Page 112 of Over the Limit

I keep seeing Rossi’s face. I keep hearing the hurt in his voice.

I knew he would take it hard . . . and yet that doesn’t make this any easier for me to process.

Afraid I’ll miss a second of it, but glad I’m alone in my hotel room, I turn the telecast on.

“Well, it was clear that there was some kind of unspoken tension in the Apex garage today,” Will, one of the announcers, says.

“Clear indeed, but maybe they need that more often because it’s the first time all year they have two drivers starting in the second row,” Francisco, his co-anchor, says.

“Agreed. It was a special day for the blue team. A lot of intensity and silence but at the end of the day, they pulled through.”

“A possible disagreement over contracts?” Francisco asks.

“There’s that constant weight on their shoulders since neither current driver has signed for next year yet . . . but if that’s the case, then both Oliver Rossi and Lachlan Evans put on a show that makes them desirable for all open contract spots.”

“You have a point there. I guess we’ll just have to see what tomorrow brings. At the end of the day, it’s what happens on race day that matters.”

“Agreed, Francisco. Agreed.”

I tune out as the analysts move on to discussing Team Moretti and their incredible run over the past few races.

And I sit at the window and stare out at a city beyond, but not really seeing it.

It’s well after five o’clock when I pick up my phone to call Lachlan. He doesn’t answer until the fourth ring.

“Hey,” he says softly, and the sound of his voice has the tears immediately flooding my eyes.

“Hi.”

Silence hangs on the connection, the weight of the day so heavy it’s almost as if both of us are afraid to talk.

“Congratulations on P3,” I finally say.

“Yep. Well, I either just fucked up my contract for next year or solidified it. I don’t know which one.”

“Lach—”

“I can’t do this right now, Blair. I appreciate that you need to talk, to explain—and I hate that I’m unable to give that to you—but I can’t offer you the undivided attention you deserve right now. The last thing you need is my shitty mood taken out on you. I’m sorry you were hurt today. I’m sorry you’re probably still hurting, because you’re a good human and that’s how good humans react . . . but I have a lot on my plate and need some time to decompress.”

I want to be hurt by his words, but I refuse to be. The fact he even uttered something like that when I’m so used to being shut out is enough for me. Has to be. He’s being far more gracious than Rossi ever could have been. And I respect him more for it.

“I understand,” I murmur.

“Thank you for giving me that grace. It’s just been a shit day, I have a ton riding on tomorrow, and I need to get my head in the right place.”

“Okay.” I clear my throat, my heart grieving that I put him in this position. That I can’t comfort him and just hold his hand while we lie side by side together. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

“Good night. I love you, Lachlan.” I wondered when the right time to finally express to him how I feel would be, but I know it’s now. Undoubtedly. It’s right now. “I love you,” I repeat. He needs to know that he is loved.

His breath stutters across the line and something about it—about knowing how much hearing those words affect him—makes me smile.

“I love you too, Tink. All of the above.”

“All of the above.”

I sit with my phone clutched in my hand for the longest time. The last thing I want to do tonight is go to an event with Monica.