CHAPTER 1

Asher

I stand at the pit wall, my helmet in one hand, trying to breathe without looking like I’m on the verge of a panic attack. Cameras click in rapid staccato around me—reporters, fans, and the ever-present paparazzi all jockeying for a perfect shot. This is supposed to be my domain, the racetrack where I thrive. But today, every flash feels like it exposes too much.

My fingers tighten around the sleek helmet shell, the grip almost painfully rigid. Even the hum of power from the cars rolling to the starting grid can’t steady me right now. Usually, I’d have my signature headphones snug over my ears, blasting music loud enough to drown out every intrusive thought. But the headphones are gone—stolen—and I can’t tune out the noise.

A few fans chant my name—Colt! Colt! Colt!—but there’s an undertone of snickers in the crowd. I catch glimpses of posters that read Headphone-Gate and Where’s Your Lucky Charm Now? The media has latched onto the story like sharks.

My manager, Zara De La Cruz, strides over, wearing a tailored blazer and a clipped expression. “Fifteen minutes to start,” she says, voice crisp. A phone dangles from her hand, perpetually buzzing with PR demands and sponsor updates. “Asher, I need you to focus.”

She always says that. As if I could magically forget my face is plastered across tabloids, the words Sex Mishap in Vegas emblazoned underneath. The woman I hooked up with—the one who swiped my headphones from the hotel suite—sold her story and video. The footage went viral two days ago.

I force a cocky smirk, that practiced brand of swagger the press eats up. But I hear how hollow it sounds when I say, “Don’t worry, Zara. I’ve got this.”

My older brother, Eli Colt, appears at my side. He’s the lead mechanic on my team and the only person I still let close. He’s holding a tablet with the track temperature stats, but his gaze flicks to me with concern. “Asher, you good?”

I try for a nonchalant shrug, ignoring the anxiety snaking up my spine. “I’m solid, man.”

He narrows his eyes—he can tell I’m lying. I don’t blame him for doubting me. My racing ritual has been the worst kept secret in the pit for the last few years: a night of no-strings sex to burn off the tension, then loud, pounding music in my specially modified headphones to stay hyper-focused behind the wheel. People see it as a flashy quirk, a reckless indulgence. But they don’t know I need the noise to keep the panic at bay.

Now my trademark is gone, snatched from a Vegas hotel room along with the last shred of my privacy. I have no fallback.

Eli gently tugs my arm, pulling me a few steps away from the cameras. The overhead lights of the grandstand glare off his grease-stained uniform. “Look, if you’re not in the right headspace—”

“I’m fine,” I snap, but the dryness in my mouth betrays me. I swallow hard. “I can race.”

He hesitates, then checks his watch. “Okay. Just remember to breathe. You’ve done this a million times.”

That’s the problem. I’ve done it a million times—but always with my ritual. Always with my music blasting so loud that fear can’t wedge itself into my thoughts. Now, I feel that fear creeping in like a slow, inevitable tide.

A pit crew member waves me toward my car, a sleek black machine with bold sponsor stickers. My name, Colt, is stenciled in shining white across the side. Normally, I’d take pride in the pomp. But right now, my heart just pounds with uncertainty.

I slip into the cockpit, adrenaline spiking as I buckle the harness. The seat molds to me, every surface reeking of rubber and engine oil. Overhead, the crowd roars. My sponsors expect me to shine, to erase the gossip with a killer race. They want the unstoppable Asher Colt, the star who never cracks.

I glance at the empty space near my steering wheel, where I usually keep the headphones on standby until the last possible second. My chest constricts. They’re not here.

The national anthem blares over the stadium PA. Cameras pivot to capture each driver’s reaction. I tilt my head back, letting the sun scorch my face. My team’s communications earpiece rests uncomfortably around my collar, but it’s not the same. There’s no music, no isolating thump to block everything out.

“Focus,” I whisper under my breath. “Don’t lose it.”

The anthem ends, and an official signals the gridwalk. My engine fires up with a thunderous growl. As the formation lap starts, every muscle in my body tenses, waiting for that familiar jolt of confidence. Except it doesn’t come.

In my mind, I see the tabloids:

• Asher Colt’s Latest Hookup Goes Viral: Headphones Stolen!
  
  
• Cocky Racer’s Secret Weapon Disappears—Can He Still Win?
  
  

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

I open the radio channel, my voice tight. “Eli?”

“I’m here,” he says calmly. “Just like always. Breathe.”

