who looked like she might’ve been an organizer or steward. Linda was shorter than he expected, bundled in a puffer jacket and a scarf despite the relatively mild weather. Paul had the solid build of someone who still did most of the house maintenance himself. They looked tired. Not just the kind of tired that came from raising kids—but the deeper, heavier kind that came from worrying about them.

And then there was Alex—sitting on a folding chair just off to the side, his race suit tied around his waist and a hoodie zipped up over his compression top. He looked smaller than Logan remembered from the screen. Paler too. He was fiddling with the strap on his glove like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

Logan cleared his throat gently as he approached, lifting a hand in a short wave. “Hi. Uh—hey. Logan Sargeant.”

Linda turned first. “You’re taller than you look on Zoom.”

That was… not the worst opening line.

Logan smiled awkwardly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Paul stepped forward and offered a hand. “Thanks for coming. Appreciate it.”

Logan shook it, firm but not too firm—he still remembered enough from sponsor meetings and nervous PR sessions not to break fingers. “Glad to be here. I, uh… booked my hotel close by. Didn’t want to risk getting stuck in traffic.”

Alex finally looked up. “Hey.”

It was soft. Not quite shy, but close. There was something in his eyes that Logan couldn’t quite name. Not excitement. Not relief. Something heavier.

“Hey, champ,” Logan said, tone lighter. “You ready for this?”

Alex shrugged. “I think so.”

“He barely slept,” Linda offered, voice pitched low. “Too much buzzing around in his head.”

Logan chuckled, glancing at Alex. “That makes two of us.”

They stood there for a moment—an awkward little circle of complicated emotions and not-quite-trust and tentative hope. Logan could feel it like static in the air. He wondered how many times the Evans had met people who said all the right things and then didn’t deliver.

He wasn’t going to be one of them.

“I was thinking,” Logan started, voice carefully casual, “maybe after the race, if you’ve got time, we could all sit down and go through some things. Nothing official—just a talk. There’s a café nearby that’s quiet.”

Paul exchanged a look with Linda. She nodded slightly.

“Let’s see how the race goes,” Paul said.

Fair enough.

Logan turned back to Alex, clapping a hand lightly on his shoulder. “No pressure, but I flew across the ocean for this. So maybe don’t crash?”

Alex cracked a small smile, barely there but real.

“I’ll try.”

The prep tent was quieter than Logan expected. Tucked at the far end of the paddock, it was shaded and half zipped up, Alex’s kart standing beside the workbench like it was waiting to be called into battle. Logan slipped inside, letting the flap fall shut behind him.

Alex was sitting on a low stool, hunched over and tugging at the velcro on his gloves like it had personally offended him. His race suit was pulled up now, zipped halfway. The padding around his collarbones made him look a little older. The slight tremble in his fingers made him look younger.

Logan crouched down across from him without saying anything, elbows on his knees.

For a minute, they just sat there. The muffled sound of engines revving filtered through the canvas walls. In another tent, someone laughed. A loudspeaker crackled to life and then died again.

“Got your earbuds in?” Logan asked eventually, nodding toward Alex’s comms collar.

Alex shook his head. “Haven’t put them in yet.”

“Good. Means you can hear me when I ramble.”

Alex gave him a weird look. “You… ramble?”

Logan smirked. “Only when I care.”

That made Alex drop his gaze to the floor, expression unreadable.

“I remember my first real kart final,” Logan said, shifting to sit more comfortably on the ground. “Palm Beach Raceway. I was fourteen, it was so humid my hands were slipping inside the gloves. I nearly puked before the start.”

Alex blinked. “Did you win?”

“No,” Logan laughed. “I crashed out in the third lap trying to pass a kid who went on to race lawnmowers professionally. I swear I still have whiplash from that.”

That earned him a smile—faint, crooked, but real. Alex tucked his gloves into his lap and wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his chin on top like he had when he was younger. Logan watched him quietly.

“You okay?”

Alex didn’t answer at first. Then: “I don’t want to let anyone down.”

“You won’t.”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “Forty thousand dollars. That’s… that’s not a scholarship number, Logan. That’s a hospital bill. That’s a used car. That’s…”

“Yeah,” Logan interrupted gently. “It’s a lot. And it’s not your job to carry it.”

Alex looked like he wanted to argue, but Logan kept going.

“You know how many people wanted to help me when I was coming up through F3? None. Not unless I won every weekend and posted about it on Instagram like it was Christmas. You have something most of us never did—people willing to fight for you. Let them.”

Alex was quiet for a long time. Logan could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was bracing like he was waiting for another blow to fall.

“It’s not fair,” Alex mumbled.

“Nope,” Logan said. “But if you get in that kart, if you go out there and drive the way I know you can, you remind them why you’re worth investing in.”

Alex finally lifted his head, hazel eyes sharp and shiny with something unsaid.

“Will you watch from the pit wall?”

Logan grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Alex nodded, and then—for just a second—he looked like a kid again. A scared, hopeful, stubborn little kid who just needed someone to show up.

“Hey,” Logan added, rising to his feet and offering a hand. “One last thing.”

Alex took it, letting Logan pull him up.

“No matter what happens out there today,” Logan said, lowering his voice like it was something just for them, “you’ve already proven you’re worth the fight.”

Alex didn’t respond. But he gave Logan a quick, sharp nod and grabbed his helmet from the bench.

Logan had barely settled onto the plastic fold-out chair beside Linda Evans when Paul handed him a little paper cup of tea.

“I don’t know if it’s your thing,” Paul said, his voice carrying over the dull roar of engines. “But it’s what they were offering.”

Logan took it with a polite smile. “If it’s caffeinated, it’s my thing.”

