The Last Lap Of Lies

MAYA POV

“Ease off, Maya.” My engineer's voice crackled through the radio. “You're on the edge.”

“I'm fine. Tell them the car is fine, too. And I'm not lifting.”

I wasn't lifting. Not today or ever again.

Turn Three rushed toward me. I took it harder than I should have, the force pressing me against the side of my seat as I powered through the corner.

For a second, the memory broke through.

Gravel. Sky. A car spinning across my vision.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

No. I buried the memory beneath the roar of the engine and pressed the throttle harder. The numbers on my steering wheel flashed past as I crossed the line. One minute, thirty-one point four seconds.

Two-tenths off the track record. Not the fastest lap of the day, but close enough that the silence afterward felt deliberate.

I pulled into the garage, killed the engine, and removed my helmet. My pulse was still racing, though I refused to acknowledge that it had anything to do with the corner I had just taken.

The team had been watching. So had the board. And one of its most important members was waiting beside the garages in an expensive jacket, looking at me as though I were a questionable investment.

He glanced at his tablet.

“One good lap doesn't earn you a season.”

I pulled off my gloves slowly. My hands were shaking. I curled my fingers around the fabric, keeping the movement small enough that he wouldn't notice.

“Then I'll give you more than one,” I said. “And another after that. You should probably keep the stopwatch running.”

His expression barely changed.

He turned and walked away, leaving me beside my car while the pit crew moved around me, discussing tire temperatures and setup adjustments as if I weren't standing right there.

I exhaled. My pulse remained stubbornly high. The memory I'd spent two years trying to outrun was still there, waiting for the smallest opening.

Gravel. Sky.

“Maya?”

My mother's voice pulled me back before the memory could take hold.

I turned to find Celia standing a few feet away, holding a paper bag and wearing the particular expression she reserved for situations in which she wanted to support me while disapproving of every decision I'd ever made.

“Look at you,” she said. “Still in one piece.”

“I'm touched by your confidence in me.”

“You should be. I drove two hours to make sure you haven't started surviving on energy drinks and whatever questionable food they keep in that refrigerator.”

She handed me the bag.

The smell of chicken and properly cooked rice escaped as soon as I opened it. Something warm and familiar settled in my chest, and for a moment, the noise of the garage seemed farther away.

“You drove two hours just to insult the catering?”

“I drove two hours because my daughter thinks she's invincible.” Her eyes narrowed. “And before you tell me you're fine, that everything went wonderfully, and nobody needs to worry about you, remember that I'm your mother.”

I looked down at the food.

“Mom. Everything went wonderfully. And nobody needs to worry about me.”

“You're lying.”

“Professionally. If you ask me.”

She shook her head, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

I smiled back. It came more easily with her than it did with most people.

Celia had perfected the art of seeing through me without demanding that I explain every little thing. She could recognize a lie, point it out, and sometimes let me keep it if she understood why I needed it.

Today, I was grateful she didn't push.

“Eat,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma'am.”

I took the container and started toward the garage entrance, already planning to eat before my next meeting. I had a season to secure, a board to convince, and a racing career that still seemed to be hanging on somebody else's approval.

I couldn't afford distractions. But then, I noticed the change in the atmosphere.

Conversations faded around me. A mechanic stopped halfway through a sentence. Someone near the next garage turned to look toward the paddock entrance. I followed their gaze.

Nico Laurent had just stepped out of the team car.

For one bad second, I wasn't standing in the garage anymore.

I was back on the track, two years younger, my helmet ringing with the impact, my car sliding beyond anything I could control. Nico's rear wing filled my vision, getting closer as I fought the steering wheel.

My fingers went cold around the food container.

I stopped walking.

Nico noticed me almost immediately. He slowed, then stopped a few feet away.

He looked older than he had in the photographs plastered across every racing magazine, though perhaps that was just the way I saw him now. The champion. The man everyone praised. The man whose name had become tangled with the worst day of my life.

“Maya,” he said.

Just my name. No explanation. No apology. Not even the polished smile he gave reporters.

As though we were two people who had simply lost touch.

“Don't.”

His eyes stayed on mine.

“Not here,” I continued, keeping my voice low. “Not with half the team watching like this is some kind of reunion special.”

I turned before he could answer. I didn't look back, but I could feel his gaze following me. He didn't call after me or attempt to close the distance.

Somehow, that restraint irritated me almost as much as an argument would have.

I made it to the corridor before someone from management intercepted me.

“Maya, the team principal needs you in the meeting room.”

“Of course he does.”

The employee wisely pretended not to hear me.

By the time I entered the room, I had eaten half my lunch and convinced myself that seeing Nico again hadn't affected me.

It was a convincing lie. Though I was getting better at those.

The team principal sat behind the conference table with a folder open in front of him. Through the glass wall, I could see Nico standing outside, his arms crossed.

He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. For once, we agreed on something.

“Sit down, Maya.”

I took the chair opposite him.

“If this is about the lap, I can explain the last two-tenths. I know where I lost them.”

“This isn't about your lap.”

“Then I'm hoping it's good news, because I've had a very long day.”

He closed the folder.

“There's been a change to your training arrangement.”

I leaned back. “New coach? Please tell me it's not another trainer. I already know how to pretend that I love every sponsor.”

“Maya.”

“Right. Serious face. I'm listening.”

“Nico will be handling your preparation this season.”

For a moment, I genuinely thought I'd misheard him.

I glanced through the glass. Nico was looking directly at me. He didn't smile, nod, or make any attempt to pretend this arrangement was a surprise to him.

Of course I'm sure that he knew. Obviously, everyone had discussed it before deciding that the two people least likely to enjoy being forced together should spend an entire season working side by side.

“You're joking. Right?”

“No. I'm not.”

“is there no one else?”

“Nico has agreed to oversee your preparation. His experience and understanding of the car make him uniquely qualified for the role.”

“His experience.” I let out a short laugh. “That's an interesting way to describe it.”

The principal's expression hardened slightly.

“This is an opportunity, Maya. You have one season to prove you belong in this seat. We need you performing at your best, and we need results.”

There it was. One season.

One chance to prove that a woman could hold her place on this grid without the board treating her seat like a temporary experiment. One chance to show that the crash hadn't taken anything from me that I couldn't win back.

And now I was expected to trust the man I blamed for it.

I looked at Nico again. He was still watching me, his face unreadable.

The old anger rose so quickly that I almost welcomed it. Anger was familiar. It gave me something to hold on to when everything else felt uncertain.

I pushed my palms against the cool surface of the table.

“Fine.”

The principal seemed surprised by how quickly I'd answered.

“Fine?”

“I'll work with him.” I held his gaze. “But if this is your idea of motivation, you should know I don't respond well to being cornered.”

“This isn't about cornering you.”

“Then let's hope Nico understands the difference.”

Outside, Nico straightened slightly, as though he'd heard his name through the glass.

I stood before the principal could say anything else.

The meeting was over as far as I was concerned.

As I reached for the door, the memory returned. Not the whole crash, just the instant before everything went wrong. The lights. The speed. The awful certainty that something was about to happen.

I pressed my palm against the glass.

For two years, I had told myself I remembered that day perfectly.

Now I wasn't really sure if I trusted my own memory.

And the worst part was that the one person who might have answers was the same man I had spent two years hating.