Chapter 1
Nash
The roar of the engine still echoes in my head as I pull myself out of the race car, only to be replaced by the raucous cheers from over a quarter of a million fans. I’m soaked in sweat and gritty with grime but completely energized as I climb to the top of my car and hold up my arms in victory. I didn’t think it could get any louder but the chants of “Nash, Nash, Nash!” boom all around me.
I’ve just won the first race of the season in the Open-Wheel Championship series, on the most famous motor speedway track in the world. Indianapolis hasn’t always been good to me, which means this first-place podium is extra sweet.
The team is already celebrating behind me—pit crew, engineers, strategists—their smiles wide and waiting for me to join them. The tension that locks up my body during the race eases, but the adrenaline is still peaking. This is what I live for.
After I jump down off the car, I’m handed a bottle of ice water and I take a long gulp, trying to catch my breath. Driving an open-wheel race car at more than two hundred miles an hour on average for almost two and a half hours will get anyone’s pulse pumping. But it’s not just speed and victory that has my heart hammering. I have to acknowledge it’s still the fear that resides deep in my belly, and I don’t think that will ever go away.
Regardless, I think I’ve proven that I belong here.
A reporter approaches, microphone in hand, eager to capture the moment.
“Nash, that was an incredible race,” he says, grinning at me. “After last season’s domination in the OWC series, you’ve picked up right where you left off. What’s it like to come back and show everyone you still have it?”
I wipe my brow, my eyes scanning the crowd before coming back to him. “Feels damn good, honestly. Last season was a real breakthrough for me, and I’ve put in the work to stay at that level. But every season’s different. Every race is a new challenge. Today was a great start, but I’m not letting up. I’m focused on the long game.”
“Your performance last year in the OWC was nearly flawless,” the reporter presses. “You ended up as the series champion, and you were a consistent threat at every race. With a new season, the pressure’s on. Can you keep up that kind of dominance again this year? What’s the mindset heading into these races?”
Scratching my chin, I give a slight shrug of humility. “I mean… I’m always going to aim for the top, but I know it will be a fight. The OWC gets more competitive every year. You can see it here in Indianapolis, the crowd sizes rivaling those in Formula International. There are plenty of guys coming up behind me who want to take my place. But that’s why I race. I’m not here to coast. I’m here to prove I can keep my spot, and that’s the mentality I’ll bring to every race this season.”
The reporter nods in agreement. “Nash… you’ve built a reputation as a consistent and aggressive driver. How do you keep your focus, especially with so much attention on you?”
I pause for a second, considering. “I’ve been racing my whole life, but the last few years, especially after the crash, I had to learn how to focus differently. It’s not just about the race anymore. It’s about my mindset. It’s about being present in every moment. I know what’s at stake and that drives me. But I’m also aware that anything can happen because racing is unpredictable. You have to keep your head on straight and adapt as you go.”
“Well, you’ve certainly made a statement today,” the reporter adds with a smile. “Is this the start of another championship-winning season?”
I smile, my confidence solid. “We’ll see. It’s one race down, but I’m not satisfied. There’s a long road ahead and I’m going to keep pushing every step of the way.”
The reporter nods, wrapping up the interview. “We’re excited to see what’s next. Best of luck for the rest of the season, Nash.”
“Thanks,” I say, giving him a nod and then I’m whisked away. I jump into my teams’ arms, give another interview, and then I’m on the podium, spraying champagne at the second- and third-place winners.
Then it’s off to the showers where I gratefully wash away the dirt, sweat and bubbly wine, slipping into comfortable jeans, a sweater and leather jacket.
My manager Greg Persons meets me outside my dressing room, a shit-eating grin on his face. “There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”
I’m beyond exhausted, the last of the adrenaline having washed down the shower drain. “Can we not? I just want to get back to my hotel—”
“Trust me,” Greg says. “You want to talk to this person.”
He doesn’t wait for me to agree and starts pushing me into the small relaxation room where I often meditate before a race.
I come up short when I see the beautiful blond woman standing there, wearing a navy-blue power suit with pearls at her throat. Her hair is twisted up and her lips are perfectly painted crimson red.
Brienne Norcross. Head of Norcross Holdings, owner of the Pittsburgh Titans, and as of three and a half months ago, the new owner of Titans Racing, a formula race team based out of Guildford, England.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she says in a cool, cultured tone. She steps forward, offers me her hand and I take it. “That was quite a race. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I say as we shake, a little discombobulated that she’s standing here. I’m not the type to get starstruck, and I don’t right now. But my pulse jackhammers harder than it ever has out on the track because her presence here can only mean one thing. “Please call me Nash.”
She inclines her head, a smile on her bloodred lips. “Your performance last year in the OWC series was beyond impressive and it looks like you’re on track—no pun intended—to repeat a championship.”
I appreciate the sentiment, but I can’t agree with it. “The season just started. It’s going to be a battle to the end.”
She hums low in her throat, almost as if she appreciates my humility. “Well, be that as it may, I’m actually here to talk about Formula International.”
As I expected, but just the mention of the most elite open-wheel racing series in the world has my stomach bottoming out, and not with excitement.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I say cautiously, not wanting to assume the worst.
Or is it the best?
Brienne clasps her hands before her, and I can practically feel Greg vibrating with eagerness. “Oh, you’re a smart man, I have no doubt,” she says with a laugh. “Surely you must know that if I’m here to talk about Formula International, then I’m here to talk to you about driving for Titans Racing.”
The floor spins, but I can’t show weakness. I clamp onto the back of the chair and lean forward, truly to steady myself, but I’m hoping it conveys mild interest.
