I’ve been staring at Blair’s hotel room door for fifteen minutes, feeling like the world’s most useless boyfriend. Race day. The hallway’s too-bright lights make my eyes ache, but that’s nothing compared to the knot in my stomach.
I woke up at 5:30 AM, a full hour before Blair’s usual pre-race routine begins. After she told she “needed space” last night, I spent most of it staring at the ceiling of my room.
I check my watch again. 6:15 AM. I’m dressed in my Team Zenith supporter gear, hair neatly combed, new pants, new shoes, even a bit of make up which i really, really fucking hate to wear. I’m ready to be the perfect paddock boyfriend. My thumb hovers over her contact on my phone, but I pocket it instead. This needs to be face-to-face.
P6. Sixth position. For most drivers, that would be respectable. For Blair West, rising star of Zyn Zenith GP with her electric blue hair and silver eyes that flash like knife blades when she’s angry, it’s practically an insult.
And I can’t shake the feeling that I’m partly to bla. Since our F3 days, I’ve given her a pre-race massage every single night before she competes. It’s our ritual, our superstition. My hands working the tension from her shoulders while she visualizes the track, turn by turn. But last night, for the first ti since we beca a couple, she went to bed without it.
I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. What if she’s still sleeping? What if she’s ditating or going through her ntal preparation? What if she really doesn’t want to see ?
Before I can decide, the door swings open. Blair’s face is lit with a predatory grin, like a kid who just pulled off the perfect prank. Then her silver eyes land on , and the smile vanishes.
“Nick?” Her voice carries none of the warmth I’m used to. She’s already in her pre-race outfit, hair perfectly styled, looking past rather than at . “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to be ready early,” I say, trying to sound casual despite the sinking feeling in my chest.
She adjusts the strap of her bag, creating distance without moving. “I thought maybe today we could go separately.”
The hallway suddenly feels colder. I swallow hard.
“Blair, I really want to talk about Friday. About you seeing talking to Ivy.”
Her eyes roll so dramatically that I’m surprised they don’t fall out of her head. The sigh she releases makes feel smaller than the dust on her racing boots.
“Co on, Nick. I just got so good news, and I’m not in the mood to be annoyed right now.”
Annoyed. That’s what I am to her now. An annoyance.
“What’s the good news?”
Her smile returns, sharp-edged and triumphant. “The stewards are giving Ivy a five-place grid penalty for missing that yellow flag yesterday.” She checks her watch, the limited edition one the team gave her after her first podium. “I’m starting P5 now.”
“That’s... great,” I manage. “Congratulations.”
She nods, already looking toward the elevator. There was a ti when news like this would have ant a celebration, her lifting off my feet in excitent, stealing kisses between whispered strategies. Now she’s treating like a random fan who stopped her for an autograph.
Blair glances down at her watch again, her mouth tightening into a thin line. “If you’re coming with , we should leave now.” She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. “But I need so quiet ti to focus, so... just don’t talk to for a bit, okay?”
The way she says it makes it clear it’s not really a request. I nod, trying to ignore how my heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise.
The elevator ride down to the parking garage might as well be a descent into the arctic. Blair stands as far from as possible in the small space, eyes fixed on her phone.
The team car waits for us outside, sleek and emblazoned with Zenith’s iconic purple. Blair slides in first, imdiately putting her earbuds in, a clear “do not disturb” sign if I’ve ever seen one. I settle into the seat beside her, leaving as much space as possible between us. The driver, a woman with close-cropped hair and a Team Zenith jacket, catches my eye in the rearview mirror with a sympathetic glance.
The twenty-minute drive to the circuit stretches into what feels like hours. The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the occasional notification from Blair’s phone. She stares out the window, lips moving slightly as she ntally rehearses the race, corner by corner. I fidget with my paddock pass, wishing I could dissolve into the leather upholstery.
Once, this silence between us would have been comfortable. Now it’s like trying to breathe underwater.
When we arrive at the circuit, Blair removes her earbuds but still doesn’t speak. She walks ahead of through security, barely waiting as I fumble with my credentials. The paddock is already buzzing with activity, chanics rushing around, journalists hunting for quotes, and fans pressing against barriers hoping for a glimpse of their favorite drivers.
Blair’s pace quickens as we approach the Zenith hospitality area. Her hand occasionally brushes against mine, but she never takes it. Instead, she plasters on her dia smile whenever we pass anyone important, nodding toward as if to say, “Yes, I brought my boyfriend, as expected.” A few photographers snap pictures of us, and she shifts closer for them, her arm stiffly around my waist. The mont they lower their caras, she steps away.
Just as we’re about to enter the main hospitality suite, Blair suddenly grabs my wrist. Her grip is firm, those silver eyes darting around like she’s checking for snipers.
“Co with ,” she says, the first direct sentence she’s spoken to all morning.
I follow her because, of course, I do. We weave through the paddock, past the garages, where chanics are making final adjustnts to the cars. She leads toward a smaller structure at the far end, one of the private trailers reserved for the Zenith drivers to escape the chaos before races.
