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A/N- There is just something about racer Paddy that I can just not name 🥵
@pyraomen hope you like reading this as much as I loved writing it
Warnings: Mentions of a crash and fire, emotional vulnerability, public display of affection, themes of fear and relief in a high-stakes environment.
Taglist is open
The roar of engines filled the air at the IMSA WeatherTech SportsCar Championship race at Road America, a legendary race track in Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin. It had been nearly three years since Patrick last competed in one of these exhausting endurance races, his love for racing pulling him back after focusing on acting and family.
You, his secret girlfriend of over a year, sat in the VIP area overlooking the main straight of the track where the cars started and finished the race. Your heart pounded even louder than the powerful engines echoing across the long 4-mile circuit.
The two of you had kept your relationship private, enjoying quiet moments away from the spotlight—late-night drives, stolen weekends in small cabins—to figure out if this was something real. But today, with Patrick behind the wheel of his No. 77 Porsche race car for the Dempsey-Proton Racing team, everything felt more intense.
He had given you the VIP passes himself, slipping them into your hand with a wink and a quick kiss before heading to the team garage.
“Stay close,” he’d murmured, his blue eyes serious. “I need to know you’re safe.”
Now, as the race began and the cars shot forward, you gripped the railing tightly. Patrick’s sleek white Porsche moved through the first fast corner, holding a strong middle position among the pack.
The first laps passed in a blur of speed and strategy. You watched the live timing screen, tracking Patrick’s position as he climbed to fourth place in his class. The crowd cheered with every pass, but your nerves twisted tighter with each turn.
This track had several dangerous sections—long sweeping curves and extremely fast corners where even a small mistake could send a car crashing into the wall.
Patrick’s voice came through the team radio feed available in the VIP lounge—calm and focused.
“Tires feel good. Pushing hard on the straight.”
Then disaster struck on lap twelve.
As several cars entered a long curved section of the track, the Lexus in front of Patrick collided with a Lamborghini. Their wheels touched, sparks flying everywhere. The Lexus spun out of control and slammed hard into the barrier.
The crash was violent.
Almost instantly, flames burst from the wrecked car as fuel caught fire. Thick black smoke rose into the sky while yellow caution flags waved across the track.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Patrick’s car was right there.
He reacted instantly, braking hard and steering sharply to avoid the wreck. His car slid sideways for a moment, the tires screeching as he drove over the bumpy edge of the track to get around the crash.
The announcers’ voices shot up in alarm.
“Oh no! Huge crash! Fire crews rushing in — and Dempsey somehow slips past the wreck!”
You grabbed the small silver necklace around your neck—the one he’d given you—and whispered a prayer under your breath. Your fingers crossed so tightly they hurt as you stared at the track, begging the universe to keep him safe.
A safety car slowed the race while marshals handled the crash.
But Patrick’s car reappeared on the screen, completely unharmed.
Relief crashed over you.
He briefly drove into the pit lane so his team could check the car, then he returned to the track as the race restarted.
And then he drove like a man possessed.
He quickly passed the McLaren ahead of him on the long straight stretch of the track, using the air behind it to gain speed before pulling ahead into second place.
Only one car remained in front of him now—an Aston Martin that had been leading most of the race.
Lap by lap, he began closing the distance.
You could barely breathe.
Every rumble from the grandstand felt like it echoed inside your chest.
By lap thirty-five he was close enough to challenge for first place—but the race was almost over.
The final laps were torture.
He pushed the car to its absolute limit. The engine screamed loudly through the speakers around the track.
For a moment it looked like he wouldn’t make it.
But on the final lap he somehow found more speed, braking late into a tight corner and carrying that momentum through the next section.
He gained nearly a second on the leader.
But the finish line came too soon.
Patrick crossed the line only four-tenths of a second behind, finishing in second place after an incredible drive.
The crowd exploded with cheers as the team radio shouted in celebration.
“Second place! Incredible drive, Patrick!”
He drove into the pit area, the car steaming from the effort.
As his team rushed toward the car and helped him climb out, Patrick ripped off his helmet. His salt-and-pepper hair was damp with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline.
And the first thing he did was search the VIP area.
His eyes found you instantly.
Without thinking, he climbed over the barrier separating the pit lane and pulled you into a tight embrace.
You were suddenly surrounded by the smell of race fuel, leather, and heat from the track. His racing suit was damp against your skin.
“You okay?” you asked breathlessly, holding his face and searching for injuries.
He smiled—that familiar, dazzling Patrick smile—and leaned down, pressing a firm kiss to your lips through the thin fireproof cloth covering part of his face.
Pulling back just slightly, his voice carried over the noise of the crowd.
“I love you,” he said. “God… I love you.”
The words hung in the air as cameras flashed around you.
For the first time, it wasn’t a secret.
Your mouth opened in shock, happiness rising in your chest—but before you could answer, his crew chief grabbed his arm.
“Podium time, Paddy! Let’s go!”
He squeezed your hand once before being pulled away.
You watched him climb the podium steps moments later, a silver medal placed around his neck for finishing second. Champagne sprayed into the air as the drivers celebrated.
Patrick laughed, soaked in champagne and victory—but his eyes searched the crowd again.
And found you.
When the ceremony finally ended and he returned to the paddock, you didn’t wait.
You rushed to him, grabbing his suit and pulling him into a deep kiss. Champagne lingered on his lips as the two of you held each other, the noise of the crowd fading away.
Breaking the kiss, breathless, you whispered against his mouth:
“I love you too. So much.”
His eyes softened as he wrapped his arms around you again, holding you like he never wanted to let go.
I hope the ending of memory of a killer has a widescreen shot of Angelo's face and he says "I got memories... Memory of a killer" and then he memories everywhere