I grunt in response. The throaty rumble of the car usually sends a thrill through my veins, but now it’s overshadowed by dread. My heart thuds as we circle back to the starting line, cars in neat rows. The lights overhead click through their sequence: five red lights. My pulse hammers in time with the final beep.

Lights out.

I slam the gas. The car rockets forward, tires squealing, the track a blur of scorching asphalt. For the first few corners, I manage to hold position. My reflexes snap, body aligned with the machine. I’m doing it, or at least imitating the racer everyone expects me to be.

But by lap three, something cracks inside my head. The shrill whine of the engine merges with the crowd’s roar, and I can’t breathe. My foot eases off the accelerator without permission. My hands tremble on the wheel.

I grit my teeth. “No, no, no.”

Another car zooms past on my left, inches from clipping my front wing. Normally, I’d fight for that position with fearless aggression, but I’m paralyzed. Panic slices through my thoughts—What if I spin out? What if I can’t handle the next turn?

“Colt, you’re losing time,” Eli’s voice crackles.

My breath comes fast and shallow. The infamous near-fatal crash from years ago flashes in my mind: the spinout, the screech of metal, the shattering of fiberglass. For a long time, I used sex and music to bury that memory. Now it’s front and center, unstoppable.

We round another bend, and the car behind me tries to overtake. I twitch the wheel too hard, desperate to block. The tires slip. The back end fishtails.

“Damn it!” My shout is drowned by the crowd’s collective gasp.

The car veers, scraping the barrier in a spray of sparks. My stomach lurches. I manage to regain a sliver of control, but the momentum is gone. The guys who started behind me surge ahead. My heart rate spikes to the point of dizziness, and I fight to hold the line.

Everything feels surreal, like I’m underwater, every sound muffled and distorted. I can’t tap into my usual aggression, can’t drown out the negative voices echoing in my brain.

By the final lap, I’m trailing far behind the leaders. I cross the finish line dead last. The humiliation is immediate, roiling in my gut. I coast into the pit lane, feeling the weight of thousands of eyes on me.

I kill the engine, yank off my gloves, and clamber out of the car on unsteady legs. The noise of the crowd is deafening. Some still cheer out of pity or leftover fandom, but I catch scattered jeers too.

Zara rushes forward, her expression taut with forced composure. I know that look. She’s about to spin this disaster in some press statement about “mechanical issues” or “tire strategy.”

I toss my helmet onto a table. “Don’t, Zara. I know exactly how that looked.”

Her jaw tightens. “We need to do immediate damage control. Sponsors are already blowing up my phone.”

I bark a humorless laugh. “Let them call. I just finished last for the first time in my entire career.”

She starts to say something, but a wave of reporters floods in. Cameras flash wildly. I tug my race suit collar higher, trying to hide behind the zip, but there’s no hiding from this.

A microphone thrusts near my face. “Asher, do you think losing your headphones caused this result?”

Another reporter jabs in, “The public wants to know—did your meltdown on track have anything to do with the recent scandal?”

“Is it true you’ve canceled all your usual pre-race rituals? Are you off your game?”

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. My mind scrambles for a witty retort, something to preserve the brand, but my chest burns with shame.

Eli appears, stepping in front of me like a shield. “No comments right now,” he states firmly, guiding me toward the team garage.

The bright stadium lights give way to the shadowy interior, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and hot tires. Mechanics hustle around, stowing tools and analyzing data. Nobody meets my gaze. This is a fiasco.

I slump onto a metal folding chair near the far wall, ignoring the swirl of activity. My breath still runs ragged, the aftershocks of panic swirling under my skin.

Eli crouches beside me. He’s got grease smudges on his cheek and worry lines carved deep across his forehead. “Hey,” he murmurs, “take a second. You’re safe.”

My fingers tremble on my lap, stinging with leftover adrenaline. I press them into my thighs, trying to ground myself. “I—I haven’t placed last since I was fifteen, racing go-karts.”

He sighs. “You can bounce back.”

It doesn’t feel like it. My vision blurs around the edges, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. I think of the phone in my race suit pocket—no doubt loaded with messages from sponsors, tabloids, maybe even self-proclaimed “fans” delighting in my downfall.

Zara walks in, expression resigned. “We have to face the press eventually. They’re going to keep pushing the narrative that you’re toast without your…unorthodox approach.”

I grimace. “They’re calling it unorthodox now? That’s a polite word for it.”