He was trying not to be too obvious about scanning the paddock for Alex. Or checking the time. Or fidgeting with the zipper on his windbreaker. His knee was bouncing anyway.

Linda, calm and composed in a sensible jacket and ankle boots, gave him a look that made him sit up straighter.

“You flew in this morning?” she asked, adjusting her sunglasses.

“Landed just before eight,” Logan said. “Didn’t even have time to get lost at Heathrow, which I think makes me officially better than most British tourists in America.”

That actually got a tiny smirk from Paul. Logan felt encouraged enough to keep talking.

“I wanted to thank you both,” he said. “For letting me be here. I know this whole thing’s been… complicated.”

Linda hummed—noncommittal but not cold.

“Actually,” Logan continued, shifting forward in his chair, “I wanted to tell you about one of the people I’ve been talking to. There’s this woman named Elowen Roth—she runs a boutique motorsport fund. Works a lot with kids in that exact hard place between karting and academy teams. She’s interested in sponsoring Alex.”

That got a reaction. Paul turned slightly toward him, eyebrows lifted. Linda narrowed her eyes, skeptical but intrigued.

Logan held up his hands. “I know, I know. Sounds made up. But it’s real. She’s real. She’s been talking with Arlo Jennings too, and there’s even been some light interest from a supplier that works with McLaren. If we can get enough contributors looped in, it won’t feel like some stranger’s paying out of pocket. It’ll be more like a collective—real sponsorship, not charity.”

Linda’s expression shifted at that. Logan saw the moment something softened in her.

Before she could say anything, though, Paul stiffened beside him.

“Logan,” he said tightly, nodding toward the track entrance. “Stop talking.”

Logan frowned but followed his line of sight.

A man in a Cullahams jacket—black with that unmistakable green stripe—was crouched beside Alex’s kart, tugging something near the front axle. Another team member stood nearby, arms crossed and disinterested, like this was all part of the routine.

But it wasn’t. Not this close to a race. Not without one of the Evans parents hovering nearby.

Logan felt his pulse spike.

Linda leaned in, voice quiet but sharp. “They weren’t supposed to be here this early.”

“They said they’d come by after the race,” Paul added, already rising from his seat. “Just to do a check-in. I told them Alex didn’t need interference.”

Logan stood, too, setting the tea on the ground.

He watched Alex out of the corner of his eye—further down the lane, helmet in hand, half-listening to a steward explain the grid lineup. Oblivious.

“Do you want me to say something?” Logan asked, voice low.

Linda hesitated. “Not yet.”

But Logan could see it in her posture. The way her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The way Paul’s jaw flexed.

They weren’t angry at him. They were furious on behalf of their son.

Logan didn’t blame them.

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, eyes locked on the Cullahams engineer still crouched beside the kart.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

The race was scheduled for 2:00 p.m., but Logan was already sweating by 1:35.

Not from the weather—though the English sun had made a brief, shocking appearance—but from everything else. From the tension in the paddock, the pacing of mechanics, the low hum of engines being fine-tuned, and the metallic tang of petrol and dust in the air.

He was perched at the edge of the viewing area with Linda and Paul beside him, though none of them had spoken much in the last ten minutes. Logan’s eyes were glued to the figure across the tarmac—Alex, adjusting his gloves, talking with one of the Cullaham engineers in clipped nods.

The kid looked calm. Too calm.

His helmet hung from his hand, black with red and white decals, the visor down. When he finally slid it on and secured it, Logan saw something in his posture change. His shoulders dropped just slightly, like the helmet was the only space he had permission to breathe in.

“He doesn’t talk much on race days,” Linda murmured beside him.

Logan gave a tiny nod. “I used to be the same.”

Paul’s eyes didn’t leave their son either. “He still doesn’t talk much off race days either.”

A flicker of a smile, small and sad.

The grid filled slowly, drivers guided into place by track marshals, and Logan finally allowed himself to exhale when he saw Alex in P3. Not pole, but close. Competitive. His lap times yesterday had been solid—enough to put him in real contention, depending on how the start went.

He watched as the lights came on. One… two… three… four…

The air snapped in his lungs.

Five.

And then—lights out.

Logan forgot to blink.

Alex got a clean launch—one of the best on the grid. He darted around the driver in P2 before they even hit turn two, then slotted in behind the leader with barely a car length between them.

“Go on, mate,” Logan whispered under his breath.

Paul leaned forward, fists clenched.

Linda didn’t even move. Just watched, jaw tight.

It was only a 12-lap race, short and brutal. The kind of race where every turn mattered, and every overtaking opportunity had to be carved with purpose. By lap three, Alex had matched the leader’s pace exactly. The announcer was barely keeping up.

Lap five, and Logan felt his own pulse matching the rhythm of Alex’s kart down the straights.

Lap seven—and a small opening on the inside of turn four. Alex went for it.

Too risky, Logan thought, just as Alex pulled it off. Neat. Sharp. Nearly textbook.

He was in the lead.

The crowd around them shifted audibly—someone cheered, someone swore. Logan’s hand gripped the fence tighter. He barely registered that the Cullaham engineers had all gone silent.

He stayed ahead for two more laps.

By lap ten, it was obvious Alex’s tires were falling off slightly—nothing dramatic, but he was defending hard now. The boy behind him had fresher rubber and a slightly newer chassis.

“Come on, Alex,” Paul murmured. “Just hold on.”

Lap eleven—he did. Barely. He blocked the inside beautifully on turn six, holding line through the chicane. Logan could almost feel the rumble of it in his spine, the way Alex’s whole body leaned through the corner with clinical precision.

Lap twelve.

Last lap.

