6. Pole Position
Pole Positio n
Elio
There’s four laps to go, and I can’t get Alec off my back. He’s been closing in at each corner, and by now, he’s starting to get on my nerves. Alec might be my friend off the track, but out here, he’s my opponent.
“Murray, point-seven behind,” Nick says in my earpiece.
My throat constricts as I push harder on the pedal to gain speed on the straight line. I know I have the faster car, but the chassis still lacks on the corners sometimes, slowing my pace.
“Losing more and more control on the corners,” I say.
“Noted, Elio. Try to maintain that speed. Three laps to go.”
Al ec comes dangerously close on the next turn, and I know he’s going to pass me.
“Murray, point-three behind, with DRS,” Nick says, and I know I’m done for.
“Porca Miseria !” I yell, wishing I could hit the wheel with all my strength right now or throw it on the track. But I also know I can get my position back. Three laps is both nothing and everything.
“Andersen, one-point-nine behind,” Nick says.
“I’d be happy with some radio silence for now. Just update me if he gets any closer,” I say, not bothering to hide the frustration in my voice.
“Copy.”
My focus zeroes in on Alec’s black car in front of me and how badly I want to pass it. I push with everything I’ve got, and as I close the distance between us, I don’t hesitate to go wheel to wheel on the corner—sending the message that I’m not handing him this one just yet.
“That was close,” Nick warns. “No unnecessary risks.”
I want to roll my eyes, but I stay focused. “No damage. All good.”
“Alec, now point-five behind. Two laps to go.”
I keep at it, putting pressure on him at every corner. I’m not letting him steal this one. My five back-to-back wins will not end on my home turf.
Lucy
I’m sweating almost as much as yesterday, when I was zipping around the track with Elio.
I didn’t expect F1 to be this gripping, or the excitement of the fans to be so electric.
Next to me, James is kicking back, throwing popcorn in his mouth like he’s at the movies.
As for me, I haven’t been able to eat a single thing since the race started.
This might be a new diet protocol, right here.
Elio and Alec Murray, from Blackstorm Motorsports, are duking it out at the forefront with only two laps to go, and at each corner, Elio’s car inches closer to Alec’s.
Every time he goes wheel to wheel with Alec, there’s a general gasp in the crowd.
“Come on,” some guy yells behind me. “No DNF. We need the points.”
“I swear, man,” his friend says. “He’s a heck of a driver, but when he pulls crap like that, you wonder how much longer he’s going to be on the track.”
I swivel to face them, ready to say something, but no words come out. One of the guys throws me a curious glance. What exactly was I going to say?
“Ohhh!” the crowd echoes, and James and Caleb draw sharp gasps. I turn back around, ready to film again.
“What happened?” I demand, su ddenly out of breath, even though I’ve been sitting on this way-too-small plastic chair for almost two hours, wanting to pee for the last fifty minutes.
Seriously, they should think about implementing an intermission for the sake of fans with small bladders.
I’m used to having an intermission every twenty minutes of play in hockey.
Right now, I feel like I’m going to explode.
“Another close call,” Caleb says. “Their tires touched.”
“Are they okay?” I glance at the huge screen, since they’re in a far-flung portion of the track.
“Seems like it, but Elio isn’t going to give up. I know him.”
I bite down on my cheek. “Gosh. This is intense.”
“I know, right?” James says, frowning. “I’ve been stress-eating this entire popcorn bucket by myself. This sport is way too nerve-racking. I definitely prefer hockey.”
“Me too,” Caleb and I both say, and we all chuckle, releasing some of the pressure.
“Last lap,” Caleb says, and we return our focus to the screen, where Elio and Alec are now turning onto the longest straight line of the track before the sharpest corner, right in front of us. I hold my phone up to record the moment.
The noise crescendos, and here they are, battling for first place.
Elio takes the corner from the inside once more, edging past Alec as they come out of it.
Both cars touch, making them swerve. My breath catches in my throat, and as much as I want to close my eyes, afraid they’ll crash, I’m glued to the action.
Elio accelerates and presses past Alec, both drivers safe and sound.
My shoulders relax, and I let out a long breath as the stands explode into joyous cheers around us. Everyone is clapping like crazy, a sudden reminder that I’m supposed to be recording all this. I direct my phone to the fans, who are now chanting Elio’s name and bragging about his bold moves.
Finally, Elio flies past the finish line in first place.
His teammate comes in eleventh place, so just short of the points, but better than the previous races where he didn’t finish at all.
It’s a good day for Rossi Motorsports. The fans are thrilled.
There’s a smile on every face. As for me, I feel both relieved and happy for him.
This was a lot more intense than I thought it would be.
All drivers are now completing one last lap—apparently called a cooling down lap—during which they wave at the crowd. Elio is pumping his fist in the air, waving an Italian flag someone gave him.
