Cross the Line

CHAPTER 20

Dev

It’s raining.

No, not just raining, it’s absolutely pissing it down, and right now, the Hungarian circuit resembles a shallow lake. If things clear up, it’s possible we can race, but for now, all we can do is sit and wait for the rain to end.

‘Go fish.’

‘Fuck!’

From my quiet corner, I snicker, chin tucked to my chest, trying not to draw attention to myself while the bored pit crew plays children’s card games in the middle of the garage. I chose to sit this round out, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t dominating the Uno game that came before this.

Nathaniel has disappeared to places unknown, avoiding everyone as always and not making any friends. Good thing he doesn’t have to; as long as his daddy’s in charge, his seat is safe.

Unlike mine.

I no longer care about fighting for my place with Argonaut, but I’ll work hard to stay on good terms with the vast majority of people here. So many of them have actually helped me – my mechanics and engineers, the entire support staff, even Konrad, who’s currently shoving his camera in my face, all deserve my best. And I’m not about to let them down.

Speaking of people I don’t want to let down, Willow moves in from the back of the garage with Patsy by her side. For once, Patsy is actually smiling, and she’s got a hand on Willow’s shoulder as if commending her. Whatever it is, it’s well deserved.

The podcast episode Willow arranged for me was released three days ago, and from the snippets I’ve heard and the comments I’ve seen online, the response has been mind-blowing. It’s as if people actually like me again. Not that they should have stopped in the first place, but she’s brought me back from the brink, and I’m once again sitting pretty in the court of public opinion. It’s a miracle.

No, that’s wrong. It’s not a miracle. It’s not an otherworldly phenomenon. It’s Willow and her brilliant brain.

The praise she’s getting now is only a drop in the bucket of the veneration she’s owed. But I want to be the one to give it to her. If she’ll let me.

And that’s the problem. I don’t know if she will.

‘What’s with your face?’ Konrad asks me, sounding vaguely disgusted as he pops out from behind the camera. ‘Why do you look like you might puke?’

All right, cool, so my lovesick ass looks literally sick at the idea that Willow may not reciprocate my feelings. That’s good to know.

Konrad moves off when I don’t give him an answer, hopefully assuming that I look like this because I’m apprehensive about the race. Honestly, the rain doesn’t faze me, and I take a massive risk every time I climb into the car anyway. So, racing on a wet track, while objectively more dangerous than a dry one, doesn’t make me anywhere near as nervous as watching Willow walk toward me does.

The scent of pure, sweet vanilla hits me as she slides over and stands close, surveying the rest of the garage and the pit lane outside the door. There’s a soft crease between her brows, and her deep-brown eyes are a little wider than usual as they swing to me.

‘Do you think they’re going to cancel the race?’ she asks.

It takes me a second to register her words. I’m too distracted by the mere sight of her and the way my heart thumps erratically in my chest.

Even the horrible Argonaut uniform can’t hide how stunning she is, but my sunshine girl never notices the stares that follow her – and plenty do. I’ve seen several of the mechanics watch her breeze by, although a pointed glare from me usually encourages them to get back to work.

Everyone knows she’s off-limits, which probably means there are rumours about why. As long as they aren’t the reputation-destroying kind, I can live with them. I just hope she can too.

At her question, I spare a glance over at the engineers, who are watching the weather radar on their screens. I’m no meteorologist, but it seems like the front is moving on from the circuit. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

Right on cue, Sturgill strides across the garage and starts barking orders as he returns to his station. A second later, a message from race control flashes on one of the engineer’s screens. He reads it out loud, proclaiming the delay will end in fifteen minutes.

It’s time for me to get to it.

Before I can tell Willow as much, her hand is on my shoulder, squeezing softly. ‘Be careful out there, all right?’

There’s worry in her eyes, but it’s nearly overshadowed by a sheen of hopefulness, of reverence. She understands and respects the risk I’m taking, and she’s concerned for my safety, yet her expression is full of pure faith in my abilities. She believes I’ll go out there and come back to her in one piece, because I’m excellent at what I do.