The final sector was tight—no room for error. Alex clipped one of the inner kerbs hard enough that Logan winced—but it didn’t cost him. If anything, it made him faster through the exit.

He crossed the line 0.367 seconds ahead of second place.

And Logan finally remembered to exhale.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t cheer. He just stood there, hands trembling slightly, as Alex pulled into the cool-down lane and his engine cut. The boy stayed seated for a long moment, helmet still on, before finally getting out of the kart.

“Holy shit,” Logan whispered.

Linda let out a watery laugh. “We’ve… never seen him drive like that.”

Paul just blinked at the track, speechless.

Logan didn’t wait for an invitation. He moved around the fence and slipped into the paddock, dodging people with congratulatory claps and yells. By the time he reached the team area, Alex had his helmet off and was toweling down the back of his neck. His face was flushed, hair damp under his balaclava.

“Hey,” Logan said, stopping a few feet short.

Alex looked up—and for a second, Logan swore the boy didn’t recognize him. Then his face cracked open. Not a full smile, but something close—raw and blinking, like the rush of the race hadn’t worn off yet.

“Logan.”

“Second-to-first in five laps,” Logan said, trying for casual and failing entirely. “You trying to give me a heart attack?”

Alex let out a dry laugh. “Wasn’t planning to.”

“You drove like a goddamn professional.”

“I am a professional,” Alex muttered, rubbing at his neck.

Logan grinned. “Guess I should stop doubting that.”

A few of the engineers walked past behind them, including the one Logan had seen fiddling with the kart earlier. The guy didn’t say anything—just gave Logan a look, brief and unreadable.

“They didn’t congratulate you,” Logan said.

Alex shrugged, suddenly quieter. “They don’t usually.”

Logan felt something burn behind his ribs. “Well, I’ll say it again, then—you were brilliant out there.”

“Thanks,” Alex said, a little too soft, like the words didn’t sit right in his chest.

And then, as if the moment were too much, Alex turned toward his kart again. Checked the wheels, even though the race was over. Logan didn’t push.

Instead, he stepped back.

He let the moment sit.

Later, when they were back near the viewing area and Alex had changed into a fresh hoodie, Logan found himself walking beside him in companionable silence.

“They’ll want to debrief,” Alex said eventually. “But I have a few minutes.”

“You hungry?”

Alex hesitated. “I could eat.”

Logan bought him a sausage roll and a sports drink from a nearby stand, and they sat under a tent with a low bench, far from the crowd. The quiet hum of post-race teardown buzzed in the background.

“I’ve been talking to Elowen,” Logan said finally.

Alex glanced over. “The sponsor woman?”

“Yeah. She’s… not the only one. Arlo’s still interested. If we can get a couple more, we’re close.”

Alex nodded slowly, chewing. “Close to what?”

“To the forty.”

The number sat between them, heavier than either of them liked.

Logan added, “You don’t need to worry about it. I told your parents—I’ll handle it.”

Alex looked away, jaw tight. “I don’t want to be—”

“You’re not a burden,” Logan said, sharper than intended. “Don’t do that. You’re talent. You’re worth it.”

“I’m just a kid from Surrey with a secondhand kart and a stupidly high fine to get out of.”

Logan shook his head. “You’re a kid from Surrey who just overtook a future Formula 3 driver like it was easy.”

Alex didn’t answer for a long time. But his grip on the sports drink tightened, and Logan could see his shoulders lift—just slightly.

Like something might finally be getting through.

They didn’t talk much more after that. But Logan stayed close, just in case.

They were walking toward the edge of the paddock when Logan heard his name.

“Logan.”

He turned. Alex had stopped behind him, still in that hoodie, still holding the empty bottle of sports drink like he hadn’t figured out what to do with it.

“You okay?” Logan asked, already knowing the answer was probably something like not really but trying anyway.

Alex didn’t answer. Just looked at him for a second too long—like he was trying to line something up in his head and couldn’t quite find the right words.

Then he stepped forward, grabbed Logan’s arm awkwardly, and pulled him in.

It started like a side hug—one of those stiff, teenage efforts to keep it casual, like he was doing it because he was supposed to, not because he wanted to.

But then it shifted.

He turned fully into it.

His arms wrapped all the way around Logan’s back, and his chin dropped to Logan’s shoulder like he was anchoring himself.

Logan blinked. His first instinct was to freeze—just for a heartbeat—and then his arms came up automatically. One wrapped around Alex’s back, the other gave a gentle pat between his shoulder blades.

And then another. Slower. A little firmer.

The kid didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Logan hadn’t been hugged like this in a long time. Not from someone who needed it this badly and didn’t know how to ask.

He realized, somewhere in the stillness of it, that Alex was almost his height. A few more years and he might match him. He’d expected the kid to stay small. He hadn’t noticed the growth, or the weight of it, until now—until Alex leaned into him with that quiet, rigid sort of pressure like he was afraid he’d be pushed away.

But Logan didn’t.

He just held him.

“You did good today,” Logan said softly, voice low against the shell of Alex’s ear. “Not just on track. All of it.”

Alex pulled back half a step, face still blank but eyes flickering with something new.

Maybe gratitude. Maybe just exhaustion.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

And that was it.

Logan nodded once, gave the kid’s arm a small squeeze, and headed toward the rental car.

His hotel wasn’t far. But by the time he got there, the weight of the day dropped on him like a curtain.

He showered fast, stomach hollow with a kind of buzzing fatigue that even food couldn’t fix. His eyes stung, not from crying, just from being awake. His muscles ached. His nerves still hummed from every moment he’d watched that race.

He didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t check his phone again either.

