5. Racing the night

RACING THE NIGHT

H otel rooms all look the same after a while - generic artwork, stiff sheets, mini-bars stocked with overpriced regrets. This one at least had a decent view of the city, not that I was really seeing it. The ice in my glass had melted twenty minutes ago, watering down whiskey I hadn't even touched. Some champion I was, hiding out in a room that cost more per night than my first car.

The TV droned on in the background, some sports commentator analyzing my "sudden career hiatus" like he had a fucking clue. They'd been talking about it for weeks now, spinning theories about injuries or contract disputes. None of them guessed the truth - that I was losing the only race that really mattered.

My phone lit up with Tommy's face, a photo from his last birthday. He'd been so excited about the go-kart I'd promised to help him build. Now it sat in pieces in my garage, another broken promise to add to the pile.

But it wasn't Tommy calling. Cassidy's name flashed across the screen instead.

"Little late for legal advice, isn't it?" I answered, trying for humor and missing by a mile.

"Turn on the TV.” Cassidy's voice had that tight quality it got when shit was about to hit the fan. "Now, Elliot."

The remote felt heavy in my hand. Channel 6's evening news filled the screen, and there she was - Vanessa, looking perfectly put together outside some charity event. The headline below made my stomach drop: “Racing Star's Wife Confirms Split: 'We're Focusing on Co-Parenting'"

"Fuck." The whiskey glass hit the coffee table hard enough to slosh. "Fucking fuck."

"It gets worse," Cassidy said in my ear. "Keep watching."

The reporter stuck his microphone in Vanessa's face. "Mrs. Blue, can you comment on Elliot's recent decision to step away from racing?"

Vanessa's smile was camera-perfect, practiced in a thousand Victory Lane photos. "It's been a difficult time for our family. While I support Elliot's choices, my priority has to be creating stability for our son."

"That manipulative-" I couldn't even finish the sentence.

"Don't." Cassidy cut me off. "Don't say anything. Don't post anything. Don't even think about calling her."

"She had no right-"

"She had every right legally. You never filed an NDA, and you’ve been divorced for months." Papers shuffled on Cassidy's end. "What we need to focus on is damage control."

The reporter was still talking: "Sources suggest the split may have influenced Elliot Blue's shocking departure from racing. Mrs. Blue, any comment?"

"I think Elliot's decisions speak for themselves." Vanessa's voice dripped with careful concern. "I just hope he finds whatever he's looking for."

My fist connected with the wall before I even realized I'd moved. Pain shot through my knuckles, but it felt better than the knife she'd just twisted in my gut.

"I heard that," Cassidy said sharply. "Stop punching things and listen to me. This changes our strategy for the custody hearing."

"Strategy?" I laughed, and it sounded crazy even to my own ears. "She just blew up my life on national TV, Cass. What fucking strategy could possibly-"

"The one that keeps you from losing your son." Her voice cut through my rage like cold water. "Think, Elliot. She's playing this perfectly - the concerned mother, the supportive ex, while painting you as unstable and unpredictable."

My phone buzzed with incoming messages. Sponsors, probably. My agent. Maybe even Tommy, if Vanessa let him watch the news.

"I need to talk to my son," I said, already pulling up his number.

"Not tonight. Not until we know what Vanessa's told him." More papers rustled. "Look, I'm heading to my office now. Meet me there in thirty minutes. And Elliot?"

"Yeah?"

"Ice that hand first. We need you looking stable, remember?"

The call ended, leaving me alone with Vanessa's voice still coming from the TV: "Tommy and I are just trying to move forward with our lives."

I killed the power, but her words kept echoing. Moving forward. Like I was something to leave behind. Like I hadn't given up everything to stay still, to stay close, to be the father she claimed I never was.

The mini-bar called out like an old friend, promising numbness I couldn't afford right now. Instead, I pressed my throbbing hand against the window, letting the cool glass ease the ache. Below, the city lights blurred into a sea of judgment, each one feeling like another eye watching my life unravel.

My phone kept lighting up with notifications:

“Blue Family Confirms Split"

“Racing Champion's Marriage Hits the Wall"

"Vanessa Blue Speaks Out"

Each headline was another nail in the coffin of my privacy, another weapon Vanessa could use in court. She'd played it perfectly, like she played everything.

My keys sat heavy in my palm, the familiar Porsche fob catching the hotel's dim light.

Fuck it.