‘I’m always careful,’ I tease, but I quickly sober and put a hand over hers to drive my words home. ‘I promise I will be. Besides, you’re my good-luck charm.’

She shakes her head and kisses her teeth, pulling her hand back, though not before pinching the side of mine in retribution for the comment. ‘Haven’t brought you very much luck so far, but okay,’ she says, sighing in resignation. ‘Go get ’em, tiger.’

——

This is going to be chaos.

After one formation lap and five seconds of sitting in my grid box, that’s obvious. There’s no way there won’t be carnage. Two cars spun out on the way to the grid. One of them crashed, ending that driver’s race before it could begin. The other recovered, though a move like that would rock the confidence of even the most self-assured driver. He won’t be willing to take risks and will probably be at the back of the pack by the end of lap one.

Me? I have seven cars to fight my way past and zero plans to hold back. If there’s a single bright spot that comes from being with a team that barely develops their car from year to year, it’s that I know its limits. I know what I can and can’t get away with on a track this slick. And if there’s one thing this hunk of carbon fibre does well, it’s race in the rain.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, watching the red lights above me come on one by one before going dark all together.

I hit the gas, surging out of my box, and keep right down the straight as the cars ahead weave in and out. An Omega Siluro slows in front of me, forcing me left into the gap that miraculously appears when I need it.

That’s when disaster strikes.

Not for me, though, because today clearly is my day.

The massacre I predicted is playing out, but it’s worse than I thought. In a split second, a Mascort takes out a McMorris, then a Specter Energy car collects a D’Ambrosi on its way to the run-off area. I manage to manoeuvre around and through, avoiding and swerving, and then . . .

No. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

I’m in second.

It’s only Zaid ahead of me, the spray from the back of his car distant enough that it’s not impeding my visibility. Of the top six, it looks like he was the lone driver to escape the mayhem. I can’t see much in my mirrors as I round the next turn, but I can certainly see the scuffle for position and the debris that continues to fly. Shit, when I make it back around the circuit, I’ll have to dodge all of it to avoid ruining my tyres.

‘Could be a safety car soon,’ Branny warns over the radio. Then, less than five seconds later, he declares, ‘Safety car deployed. Watch your speed. And you’re in P2. Very nice job getting through that.’

Never one for overenthusiastic praise, that man, but I’ll take what I can get.

‘Can you give me an update on the cars behind?’ I need to know who I’m going to have to fight in order to keep this position. Because now that I’m up here, I’m not giving it back.

He reads off the next five cars, but Reid, Otto, Thomas, Lorenzo and Axel aren’t on the list. Fucking hell. All of the top runners, save Zaid, were taken out. There’s a possibility some of them might recover and rejoin, but this is my chance. If I just hold on, I have a shot at the podium. The safety car will make that tough, though. The reduced speed will bunch up the pack and give the racers behind me the opportunity to regroup and catch up. And if there’s a red flag—

‘And that’s a red flag,’ Branny says. ‘Box now. Line up in the pit lane.’

My stomach sinks a little. If it’s a standing restart, I could fall into the midfield again and lose my chance at a podium. ‘Copy.’

I do as I’m told, following Zaid into the pit lane and lining up behind him, watching as the teams’ mechanics rush out with tyre blankets.

‘I’m going to get out of the car if that’s all right.’

Branny approves my request and tells me to stay close. We’ll get a warning before the restart, but I need to shake off some of the adrenaline the race start and being in P2 has brought me.

One of the mechanics helps me out, and another brings over an umbrella as I take off my helmet and balaclava, even though I’m already soaked. From what I can tell, the rain has nearly stopped, and with it as hot as it is today, even with that torrential downpour, the track is going to dry quickly.

And that means we have to get rid of these slow-ass wet weather tyres and switch to the faster slick tyres ASAP.

I stop at the pit wall to check the weather screens and tell Branny and the race engineers what I’m thinking, then head into the garage, seeking one person. Mark tries to catch me as I come in, but I wave him off and make a beeline for the back corner. Some of the tension floods from my shoulders when I spot her, and I swear she looks just as relieved to see me.