He sat on the edge of the bed, damp hair curling at his temples, and thought about that hug.

About how tightly Alex had held on.

And how much it had mattered.

He exhaled slowly.

The hotel room was quiet, but Logan wasn’t. Not inside.

His legs still buzzed like he’d run the track himself. His whole body hummed with the sort of adrenaline you couldn’t shake—not even with a long, hot shower, not even with the post-race exhaustion dragging at his limbs.

Alex had won.

Won.

And Logan had seen the exact moment it clicked—the wide-eyed disbelief right before the kid crossed the line, the wild, sudden grin when he pulled into parc fermé and the officials waved him through.

No theatrics. No ego. Just a stunned, feral joy that made Logan’s chest ache in the best way.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt this proud of something that wasn’t his own.

The Zoom window pinged on his laptop. Eloise was waiting, her hair pulled into a neat braid, glasses perched on her nose, her background clean and professional as always.

Logan clicked in, settling back against the pillows. He was still in a black hoodie, damp around the collar from the rain earlier, and had a towel draped over one shoulder like he’d forgotten it was there.

“You look like you’ve been run over”  Eloise said.

Logan grinned—big, unfiltered. “He won.”

“I know,” she said. “Oscar texted me in all caps. I had to turn off notifications.”

Logan laughed, still breathless. “He won, Eloise. I swear to god, he took that thing and made it look like a goddamn rocket. The Cullaham kart was understeering like hell in practice, but during the race? He figured out how to compensate mid-lap. He was thinking, even when he was under pressure.”

“Did he hold the lead clean?”

“Overtook on lap seven.  Very clean after that.” 

Eloise’s smile warmed. “That’ll help.”

“Help with what?”

“Everything,” she said. “His reputation, for one. The pitch I’m preparing for the new team. Elowen’s on board. Arlo’s still verbal only, but we’re expecting paperwork by next week. And Sablestone Racing sent over their sponsorship agreement this morning. I’ve looked it over—it’s solid.”

Logan sat up a bit straighter. “So with all of that…?”

“We can cover the exit clause,” she confirmed. “All forty thousand.”

He whistled low. “That’s still insane. For a kid.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she said, calm. “But yes—it’s disgusting. It’s also legal. And we’ll pay it quietly, efficiently, and without drawing too much attention.”

Logan nodded slowly. “And if the Evans ask…?”

“We tell them the truth,” she said. “Just not all of it. You’re not the sole donor. You’re a contributor among others. It’s not a handout—it’s a team effort. Which, from everything I’ve seen, is what they respect.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just don’t want them thinking I’m buying my way into this. Into him.”

“You’re not,” Eloise said, voice gentler now. “You’re investing in a future that deserves it. They’ll see that. Especially now.”

She gave him a quiet moment, then added, “He must’ve looked good out there.”

Logan leaned back, gazing up at the ceiling like it might help him hold onto the feeling a little longer.

“He looked like he belonged out there,” he said softly. “He looked like he knew it, too.”

Chapter Text

Logan didn’t even make it to the kitchen.

He’d come back from a run—shirt damp, lungs sharp with salt air—and saw the notification. Subject: Arlo Jennings – Confirmation of Sponsorship Contract Finalized.

He clicked before he even toed off his shoes.

The email was short. Polished. Legalese trimmed with a hint of human warmth—probably Eloise’s doing. The language was all official: “formal agreement,” “terms enclosed,” “partnership effective immediately.”

But Logan only really saw one thing.

It was done.

Arlo had signed. Elowen had wired funds. Sablestone’s logo would be on Alex’s kart by the end of the month. And that forty-thousand-dollar shadow? Buried. Paid. Gone.

He let out a breath so long he surprised himself.

Then—because there was no one else in the room—he laughed. Loud and stupid. Bent over his knees, grinning like an idiot. His face flushed, his arms tingling, his whole damn body buzzing like he’d just drunk fifty glasses of champagne and snorted the bubbles for fun.

This was it.

This was what winning felt like now. Not crossing a finish line, not an anthem on a podium. Just… knowing you did right by someone. That you fought hard, quiet, stubborn—and it paid off.

That a kid had a future, and you helped carve it out.

He flopped backward on his couch, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling like it owed him applause.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, still breathless.

He grabbed his phone, thumbs already moving before he’d thought it through. A text to Oscar? To Eloise? To Alex?

To all three?

But he paused before sending anything. Because this wasn’t about credit. It wasn’t even about thanks.

It was about getting him there.

And they had. Together.

Logan looked around his apartment—sun-washed, quiet, just him—and smiled like maybe, for the first time in too damn long, he belonged somewhere, too.

Logan stared at his phone screen like it might bite him.

Logan:

Hey, any chance you’re with your parents?

Or can get to them?

Logan:

Need 10 mins. Zoom. Nothing scary.

He didn’t add And bring tissues, though he was tempted.

It took a few minutes, but Alex Evans replied.

Alex Evans:

Hang on. Gimme five. I’ll get them.

Alex Evans:

Should I be nervous?

Logan smirked, thumbs flying.

Logan:

No.

But maybe have some water nearby.

Or like… a fan.

He grabbed his laptop, clicking into his Zoom account and setting up the call before he could second-guess himself. His heart thudded, but it wasn’t nerves. Not really. Just anticipation so sharp it made his fingers feel electric.

By the time Linda and Paul’s names popped up, with Alex’s small square joining just behind them, Logan had kicked off his shoes, trying to look casual.

“Hi,” he said, suddenly aware of his own stupid grin.

“Logan,” Linda greeted, and despite the weeks of strained calls and careful negotiations, her voice sounded almost… hopeful.

Paul gave a tight smile. “Evening.”