“You have two drivers, though,” I point out.
“I’m sure you saw the crash in Bahrain?” I nod, and she continues. “While it appeared that both drivers were fine, Tomas Aalto has a compression fracture in his vertebrae and will be out for at least three months. I need someone to step in.”
I stare at her, speechless for a moment. “You want me to replace him?”
Her eyes lock onto mine, steady and unwavering. “Yes. I want you in the seat for the Jeddah race.”
“But that’s in…” My mind whirls as I calculate. “Eight days. I haven’t raced a formula car in three years. And you know damn well what happened the last time I was in one.”
Brienne doesn’t flinch. “I understand all of that. I also know you are one of the best drivers in FI history. You’ve got the skills, the talent, and the drive. What you’ve been through, though, is exactly why I’m offering this. I need someone who understands what it takes to get back in the game, someone who’s fought the demons you have. And you’ve got something Tomas doesn’t—experience.”
I shake my head, unsure. “I don’t know. I’m comfortable here in the OWC series.”
Her mouth turns down as if she’s disappointed by that. “Look… if you want to be comfortable, then you should stay in the OWC. If you want the challenge and the chance to take back your power in a formula car, I’m willing to talk. But you have to want it.”
Christ. I hate the fact that something deep inside me is screaming I want it!
My gaze drops to my scarred hands. Red, pitted flesh made better by numerous skin graft surgeries. I truly never thought I’d ever want to return to formula racing, but now that an opportunity is before me, I don’t know that I can turn my nose up at it.
My gaze rises to meet Brienne’s. “So, what is this exactly? Are you offering me a job?”
“I’m not offering you a job yet,” she replies firmly. “I’m offering you the chance to prove you are the one I should offer the job to. I want you to come to Pittsburgh with me to meet with the executive team. They’re the ones who need convincing.”
I’m shocked that the meeting will be in Pittsburgh. The entire operation is based in Guildford, so I’m wondering if they’ll relocate their headquarters. For now, that’s neither here nor there.
“But you’re convinced?” I ask hesitantly.
She nods, breaking visual contact with me. “I am. The ball’s in your court.”
My mind whirls at the offer. Part of me wants to jump at the opportunity. The thought of getting back into it, the speed, the technology—it all makes Formula International the pinnacle of racing.
But I can’t shake the fear. What if I fail? What if I can’t get back to who I was?
What if I can’t even get into the car because all I can feel is the heat of the fire, all I can hear are the screams of agony?
My hesitation is obvious and I’m surprised Brienne doesn’t just walk away. Instead, she moves in closer to me, her voice warming, and she’s no longer the cool, billionaire businesswoman. “You’ve got nothing to lose by coming to the meeting, Nash. You’re the best choice for this team. I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.”
Greg finally voices his opinion, although I already know his stance. “This is a big opportunity. I think you should go.”
He’s been my manager for years and knows what that crash did to me and my confidence. More than anyone, he understands the struggle to get back into racing and that even me joining the OWC series was a huge milestone.
“You’re too good for the OWC, Nash. You belong back in Formula International,” he says solemnly.
I take a long breath, torn between the pull of returning to FI and the weight of the memories I’ve been fighting to escape. The crash, Matteo trapped in the flames, screaming for me to help him.
The pain from my burns, so intense there were times I wanted to die.
It all comes rushing back and as always, it conjures a black cloud of despair and uncertainty over me.
But at the same time, there’s a spark in my chest, this flicker of excitement. It’s all about possibility, renewal and vindication.
Formula International.
It was always my dream to race at the highest level, and I was there once before.
Can I go back?
Do I dare?
“Okay,” I say, the word coming out quieter than I expect. “I’ll do it.”
Brienne smiles with such confidence I realize she knew that would be my answer. “Great. I’ve got my private jet waiting for us. We’ll fly to Pittsburgh, and I’ll show you the new headquarters. Did I tell you I bought us a wind tunnel?”
My jaw drops. That kind of technology can make a huge difference in the aerodynamics of the car—the difference between winning and losing. Not all race teams have them as they can cost upward of fifty million dollars and the fact that she’s just so nonchalantly throwing it out there makes me wonder what other surprises she has in store for Titans Racing.
Another thrill of yearning courses through me and for the first time, it outweighs the fear.
“You’ll get the grand tour of the new headquarters. We’ve been working hard on it since I acquired the team.”
“Are you going to close down the Guildford operations?” I ask, wondering about the team’s original headquarters based in England.
“Eventually, but there will be a transition period over the course of this season,” she says and then sweeps her hand toward the door. “Now, are you ready to go?”
I glance at Greg, who makes a shooing motion. “I’ll handle getting you checked out of your hotel, and we’ll meet up…” Greg looks to Brienne, unsure of the exact game plan.
She smiles politely. “I’ll have my jet fly him wherever he wants to go after he meets with the team.”
We spend a few minutes ironing out details. My plan was to catch a quick flight to Detroit to see my parents before I had to head off to track testing in Florida but who knows where I’ll end up now.
I know Greg will already be working up the numbers—what is my value? How will I get out of my existing contract? What is the amount that will induce me to return, assuming I’m even offered the job?
I’ll be looking to him to steer me right, but truth be told, I’d probably accept peanuts to return to formula racing. Now that I’ve made the mental leap that I can do this—I’m sure of it—I’ve got to figure out how to convince the executive team that I’m the right decision.
I’ve got a chance at redemption. I’ve got a chance to prove myself. And as much as I’m terrified, I can’t let this slip through my fingers.