It takes everything in me not to gather her in my arms, although I can’t resist the urge to run a hand down her arm and pull her a little closer. I dip my head to her ear as if I’m trying to have a private conversation. There are cameras around, so if we’re caught on film, it’ll look perfectly innocent. Which it is . . . even if there’s nothing particularly innocent about the way I feel standing this close to her.

I don’t actually need to talk to her about anything. All I want is to be close, to bask in her presence and let her bring me back from the sharp edge of realism that I probably won’t keep P2 for long. I need a reminder that I can do this, even if the odds are stacked against me. From her, all it takes is a glance and a smile, and a surge of confidence re-emerges.

The look she gives me is one I’ve come to crave. One I’ll miss far more than I could have imagined possible when our time together is up.

Big brown eyes meet mine and there isn’t a shadow of doubt behind them. She believes I can do this. That I can do anything. It fills me up. Convinces me that she’s right, that I can do anything, including win this race, even if there’s a seven-time world champion in front of me.

‘Think you can give me a pep talk?’ I request, though I don’t really need one now.

Her laugh has my heart racing and a grin spreading across my face. I’d do anything to keep hearing that sound.

‘Okay, let’s see what I can do.’ She takes a deep breath, then launches into it. ‘I watched you and Oakley compete in this one karting race when you were fourteen. It was raining, and I was so upset that my dad dragged me along that weekend, because I was stuck wearing this ugly plastic poncho the whole time. The thing covered up my outfit – one that I’d picked out on the off chance that you’d notice me.’

I blink at her confession and pull back a little so I can look her in the eye, but she grips my arm, keeping me where I am.

‘Not that you ever did,’ she goes on, her tone full of humour. I’m dying to see it on her face, but she hasn’t loosened her hold. ‘But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I forgot all about my ruined outfit and my terribly frizzy hair as soon as you shot off the line like there wasn’t a drop of water on the ground. You had zero fear. Oakley, on the other hand, played it safe. He finished fourth. But you won.’

Contrary to what Willow thinks, I was scared shitless the whole time, but I refused to let that stop me. I learned young that I could feel the fear and still drive hard.

‘I know you’re still that fearless fourteen-year-old,’ Willow continues, strong and certain. ‘So, go back out there and drive like it. Go win.’

Finally, she drops her hand from my arm and lets me pull back. I study her open expression, the dimples peeking out from both cheeks even though her smile is small and a little bashful.

There’s a wash of red on the high points of her sun-kissed face, but her eyes are alight. There isn’t a touch of shame or embarrassment there. She’s aware of the implications of that story, acknowledging the crush that never went away, and it’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to kiss the hell out of her and show her that crush is anything but unrequited now.

‘Fuck, that might be the best pep talk I’ve ever gotten,’ I admit, my voice a little raspy from the effort of holding back.

She gives a mock curtsey, her dimples deepening as she grins. ‘Always happy to help.’

I hope she means that, because I don’t think I can live without it now. I don’t think I can live without her.

‘Restart in fifteen!’ rings out from behind me, and I’m dragged back to reality, forced to leave the bubble of happiness. ‘Standing start!’

I exhale, knowing I need to get my head back in the game. But I’m more confident now than I have been in years.

‘I better get back out there,’ I say, though I don’t let go of her arm.

Willow nods, not pulling out of my grasp. ‘Guess you should.’

‘Not going to tell me to be careful this time?’

She wrinkles her nose, and goddamn if it doesn’t make me want to press my lips to hers even more. ‘Nah. You know what you’re doing.’

‘Yeah. I’d say I do.’

There’s a beat of quiet between us as I try to convince myself to leave, though it’s not the least bit awkward or weird. Finally, I shoot her a wink and take a step back.

That’s all it takes for me to be swept back up in the madness. But I’m freshly determined, and I’ve got my eyes set on the podium.

I make my way back out to the pit lane but frown at the intermediate tyres on the car. They’re far better than the full wets, but they’re not what I asked for.