Alex looked suspicious. “You’re being weird. You don’t usually grin that much.”

Logan snorted. “You’re right. You caught me. I have something to say.”

He took a breath and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table like it would keep him grounded.

“I got the confirmation this afternoon. It’s done.”

They blinked.

“Elowen’s team, Arlo Jennings, and Sablestone—together, they’ve pulled it off. The penalty’s covered. You’re clear of Cullahams.”

Silence.

Alex froze first, jaw slack, like his brain hadn’t quite caught up.

Linda’s hand went to her mouth. Paul leaned back slowly, blinking.

Logan kept talking, giving them a little space but not dragging it out.

“That means Alex is free to race with Sablestone for the rest of the season. The sponsorship is official. He’ll still need to do a few press things, and obviously Elowen will send over the media calendar, but the money’s there. All legit. No handouts—just the right people backing the right driver.”

He glanced to Alex. “You.”

And then Alex made a sound—choked and startled, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re kidding,” he whispered. “You’re actually serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Logan said, which earned him a disbelieving snort from Linda.

Alex’s camera wobbled. “Holy shit. Sorry. Sorry, Mum.”

Paul chuckled. “I think we’ll let that one slide.”

“I—” Alex started. Then stopped. Then shook his head, running both hands through his hair.

“You did it,” he said softly. “You actually did it.”

“No,” Logan said, quiet. “We did.”

And for a moment, the screen felt like the center of the world.

Madeline shuffled into the living room, her small frame wrapped in oversized pajamas that looked like they belonged to someone twice her size. Her sleepover bag—an overstuffed tote with cartoon characters plastered all over it—hung lopsided from her shoulder. Logan caught himself smiling, remembering Alex casually mentioning last week, between race updates, that Madeline was off to a sleepover this weekend. Somehow, despite the chaos of Alex’s racing world, the everyday moments still slipped through.

The little girl’s grin was impossible to miss. That missing bottom tooth made her look both mischievous and endearing, like she was constantly on the brink of some new adventure or prank. She bounced in with the kind of energy only ten-year-olds seem to have—the kind that doesn’t fade no matter how many late nights or early mornings. Logan felt his own buzz from the race day slowly mixing with something softer, warmer.

From the corner of the room, he could hear Alex and his parents talking quietly, their voices a low hum of comfort and familiarity. It was a different kind of noise than the roaring engines and pit lane chatter Logan was used to—something calmer, more grounded. The contrast was striking.

Madeline plopped down on the couch, tugging at her pajama sleeve nervously before turning to her family with that grin still plastered across her face. She looked over at Alex, who was busy unpacking some gear, and then toward their parents. The way they all interacted reminded Logan how deeply family was woven into Alex’s life, even with all the pressure on the young racer’s shoulders.

He took a moment to let it all sink in—the small, messy living room, the distant hum of conversation, the quiet but present love that filled the space. For a brief second, it felt like the racing world could pause, and Logan could just be here—not as a mentor or negotiator or hopeful sponsor, but as a person witnessing a family holding tight to each other.

His skin still tingled from the rush of the day, but this—this was different. It was grounding. And somehow, seeing Madeline’s wide, unabashed grin made him think maybe there was still room for moments like this, even in the whirlwind.

Logan sat back in his chair, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating his tired face. The Evans family was filling his small Miami apartment with noise and warmth, even if only through pixels and internet delays.

He watched Alex standing near the window, hands in his pockets, eyes tracing the faint city lights outside the frame. Paul, in his usual spot by the couch, was talking low, while Linda leaned forward, her voice soft but steady. The kind of quiet moments that made Logan ache — because he wasn’t there.

They weren’t speaking to him, not really, but he felt like a fly on the wall, eavesdropping on something precious.

Alex’s voice cut through the silence. “I hate feeling like I’m asking for too much. Like I’m some kind of charity case.”

Paul’s laugh, warm and familiar, came through the speakers. “You? Charity? More like an investment. And we’re hoping for some dividends.”

Linda smirked at him, her words gentle but teasing. “You’re our best investment, even if the price tag’s scary.”

Logan’s chest tightened. The numbers—the $40,000—were a weight Alex carried, even now. He could see it in the way Alex’s shoulders stiffened, in that subtle pause before his smile came.

“I just want to know I’m not keeping you up at night,” Alex said, voice low.

“Sleep’s overrated anyway,” Linda replied, “and we’ve been losing it for years. You’re part of the deal.”

Paul added with a grin, “We wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

Logan felt his throat pinch. The connection, the love, it was all there—even across the ocean and miles of cable.

He swallowed and typed into the chat quietly, You’re not alone in this. I’m rooting for you every step.

Alex glanced at the screen for a heartbeat, a quiet nod of thanks.

Logan leaned back, letting the moment hang—warm, distant, hopeful.

Logan clicked the “Leave Meeting” button, the familiar chime echoing in his ears. The room felt quieter all of a sudden, the screen going dark as the Zoom window closed.

He rubbed his tired eyes and pulled out his phone, fingers already flying over the keyboard.

Oscar, he typed, you’ll never guess. Arlo’s signing. It’s happening. I’m buzzing like I just drank ten espressos.

He hesitated a second, then added, But you probably already know. You always know.

His thumb hovered over “Send” before tapping it decisively.

Almost instantly, a reply popped up.

Oscar: You look like you’re plotting something. Spill.

Logan grinned to himself, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

Logan: Just celebrating a win before the race even starts. Want to hear all the plans.

Oscar: Call me later. I want all the details.

Logan locked his phone and leaned back, the buzz of excitement still crackling in his veins. The long road was just beginning, but for the first time in a while, it felt like the right one.