“The tabloids are less polite,” she corrects, crossing her arms. “They’re having a field day.”

Images sear my mind: the viral clip of me with that woman in Vegas, the half-lit hotel room, my body pinned under the lens of a phone camera. The moment she slipped my prized headphones into her bag, and I—drunk on adrenaline—didn’t even notice until morning. The headlines wrote themselves.

And now the entire world sees me as that cocky racer who can’t keep it together without his lucky gear—or his scandalous pre-race fling.

I swallow a lump of bitterness, pushing up from the chair. “Let them laugh.”

Zara’s expression is a complicated mix of pity and exasperation. She steps closer, dropping her voice. “You might want to consider finding a new coping mechanism, Asher. Because I’m not sure you’ll get those headphones back, and even if you do, the press will never leave you alone about it.”

Eli stands and moves a half-step behind me in silent support. I hold Zara’s gaze, my stomach churning. “I know,” I finally say, voice hoarse. “But that’s not exactly easy.”

She softens a fraction. “Take the night. I’ll handle the immediate statements. Tomorrow morning, we need a real plan.”

My plan is usually simple: find a random hookup and blow off steam, then blast music so loud it rattles my skull. But we all know how well that worked out last time. I have no desire to repeat that fiasco, not to mention it’s the last thing my sponsor wants to see in the headlines.

Zara paces off, phone to her ear, barking spin-control lines into the receiver. Mechanics shoot me sidelong glances, quickly returning to their tasks.

Eli squeezes my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Outside the garage, the cool evening air hits my face. The stadium’s overhead lights illuminate the deserted track. Stands are emptying, fans clearing out. I hear the distant hum of celebration as the top three drivers do press interviews. I should be there. Instead, I’m skulking away like a washed-up has-been.

We wind through the paddock, brushing off more reporters. My knuckles clench at every camera flash. The heaviness in my chest deepens. Part of me wants to get on a plane and vanish for a month, but that won’t fix the primal fear roaring inside me.

I climb into the backseat of a waiting SUV, relief surging when the door shuts and muffles the noise outside. Eli slides in next to me. The driver pulls away from the racetrack.

For a moment, nobody speaks. Then Eli clears his throat. “You’re gonna have to address the panic attacks, Asher,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

Panic attacks. The words buzz in my ears. I consider denying it, but I’m too exhausted for denial. “I know,” I mutter. “But how? The headphones were all I had.”

He looks pained, but his voice stays calm. “There’s gotta be another way. Therapy, maybe. A different anchor.”

A harsh laugh escapes me. “Easier said than done.” I stare out the tinted window, the passing city lights a blur. A sense of loss hollows me out. I’ve been clinging to that specific ritual for so long, and now it’s wrecked. All that remains is the terror I’ve never learned how to face.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. A quick glance at the screen reveals a deluge of notifications—social media tags, missed calls, anxious sponsors. My chest tightens again.

Eli sets a hand on my arm, stopping me from spiraling. “Just turn it off. You don’t owe them anything tonight.”

So I power down the phone, letting the screen go dark. It doesn’t stop my heart from racing, but at least I can breathe without the constant reminder of my latest failure.

We drive in silence the rest of the way, the city lights streaking through the windows. My mind replays the moment the car spun toward the barrier. The chorus of jeers. The knowledge that I’ve lost everything that once made me feel invincible.

By the time we reach the hotel, my pulse has settled to a dull throb. I step out, ignoring the wide-eyed doorman who recognizes me, and stalk through the gleaming lobby with my gaze fixed forward. Mirrors reflect my disheveled appearance: the race suit half unzipped at the neck, sweaty blonde hair a mess, eyes rimmed in frustration. Usually, I bask in the attention, but now each stare feels like a question I can’t answer.

Up in my suite, I close the door on Eli’s concerned expression. Standing alone in the entryway, I strip off the top half of my suit and toss it over a chair. The space reeks of stale nerves. Dim city lights filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I run a hand over my face, fingertips brushing stubble on my jaw. My reflection in the mirror above the minibar meets my gaze—defeated, shoulders slumped, no trace of the confident persona that once fueled my every move.

The headlines echo in my brain again: Sex Mishap Dethrones Racing Star.

A bitter ache lodges under my ribs. Without the music, without my pre-race ritual, I’m not bulletproof anymore. I feel raw, exposed, and so damn powerless.