Once the crowd starts dispersing, we make a quick exit back to the motorhomes where the line to the restrooms is thankfully short, and I finally feel a lot better.
Caleb, James, and I make our way toward the podium, using our all-access badges to get as close as possible.
The area is packed with fans and members of the team, but I should be able to get some good content from here.
Finally, the ceremony begins, and when Elio brandishes his first-place trophy, the crowd exults before getting a champagne shower from the drivers.
Elio empties the rest of the bottle on himself, and for a second, I’m struck by the picture of him—drenched in champagne, his hair plastered to his forehead, his grin impossibly wide.
Around me, fans scream his name, some waving signs with hearts and declarations of love.
The sheer number of female admirers doesn’t escape me, and I press my lips together, a strange twist of irritation curling in my stomach.
It shouldn’t bother me. It doesn’t bother me.
But when my attention drifts back to him, I realize there’s something magnetic about the way he stands on that podium, radiating charm and confidence like it’s his second nature.
It’s more than the win or the champagne.
It’s the way he owns the moment, the way his eyes light up when he shares it with his team, the sheer joy on his face that feels . . . contagious.
I raise my phone to snap a few photos, telling myself it’s for the feature. Not because I want to remember the way he looks right now. Not because there’s something about Elio shining under the spotlight that makes my chest tighten and my heart soar.
The ceremony has been over for about an hour, but Elio has been whisked off to interviews and debriefings, so we haven’t seen him yet.
I’m waiting with Caleb and James in the hospitality suite, and we’re chatting about their plans for the rest of their vacation. They’re heading to France to see Caleb’s sister, who just moved there.
“There he is!” Cale b calls, peering over my shoulder. “The man of the hour.”
I turn around to see Elio walking toward us, still in his race suit, his Rossi Motorsports cap on.
“Hey, guys!” He hugs Caleb tightly and shakes hands with James.
“Great win, man.” Caleb beams.
“Congrats,” James adds.
Elio turns to me, his eyes sparkling like the champagne he emptied on himself earlier.
“Great race,” I say, placing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Thanks. I take it you enjoyed your first F1 race, then? Not so boring, is it?” he teases, and I laugh.
“I’ll give you that. But you guys should definitely consider adding an intermission.”
He furrows his eyebrows in confusion.
“Small bladder.” I wince, and they all laugh.
“Yeah, I don’t see that happening anytime soon.” He chuckles. “Listen, I’m just going to say goodbye to my parents, and I’ll be right back. Then we can go?”
James and Caleb both nod, and Elio’s deep brown eyes zero in on me. “Are you coming?”
I blink back, caught off guard. I didn’t know I was invited. Whatever it is. “Where?”
“Going out to celebrate, of course.” He winks. “You don’t just win and go straight home to bed.”
I rub my arm. “Oh, right. Thank s for the invite, but I’m still a bit jet-lagged.”
He looks off to the side, then back at me. “Come on! You’re no fun.”
“I’m really not.” I nod firmly, wringing my hands, and they all laugh.
“Your loss,” Elio says with a shrug. “I work hard, but I play harder.”
And that’s when I know I made the right call. I have no desire to spend my night in some club watching hordes of girls throw themselves at Elio—and Caleb and James too, probably. Nor do I want to see Elio hook up with a bunch of skinny girls. None of that falls under the scope of my job.
I clear my throat. “So, do you have an idea of your schedule for this coming week? I asked Patrick, but he wasn’t sure.”
Elio shrugs. “I don’t really do schedules. Pat sends me mandatory stuff I have to do every day, and for the rest, I just wing it. YOLO, right? Isn’t that what you say in America?”
“Um, sure. But where—”
“I tell you what,” he says as he places a hand on my shoulder, effectively melting it. “Come to my house tomorrow for brunch, and we’ll take it from there.”
“Your house?” I arch an eyebrow.
He grins. “Newsflash, I don’t really work out of an office. I’m either at the track, in a hotel room, or at home. Lucky for you—and for me—the next race is in two weeks, so I’ll have some time at home in between.”
I nod, feeling dizzy as I try to make sense of all this. Of course I’ll have to go to his house. Getting up close and personal with Elio is the entire point of the project. “Okay. I’ll be there. What time?”
He glances at the guys. “One p.m.”
I chuckle. “That’s hardly brunch.”
“Well, I live two hours away, and we’ll have a late night.” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I command my cheeks not to catch fire. Unfortunately, they’re just a couple of little traitors. “The offer to join us still stands.”
“And I still pass,” I say, biting my lips just in case they decide to betray me too and agree to going out with him. “See you tomorrow.”
I’m both eagerly anticipating and dreading the moment, because being in the intimacy of Elio’s house—far from this neutral ground—feels like crossing into new territory. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.