Chapter Text

Logan, eight years later.  

It’s the screaming that reaches Logan first. Not just through the commentary feed or the roar of engines—it’s the human kind. The kind that comes from 80,000 people surging to their feet at once, disbelief and elation crashing together like waves against concrete.

He nearly drops the phone in his hand.

“He did it,” Logan breathes. No one’s around to hear him—just the hotel room in Miami, the muffled hum of the AC unit, and the live stream projected on his TV screen.

The camera jolts, focusing on the white-and-red blur that is Alex’s car weaving through the cooldown lap. There’s barely any control left in the wheel, Logan can tell. He’s not driving anymore. He’s flying.

Alex Evans. Formula One World Champion.

The words run across the bottom of the screen, and Logan doesn’t realize he’s gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles start to ache.

He can’t hear Alex’s voice yet—he won’t until the interviews—but he already knows what it’s going to sound like. That raw, breathless pitch. Just a little higher than normal. He still does that when he’s overwhelmed. Always has.

The team radio crackles in:

“ALEX, YOU DID IT! YOU’RE WORLD CHAMPION, MATE! YOU’RE WORLD CHAMPION!”

Alex’s response is garbled, broken by sobs and static.

Logan presses a hand over his mouth, like that’ll keep something in, though he doesn’t even know what’s threatening to spill out—tears? Laughter? The scream he’s been saving for this very moment since the kid was fifteen?

The camera follows the car back to parc fermé. Mechanics are already sprinting over the barriers. Flags wave. Smoke flares. Logan catches the glint of someone holding up a Union Jack and, absurdly, the corner of a Hong Kong flag behind it.

Logan closes his eyes. He sees the kid—not the one climbing out of the car now, drenched in champagne before the corks have even popped. No. He sees fifteen-year-old Alex Evans, too small for the kart that had been falling apart underneath him. The same one who couldn’t make eye contact the first time Logan told him he was proud of him.

Logan leans back, the world tilting a bit. Or maybe it’s just his heart.

The broadcast keeps rolling, sweeping through victory hugs and helmet taps and someone yelling off-screen in Italian. Alex is tugged out of the car by his engineers, half-sobbing, half-laughing. He keeps blinking like he can’t quite believe it either.

There’s no time for a breath, let alone processing. He’s ushered away for weigh-ins, sponsor gear, the watch, the necklace—champion bling, Logan always called it.

Then comes the interview.

Alex stands in front of a wall of flashing cameras. His fireproofs are unzipped to his waist, undershirt plastered to him. His curls are damp, crushed flat from the helmet, his cheeks flushed red. The team principal claps him on the back and leaves him alone in front of the world.

Logan knows how these go. So does Alex. But this one is different.

The reporter—some neutral accent, clean voice—leans in. “Alex, congratulations. You are the youngest World Champion since Sebastian Vettel. How does it feel?”

Alex lets out a breath. And it shudders.

“Um,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I… I don’t know yet. I think I’m still catching up. We didn’t— I didn’t think—”

He falters, and Logan watches his throat work around the lump that’s clearly rising.

“This team’s given me everything,” Alex says eventually. “And I’ve worked hard. I’ve worked really hard. But this isn’t just mine.”

He glances down, blinking hard, then back up at the reporter. “There are a lot of people who believed in me. Some aren’t here anymore. Some… got me through the worst of it. Even when I didn’t think I’d race again.”

The reporter’s nod is gentle. “Are you thinking of someone in particular?”

There’s a pause.

Alex swallows. His eyes flick toward the camera. Not directly at it. Just close enough that Logan feels it—like a ripple.

“My parents,” he says. “Always.”

The breath catches in Logan’s throat.

“They passed two years ago,” Alex continues, voice steadier than Logan expects. “It was… sudden. And for a while, I thought I wouldn’t come back from that.”

The camera angle shifts, closing in slightly. Alex’s fingers twitch at his sides.

“But someone—” he huffs a short, stunned laugh “—someone didn’t let me quit. Not really. Even when I said I wanted to stop, he just… sat with me. Drove me places. Showed up. Let me hate him for trying.”

He pauses. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Logan.”

Logan grips the edge of the table again, harder this time.

“He’s not just the guy who got me out of a bad contract,” Alex says, voice thickening. “He’s my family.”

The crowd noise surges behind him, and Alex tips his head back for a second, clearly overwhelmed.

“I hope he knows that,” Alex adds softly.

Logan doesn’t move.

He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

Alex

Alex wipes his face as he’s steered away from the flashing lights and the reporters trying to squeeze in just one more question. His hand still trembles slightly from adrenaline—or maybe from the weight of it all. Even now, after the trophy is technically his, it still doesn’t feel real.

“Up you go,” a marshal grins at him, nudging him toward the stairs that lead to the podium.

Alex nods, dazed, legs moving before his brain can quite catch up. There’s a collective cheer from the paddock below—teammates, engineers, friends. And above them, a sea of fans on the grandstand bleachers, flags rippling under the late afternoon sun. It’s not quite sunset in Abu Dhabi yet, but the light is beginning to soften, glowing golden as it bounces off the metal of the track barriers.

World Champion.

That thought slams into him again as he steps onto the platform.

There’s a sudden gust of noise—cheering, whistling, someone clearly screaming “THAT’S MY BOY”—and then Oscar appears at his side, grinning like he just set the damn car up himself. Which, to be fair, he kind of did.

“Was worried you were gonna cry on live TV,” Oscar teases as he hands Alex a water bottle.

Alex lets out a ragged laugh. “I still might. Don’t tempt me.”