‘I said I wanted slicks,’ I call out when I reach the pit wall.

One of the strategists shakes his head, turning in his seat to face me. ‘Dev, that’s not—’

‘Give me the slick tyres.’ I’m not asking any more. I won’t let these people fuck up my chances. Not this time. ‘I know this track, and the sun’s already out. If we’re going to maintain our stop strategy and keep P2, you need to put me on slicks now instead of waiting.’

‘Mascort is sending Zaid out on inters,’ he argues. ‘The only ones daring to go with slicks right now are the ones who have nothing to lose and are willing to take that risk.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m willing to take it too.’

He pauses, carefully assessing me. My jaw is set and my hands are planted on my hips. I’m not backing down from this. He can fight me, but deep down, he knows I’m right. They all do. It’s about whether they’re willing to take the risk with me.

‘Fine, all right.’ The strategist sighs, levelling me with a hard stare. ‘But if you crash, the blame lies solely with you. Be careful what you ask for.’

——

Sitting in the P2 grid box is absolutely surreal. It’s almost hard to remember the last time I was this far up – what it was like to have nothing but a beautifully clear straight in front of me.

There’s one thing I definitely remember, though. I may not have won an F1 championship yet, or even a race, but I’m an F3 and F2 champion in my own right. And champions never forget how it feels to win.

I was right about the track surface. The small, dark patches of wet tarmac shrink before my eyes as I wait for the remaining cars to finish the formation lap. There’s a very likely chance that I could catch one of those patches and spin out, especially on these tyres.

Passing Zaid is going to be the challenge of my life, but he’s starting on intermediate tyres. They’re not going to last long, and he’ll undoubtedly pit early. The only question is, will I be far enough ahead to maintain P1 when he does?

The lights go out once again, and I’m off the line nearly faster than Zaid, but he has a better getaway and I have to yield the first corner. We’re back on equal footing as we come out of it, battling for position as I fend off the cars behind. But down the next straight, I pass him – without the aid of DRS – all because of the tyres.

I’ve just passed Zaid fucking Yousef, my idol and the man I could only dream of being like. He’s a seven-time champion for a reason, though. Even with terrible tyres, he still has more skill, more experience and a better car, and he’s immediately back on me.

But the track is too dry for inters, and he falls back just a little, trying to find clean air, when we hit the next corner. He’ll have to pit soon, and he’ll lose time because of the tyre change. He’ll probably come out behind several other cars, if not dead last. It’ll take a hell of a lot to make up those places, and if I can push harder and expand the gap, I can win this.

Just as I expected, Zaid dives into the pit lane when we make it back around, and my next competitor is already several seconds behind, probably thanks to their unfortunate tyre choice as well.

‘Okay, Dev, you’re leading the race,’ Branny says in my ear. His voice is a little higher than usual, like he can’t believe it.

I can’t even blame him. The last time I had no one in front of me, I was winning my last F2 championship. But to lead my first F1 Grand Prix? God, I hope they can’t hear me laughing over the radio.

Still, I keep my head down and push. As the laps fly by, Zaid slowly works his way back up the field. I pit for new tyres on lap thirty-seven, one lap after Reid – who was previously the closest man behind me – does. The stop is blazingly fast, and I come back out ahead of Reid again, though I’m stuck behind a McMorris that’s yet to pit. Sure enough, two laps later, it heads for the pit lane, and I’m once again the race leader.

Fortunately, it’s difficult to pass on this circuit. And because of that, I actually have a chance to win. I just need to expand the gap between Reid and me and defend like I never have before once Zaid undoubtedly makes his way back up.

I can do this. I can win.

Branny continues to give me updates on driver positions and my lap times, guiding me through it all. Everything is going perfectly – even if none of this was in Argonaut’s plan. A win might not change much for them, but it absolutely does for me.

The future’s looking brighter than ever.

——

The moments after I cross the finish line in first are a blur.