The parking garage echoed with my footsteps, concrete and fluorescent lights creating a tunnel that led to my car - sleek, black, powerful. Not my racing machine, but it would do. The engine roared to life, the sound bouncing off the walls like a caged animal finally set free.

Fuck the meeting. Fuck damage control. Fuck everything.

The city streets blurred past, traffic lights creating streaks of color in my peripheral vision. I hadn't driven like this since my rookie days, when speed was the only answer I had to life's questions. The highway opened up before me, empty and inviting at this hour.

My phone kept lighting up the passenger seat. I ignored them all, pressing the accelerator harder. The engine responded like a faithful friend, eating up asphalt and distance in equal measure.

The speedometer crept higher. Not racing speeds, but fast enough to feel alive, fast enough to outrun the thoughts chasing me. Trees and guardrails became dark smears against a darker sky.

A curve appeared in my headlights. I took it harder than I should have, feeling the tires grip then start to slide. For a split second, muscle memory kicked in - countersteering, adjusting, bringing the car back in line. Just like old times, except now I had more to lose than just a race.

Vanessa's interview played on repeat in my head, each word calculated for maximum damage. "While I support Elliot's choices" - like I'd chosen anything except trying to be there for our son. She'd always been good at that, turning my best intentions into weapons. Back when we first met, I'd thought it was clever how she could work a room, spin any situation to her advantage. Funny how the same skills that had once protected our image now threatened to destroy mine.

The empty road stretched ahead, a black ribbon cutting through nowhere. Out here, there were no cameras, no reporters asking about my "emotional state," no carefully crafted statements from Vanessa's PR team. Just me, the engine's purr, and enough darkness to swallow every shitty headline she'd generated.

A sign materialized in my headlights: "Welcome to Oakwood Grove - Population 2,847."

The numbers were faded, like no one had bothered to update them in years. Some small town I'd never heard of, probably the kind of place where everyone knew everyone's business but kept it to themselves.

Fields rolled past my windows, the moonlight turning them silver. No skyscrapers here, no paparazzi hiding in bushes. Just farmland and what looked like horse pastures, peaceful in a way my life hadn't been since-

Since when? Since Vanessa started plotting her exit strategy? Since I noticed her recording our arguments on her phone, building her case one fight at a time? Or maybe since I'd first seen my name on a racing contract and thought I could have it all - the career, the family, the American fucking dream.

I should turn back. But my hands stayed steady on the wheel, guiding the car deeper into this town I'd never meant to find. The engine's growl echoed off old brick buildings, probably drawing more attention than this place had seen in years. Yet something about it felt right - like maybe I'd driven off my carefully plotted course and found somewhere I could actually breathe.

Main Street unfolded before me like a scene from another era. A diner’s sign glowed warm and inviting despite the late hour, its neon sign reflecting off my hood. An old hardware store stood sentinel on the corner, its windows displaying garden tools and paint cans instead of the latest electronics. Even the damn streetlights seemed gentler here, more like fireflies than the harsh spotlights I'd grown used to.

My car crawled past a bar - The Watering Hole, according to the weathered sign. Fairy lights twinkled across its patio, and through the windows I caught glimpses of what looked like actual conversation happening. No phones in sight, no cameras ready to catch the next viral moment. Just people being people.

A church bell chimed somewhere in the distance - who the fuck still had church bells? - and the sound carried across the quiet streets like a lullaby. I found myself slowing down, drinking in details I would've missed at racing speed. The flower boxes hanging from lamp posts. The intact American flag over the post office. The way the whole town seemed to nestle into the surrounding hills like it had grown there naturally.

Red and blue lights exploded in my rearview mirror.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." The words escaped before I could stop them. Of course. Of-fucking-course this would happen now.

I pulled over, gravel crunching under my tires. The cruiser stopped behind me, its lights painting everything in alternating crimson and sapphire. In my side mirror, I watched a tall figure emerge - all broad shoulders and purposeful stride. Great. Probably some small-town cop ready to throw the book at the fancy car disturbing his peaceful night.

My license and registration sat ready in my hand as boots approached my window. Might as well get this over with. Maybe if I was lucky, this wouldn't end up on news: "Disgraced Racing Star Gets Traffic Ticket in Podunk Town."

The beam of a flashlight swept through my car. I squinted against the glare, making out dark hair and what looked like a permanent serious expression on the approaching officer's face. His badge caught the light - "Sheriff," not just a regular cop. Even better.

"License and registration," a deep voice commanded. No star-struck recognition, no shift in tone at seeing my face. Either this guy had no idea who I was, or he didn't give a shit.