Oscar doesn’t press. Just slaps a hand to the back of Alex’s neck and gives him a squeeze. A solid, grounding thing. A gesture that says: You did it, but I always knew you would.

Then Paul joins them—his teammate and rival, his friend and motivator. The Estonian is bouncing on the balls of his feet, still hyped from finishing P2 and securing the Audi 1-2. He ruffles Alex’s curls with a laugh that’s all joy, no jealousy.

“Try not to pass out before the anthems,” Paul grins.

“No promises,” Alex mutters.

And then—he steps forward.

The announcer calls his name. The flag rises. The crowd chants. His country’s anthem plays. The camera flashes are blinding, and the light hits his race suit just right: Audi’s sleek white design, accented with clean red and subtle gold striping, like someone built him from legacy. The suit practically gleams in the sun, dotted with sponsor logos—Shell, Tag Heuer, Adidas, a discreet little “Evans & Co” stitched along his collarbone in tribute.

The weight of the winner’s trophy is heavier than he thought it would be. But he lifts it high anyway. He has to. His arms are shaking, but he gets it above his head.

And the crowd erupts.

It’s not rose petals or glitter. Not fireworks or thunderclaps. But it feels like it.

Then comes the rose water.

Oscar doesn’t even wait for the count of three. He nails Alex square in the chest with the first blast, laughing like a maniac. Paul joins in a second later, turning the podium into a spray zone. Alex shrieks—loud, undignified—and tries to shield his face, but he’s already soaked. The liquid runs down his suit, sticky and cold in the heat, but he doesn’t care. He’s smiling so hard it hurts.

“Payback,” Oscar yells over the noise.

“For what?”

Oscar smirks. “For Spa. 2029. I’m a long-game kind of guy.”

Alex doesn’t argue. He just shoves his bottle at Paul and lets himself laugh until his ribs ache.

The moment crystallizes into something permanent. Even with the rose water clinging to his eyelashes, even with the cameras trained on him and the heat prickling at the back of his neck—Alex feels like time has stopped just for him. Just long enough to etch this memory in full color.

He did it.

He really, truly did it.

Logan

Back in Miami, Logan hasn’t moved from the couch.

He’s sitting cross-legged, the same way he used to when he was a kid watching NASCAR on weekends, and he’s pretty sure his mouth has been hanging open for at least five minutes. He’s not blinking. The room is too quiet except for the broadcast, and yet it feels like the air is vibrating.

Alex—his Alex—is standing on a podium in Audi white, clutching a world champion’s trophy.

Oscar is next to him, grinning like a jackass, soaked to the skin.

And Paul Aron shaking Alex by the shoulders, saying something Logan assumes is along the lines of ‘of course you’re a world champion before me’ but he’s grinning.

It’s like watching a dream you forgot you had unfold in front of you.

Except Logan did have this dream. Maybe not in full, maybe not with all the pieces colored in. But he remembers the version of it from nearly a decade ago—the one where he was pacing a hotel room, trying to figure out how to get a teenager out of a bad karting contract and into a future that didn’t feel like it was collapsing.

Now here they are.

Logan leans back against the cushions, hand dragging over his face. His cheeks are damp. He doesn’t remember crying. But the warmth in his chest is sharp enough to be real.

There’s a sudden knock at his door—probably one of his neighbors bringing him the mail or wondering if he’s okay, given the yelling they probably heard earlier.

He ignores it.

The screen shifts to a wider shot, panning over the Yas Marina circuit and the confetti streaming through the air. The camera lingers on Alex just a little longer—his curls wild, his smile endless, the trophy still in his grip like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he lets go.

Logan exhales.

“World Champion,” he whispers to no one. “You really did it, kid.”

Alex

The door clicks shut behind him. The noise dulls instantly—still a low roar outside, the buzz of post-race chaos humming through the paddock—but in here, in this cool white hallway behind the podium, it’s just Alex.

And the silence, when it finally settles, nearly knocks him over.

He leans against the wall.

The rose water still clings to him, seeping into his race suit and hair, dripping down the curve of his jaw. His curls are a sticky mess. His hands shake faintly where they rest on his thighs, and his pulse is so high he’s sure he could hear it if he sat still long enough.

He doesn’t, though.

Because sitting still might make this feel real, and he isn’t ready for that.

He breathes. One. Two. Tries a third and ends up gasping on it. And for some reason—maybe the silence, maybe the crash of adrenaline—his face twists, and he starts crying.

Full-body crying, like his bones are exhaling. Like his skin can finally stop holding everything in.

But it’s not grief. Not even close.

There’s a smile on his face that won’t go away. It stretches through every tear, every ragged breath. It’s the kind of grin that makes his cheeks ache, makes his eyes crinkle, makes his chest feel like it’s too small to hold everything.

He covers his face with one hand, still laughing quietly through the tears, and drops into a crouch. His knees creak, but he doesn’t care. His boots are soaked. His gloves are jammed into the waistband of his suit, forgotten. Everything smells like roses and engine heat.

His helmet is somewhere behind him, probably still being photographed. The trophy’s being guarded like it’s the crown jewels. The team is running wild. Paul’s probably still giving post-race interviews shirtless like a lunatic, and Oscar—God, Oscar—is out there making smug eye contact with the camera like he hasn’t just helped coach a rookie to a world title again.

Alex drops his hand from his face and lets the tears dry naturally, cool streaks on flushed skin.

He feels too much.

Too much joy. Too much disbelief. Too much everything.

And, beneath it, like a ribbon running through the middle of him—relief.

He didn’t think he’d be here. Not after what happened two years ago. Not after—

He swallows. Doesn’t go there. Not now.

His chest trembles.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that. Long enough that a tech peeks in and, seeing him curled against the wall, backs out immediately with a polite, “Take your time, champ.”