There’s the chaos of congratulations over the radio while I navigate my way to parc fermé and come to a stop behind the first-place sign I thought I might never see again. There’s the crush of my team as I join them by the barrier meant to keep them back. I’m fielding shouts and back slaps and hugs so aggressive that I’ll probably have a cracked rib or two after this. I catch a glimpse of Willow’s curls in the crowd, but I can’t get to her, no matter how hard I try. And fuck me if I’m not doing everything I can.

Then there are officials leading me away to be weighed and guiding me to the post-race interview. I thank the team and my family, and I’m pretty sure I don’t say any swear words, but I’ll have to watch the playback later to actually know what happened. Then it’s the cool-down room with Zaid and Reid. I shake their hands and take in their commendations, but I’d be hard-pressed to remember their exact words.

But on the podium, everything comes into sharp focus.

I did it. Five years in Formula 1, over one hundred race starts, and I’m finally here. The American national anthem plays, representing both me and Argonaut. I’ve never loved the song more.

Champagne rains down on me as Reid and Zaid point their bottles in my direction, and I spray them in return, laughing so hard I’m not sure if the moisture dripping down my face is champagne or tears. This is it. This is what I’ve worked for, and now that I’ve had a taste, I want more. But for now, I’ll let this be enough.

We pose for pictures when the bottles are empty, then I’m being ushered off the podium and directed to get cleaned up before I’m needed for interviews. I can’t wipe the grin from my face – not that I’d want to – as I make my way through corridors and back to the motorhome, cheering with everyone I come across on the way. I want Willow to be one of them, but I still haven’t found her. She’s the first person I’ll seek out once things settle down. This win is hers too.

The adrenaline wanes as I make my way up the steps to my driver room. Mark trails after me, but after hugging him tight, I promise that he can work on me later. For now, I need a chance to sit and savour this alone.

I did it. I really fucking did it.

As he heads off, I open the door to my room – and promptly freeze.

The pictures catch my attention first. On the wall across from me is a collage of photos. Some are of me, some of fans wearing my number, some of my family at my karting races when I was a kid. Then there are the letters and posters, all handwritten, all cheering me on, all showing the sheer force of the belief these people have in me. There’s even a portrait of me, done in a modern style with flashy colours. My smile, of course, is the most prominent feature.

But it’s Willow kneeling below all of it, still setting things up, that has my heart beating harder than I ever thought it could.

She turns with wide eyes and a soft gasp when the door opens. The photo in her hand slips to the ground as she climbs to her feet, using the massage table next to her for leverage, but then she twists her fingers nervously in front of her.

‘I thought you’d be gone longer,’ she says, a slight waver in her voice and a hesitant smile. ‘It’s not done yet, but I . . . wanted to surprise you.’

My throat is tight, locking in the words I want to say. I’m dehydrated from the hot race, sure, but that’s not what’s rendered me speechless. This is all because of Willow.

‘You did all of this for me?’ I finally choke out, scanning the space, then settling my focus on her again. ‘What if I hadn’t won?’

‘I’ve had this planned for a while,’ she admits, still twisting her fingers, but her smile is growing. ‘This isn’t a shrine to your win or anything. I just wanted you to see how loved you are by so many people. I wanted to remind you of why you should keep fighting for what you want.’

I appreciate the sentiment, undoubtedly. But my reason to keep fighting is standing in front of me.

Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline. Maybe it’s the recklessness that flows through my veins. Or maybe it’s the sight of her. But whatever it is, it sends me striding toward her before I can think twice.

I stop when we’re toe to toe. I’m so close she has to crane her neck to look up at me. Her gaze is uncertain but hopeful, like she’s prepared for me to let her down gently but wishing for more. I’ll give her whatever she wants.

‘I love it,’ I tell her, though the it is nearly a you. ‘It’s perfect.’

She exhales, soft and a little unsteady. She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but the words die on her tongue when I curl my hand around the back of her neck.

‘You’re perfect,’ I murmur.

I drop my gaze to her mouth, then flick it back up. When the look in her eyes goes from unsure to expectant, I don’t waste any more time. I’ve squandered enough of it already.

I kiss her.