Blair punches in a code on the keypad, and the door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. She gestures for to enter first, which I do, stepping into the cool, dimly lit space. It slls faintly of energy drinks.
She follows in, imdiately moving through the small kitchenette and lounge area, checking the bathroom and small ditation room. Satisfied that we’re alone, she turns to face , leaning against the counter.
The sigh that escapes her is so heavy it seems to deflate her entire body. Her shoulders slump slightly, and for a mont, I see the Blair I fell in love with, vulnerable, real. But then her spine straightens, and her chin lifts.
“Look, Nick,” she says, her voice steady but quieter than usual. “I think we should break up.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Even though I’ve been expecting this, dreading it. The reality of it knocks the air from my lungs.
“Is this because of Ivy?” I manage to ask, my voice embarrassingly small in the quiet room.
“No,” Blair says, her voice sharp with irritation. “But you were talking to her after I specifically told you not to.”
“She talked at ,” I fire back, my hands balling into fists at my sides. “I didn’t say shit to her! What was I supposed to do, run away?”
Blair shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose like I’m so kind of frustrating math problem she can’t solve. The gesture makes my blood boil.
“Look, Nick,” she says with that patronizing tone she’s perfected lately. “I think we’ve outgrown each other. We want different things now.”
“Why didn’t you just do this at the hotel!” I bark at her.
“I just decided.”
Sothing inside snaps. The hurt and confusion I’ve been swallowing for weeks rises up like bile, and I can feel hot tears threatening to spill over. I blink them back furiously, refusing to give her the satisfaction.
“Fuck you!” The words explode out of , bouncing off the walls of the small trailer. “We’re happy together. We’ve always been happy! You’re just... you’re just forgetting that!”
Blair’s eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting this reaction from her usually agreeable boyfriend. For a split second, I see uncertainty flicker across her face.
“Nick…” she starts, but I’m not done.
“What, you get one win, and suddenly you’re too good for ?” I ask, my voice cracking. The words taste bitter but honest. “You used to say you needed , Blair. Rember? That I helped you relax? That I kept you sane when everything on the track got to be too much?”
I’m shaking now, every bottled-up emotion spilling out. My hands gesture wildly, trying to grasp at sothing solid in this conversation that keeps slipping away from .
Blair’s expression hardens, her silver eyes turning to steel. “Yeah, well, I don’t need you anymore, Nick.” Her voice is clinical, like she’s discussing a part that’s been upgraded on her car. “You’re in the way.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
“In the way?” I repeat, the anger rising in like a tide. “In the way of what? Your precious career? The career I’ve supported since day one?”
She doesn’t even flinch. Just checks her watch again.
“Look, stay here for a while and cool off,” she says, already turning toward the door. “Or don’t. I don’t care. I have a race I need to go win.”
And just like that, she’s gone, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft chanical click that sohow hurts more than if she’d slamd it.
The mont she’s gone, my knees give out. I collapse to the floor of the trailer, a pathetic heap of Team Zenith purple rchandise and broken dreams. The tears co hot and fast, burning trails down my cheeks as I slam my fist against the cold tile.
“Fuck you, Blair!” I scream at the empty room, my voice cracking. “FUCK YOU!”
I’m shaking, rage pulsing through in waves. I want to break sothing, preferably sothing expensive that she loves. I want her to hurt like I’m hurting. I want...
But the anger starts dissolving, lting into sothing worse, sothing that feels like my chest is being hollowed out with a rusty spoon. Four years. Four fucking years of my life devoted to her. I’ve turned my life upside down to follow her across continents. I’ve learned to cook the specific pre-race als she likes. I’ve massaged her shoulders until my hands cramped. I’ve held her while she cried after bad qualifying sessions and cheered myself hoarse during her victories.
“I loved you,” I whisper, the words dissolving into a sob that wracks my entire body. “I loved you so much.”
The mory of her smile, her real smile, not the dia-ready one, flashes through my mind. The way she used to look at like I was her sanctuary in a world of chaos. The nights spent planning our future together, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my chest.
All gone. All fucking gone because she thinks she’s outgrown ?
I curl forward, forehead touching the cool floor, arms wrapped around my middle like I’m physically trying to hold myself together. The paddock pass around my neck feels like it’s choking now. I should rip it off. I should leave.
‘I guess I can go live with Dad? Or Maybe follow lissa?’
The electronic door hisses open with such force it bounces against its stopper. I jerk upright, heart leaping stupidly with hope that Blair’s returned, that she’s realized her mistake.
But it’s not Blair.
It’s Ivy Hunt, her purple-highlighted black hair wild around her face, eyes blazing with a fury that makes my blood run cold. She stalks into the trailer like a panther, not even registering my presence on the floor.
“I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE, BLAIR, YOU FUCKING PUSSY!” she screams, her voice echoing off the walls. “CO OUT AND FACE , YOU BACKSTABBING CUNT!”
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