Alex huffs a soft laugh. Champ. That still doesn’t feel right in his mouth.

He scrubs a hand through his curls, flinging rose water off his skin, and lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud.

And then—

His phone buzzes.

He fumbles for it. It’s shoved deep in the waterproof pocket inside his suit. His fingers are still trembling, still damp, but he gets it out.

One new message.

Logan: I hope you know I screamed loud enough to scare the neighbor’s dog.

Proud doesn’t even cover it, Alex. That was perfect. You were perfect.

Alex reads it once. Then again.

Then his throat closes.

He bites his lip so hard it stings, and he types back quickly, thumbs unsteady on the screen.

Alex: You watched?

The reply comes so fast he’s startled by it.

Logan: Course I watched.

I’ve been waiting for this longer than you have, remember?

Alex stares at the screen.

God, he wishes Logan was here. That he could shove into his side and laugh and cry and let himself fall apart just a little. That he could say thank you in person and have it actually land.

Because Logan didn’t just mentor him. He saved him. Steadied him when he would’ve fallen off the edge. Dragged him out of a grief that felt like a grave.

Logan was the reason Alex had kept racing after his parents died. The reason he hadn’t quit after three straight DNFs. The reason he started believing that he was more than a tragic story waiting to happen.

He sends one more message, thumb hovering only a moment before hitting send:

Alex: I wouldn’t be here without you.

And a second later, like Logan had already been typing:

Logan: I didn’t get you here.

You did.

Alex closes his eyes.

Another tear escapes. He doesn’t wipe it away.

Then, carefully, slowly, he pushes to his feet.

He runs his fingers through his curls again, straightens his suit, breathes in deep. The smell of rose water is overwhelming, but he decides he doesn’t mind. It’s kind of his scent now.

World Champion.

He grins.

Then he opens the door and walks back into the noise.

The party’s still going downstairs.

He can hear it through the floor—music and laughter, a thump of boots on tile, someone (probably Paul) doing an impromptu victory dance on top of one of the couches. There’s a chant happening too. His name, shouted over and over. Alex! Alex! Alex! Like it’s a song.

But he’s not there.

Not anymore.

He’s upstairs now, freshly showered, hair damp, in the Audi hoodie they gave him when he signed the contract three years ago. It’s too big and smells vaguely like champagne even though he wasn’t drinking any.

His body aches. His eyes burn. His voice is halfway gone.

But when he sits on the bed and pulls out his phone, he doesn’t even hesitate.

He presses Logan’s name.

It rings once. Then twice.

And Logan picks up on the third with a rush of sound—rustling fabric, a caught breath, like he sprinted to answer it.

“You’re calling me?”

Alex laughs, soft and hoarse. “Should I not be?”

Logan’s voice is warm. Drowsy. Maybe he was already half-asleep. “No, no—God, no. Just figured you’d be neck-deep in glitter and rose water and whatever ridiculous party Paul’s hosting.”

Alex swings his legs up onto the bed, tucks the pillow behind him, and lies back. “I was. I bailed.”

“Too cool for it now, huh? Mr. World Champion.”

He groans. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s real.”

There’s a pause. Then: “Alex.”

“Yeah?”

“It is real.”

Alex smiles at the ceiling, one hand over his chest. “Feels like a dream.”

“You know what doesn’t feel like a dream?” Logan says. “Watching you take that last corner and realizing no one was catching you. I almost broke my phone trying to rewind the onboard.”

Alex laughs again. “You didn’t?”

“Oh, I did. I’m gonna rewatch it like a hundred times. I already know your telemetry split.”

“Loser.”

“You love it.”

Alex doesn’t deny it. His chest aches in the good kind of way.

He closes his eyes. The hum of celebration continues below him, but up here—it’s just Logan’s voice in his ear. The same voice that talked him through cornering drills and helped him figure out how to carry grief and not drown in it. The voice that told him, over and over, that it wasn’t over yet.

And tonight, he won.

Not just for the championship.

But for himself.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You know, they all asked me how I did it. All the journalists.”

Logan hums. “And?”

“I wanted to say you. Like, literally just say you.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. Then, Logan’s voice—quieter now. “That would’ve been weird.”

Alex snorts.

“I mean it though,” Alex adds. “There were a lot of people. Sponsors. Engineers. Oscar. But… you were the one who pulled me out. When I didn’t want to be here anymore.”

He doesn’t say after they died. He doesn’t have to.

“I remember,” Logan says quietly.

“And tonight—” Alex swallows. “I thought about them. But I thought about you too. When I crossed the line.”

“You think they were watching?”

“I hope so,” Alex says. “Because I think they’d be proud.”

“They’d be more than proud.”

Alex smiles again, a tremble in the corner of his mouth. “You okay?”

There’s a pause. Then Logan says, “Yeah. Just trying not to cry on FaceTime. That’d be embarrassing.”

“We’re not on FaceTime.”

“Thank God.”

Alex laughs, rubbing at his eyes. “Next season’s gonna be insane.”

“Think you’ll defend the title?”

Alex pauses. Then, with a slow and certain grin: “Think I’ll try.”

“Good,” Logan says. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

The line goes quiet again, but it’s not empty. Just… full of breath. Memory. The knowledge of everything they’ve survived to get here.

Alex pulls the blanket up over his chest. “Don’t hang up yet.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

And so, for a long while, neither of them speaks. The party goes on, the world spins faster now that it has a new champion.

But up here, the silence is golden. The connection is steady.

And Alex—twenty-three, brilliant, exhausted, happy—lets himself fall asleep listening to the one voice that’s never let him down.