My fists clench, nails biting into my palms. I’m not done. Even as I think it, a thread of doubt weaves through the conviction. How do I continue if I can’t outrun the panic?

I shut my eyes and inhale, imagining the surge of an engine, the crisp crackle of guitar riffs in my stolen headphones. But the comfort doesn’t come. They’re gone.

A memory flickers: a group of photographers yelling my name outside a nightclub, me grinning like a daredevil behind those headphones, that near-constant shield of sound. I recall leaning in to whisper something arrogant to a tabloid reporter. That was me—untouchable, or so I thought.

Now, I peel back the façade, and the terror is there. It’s been waiting, coiled and ready to strike. I realize, with a sick jolt, that I might not be able to race if I don’t figure this out. Racing is all I’ve ever known. Losing it means losing myself.

I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m crouched on the floor, arms on my knees. My breath comes faster, a cold sweat prickling along my neck. Normally, in this moment, I’d throw on those headphones. The pounding bass would drown out my thoughts, and I’d find my center again.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I sit in the silent hotel suite, alone with a fear I can’t escape. My body trembles with the aftershocks of adrenaline, and no coping mechanism rides to the rescue. I bury my face in my hands, forcing air in and out of my lungs until the lightheadedness recedes.

A single phrase hums through my head: You need something new. Some new anchor, some new remedy. Because whatever illusions I clung to have shattered on that track.

Tightening my jaw, I push to my feet. Rummaging through my bag, I find my phone charger. The phone stays off as I plug it in—I can’t face the avalanche of messages yet. Tomorrow, I’ll attempt to salvage what’s left of my career. Tonight, I have nothing but the echo of my own heartbeat and the knowledge that this meltdown is far from over.

I glance at the window, at the city lights that never dim. For the first time in a long time, I feel truly unmoored. But somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny spark of defiance flares. I’m not giving up. If I have to rebuild from the ground up, I will. If that means finding a new way to steady the panic, so be it.

I cross the suite, flicking off a lamp. Darkness settles over the plush furniture. Exhaustion weighs on me, but I can’t imagine sleeping. My mind reels with the humiliating images from earlier, replaying the sideways glances of pity, the scorn from the crowd.

I strip off the rest of my race suit and step into the shower. Steam envelops me, water pounding on my shoulders. I let it burn my skin, hoping the heat will melt away the tension. Instead, my stomach twists with the memory of my car scraping that barrier—those crucial seconds of helplessness.

Not bulletproof anymore.

With the water coursing down my back, I close my eyes and admit the truth. I’ve been using my flamboyant sex-and-music ritual to bury a crippling anxiety that never really left. Now that my fallback is gone, the cracks in my armor are far too visible.

I breathe in the steam, exhale slowly, trying to ground myself. The future feels precarious, but a stubborn corner of my mind refuses to let go of racing. Something has to replace the old coping method. Some voice, some sound, something that can keep the fear from devouring me.

Stepping out of the shower, I dry off and pull on a pair of boxers. Outside, thunder rolls—an unexpected late-night storm. Rain spatters the glass, obscuring the cityscape in a shifting pattern of streaks.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Water droplets cling to my hair; a faint bruise darkens my left shoulder from the crash’s force. My blue eyes look tired, bloodshot. I wonder if I’ve ever looked more defeated.

But that spark of defiance still flickers, refusing to die. Tomorrow, I’ll face the sponsors. I’ll figure out how to hush the tabloids. And I’ll hunt for something—anything—to replace the hole my ritual left behind.

The alternative is losing the only thing I love more than my ego: the race itself. I won’t let that happen. Even if I have to claw my way out of this scandal with no headphones, no illusions, and no easy fix.

Quietly, I walk into the bedroom, flicking off the final light. Darkness wraps around me, but my thoughts won’t settle. My heart beats a restless tattoo in my chest as I sink onto the edge of the mattress.

Failure. Regret. Humiliation. They swirl like a brutal storm. But beneath all of that, beneath the anxiety that threatens to choke me, I sense the faintest whisper of hope. Maybe losing the ritual is the push I need to find something real—something that doesn’t revolve around sleeping with strangers or drowning in heavy bass.

I lie back, exhaling as the mattress sighs under my weight. Rain continues to tap the window, a steady rhythm that might lull me toward sleep if I let it. My eyelids flutter, exhaustion winning out. The last conscious thought I have is a vow: I’ll come back from this, no matter what it takes.

And somehow, in the drifting haze between awake and asleep, I believe it.