Page 53 of Downforce

Over the years, I’ve seen taunting, mockery, and even anger in Max’s eyes. Last night in my dreams I saw fire. An unmistakable, scorching, incendiary blaze that lit me up from the outside inward.

Right before he leaned in for a second kiss that I absolutely knew would set me ablaze, I woke up. Sleep was elusive after that.

“Who do you have your eye on to qualify as P1?”

Jen’s question draws me out of my unwelcome reminiscing.

“Well,” I clear my throat, “I spent last night rewatching the Suzuka race. Bree had a strong finish. I honestly think, if she keeps this up, she’s walking away with the championship.”

After too many minutes of tossing and turning, I pulled up some racing footage on YouTube.

“That confident, huh? I’ll take your word for it. You think she has a shot at the big promotion?”

I snort, glancing around at the venue as women and men order drinks from the bar, laugh at jokes I’m certain they don’t find the least bit funny, and of course, men in suits making deals in the corner. I wave at a couple of familiar faces but gesture to the phone to my ear when they wave me over to talk.

“She does if she wants it,” I answer.

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“I hate to admit it, but there is a glass ceiling in this damn industry.”

Jen snorts.

“Glass ceilings are meant to be broken,” she says with all confidence.

“Damn straight,” I agree. “That issue is a tough one, but not insurmountable. There’s something about her demeanor that makes me question whether she wants it or not.”

“Have you approached her?”

I jut my head back in surprise. “Why would I⁠—”

“To be her agent,” Jen says like it’s nothing. “You said she doesn’t have one or⁠—”

“She has one … I think. Last I heard they were on the outs, but I’m sure she’s figured it out by now.” I glance around the room again, my gaze lingering on the agents I know in the room. Those are mostly the guys in business attire wooing business reps over glasses of scotch or wine.

I wonder who, in this room, is advocating for Sabrina Walters.

Then I remember that shouldn’t be my concern.

“But is it the right agent for her?” Jen’s question smacks me in the ear.

Still, I push it away.

“I can’t abandon Travis right now.”

“You’re not abandoning him,” she says as if she’s a teacher explaining a concept to her student for the third time.

My stomach tightens.

Becoming an agent means holding an athlete’s career in the palm of my hands. I would need to ensure they are guided toward the right opportunities, encourage them when things get tough, and depending on the athlete and what type of support system they have, it damn near requires being a part-time therapist.

What if I don’t have the right connections?

What if my head gets in the way and I mess things up?

What if …

What if …