Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX | SATURDAY | SPRINT RACE AND RACE QUALIFYING
Did that wanker let me take pole?
The question nags at me even as Bowie talks telemetry and setup.
It’s Saturday morning. The sprint race is in three hours, and I’m distracted.
His words blur into technical white noise while I replay yesterday’s final sector in my head.
Nico’s line was textbook perfect. Too perfect.
Like he was demonstrating clean racing instead of fighting for position.
“Petra?” Bowie’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You with me on these tire temps?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I focus on his screen, on numbers that usually calm my mind. “The mediums were fine yesterday.”
And his car was perfect. So why didn’t he push harder in that last corner?
I’ve raced against Nico long enough to know when he’s got more to give.
El Conejo, always proving something. Always being noble and principled and...
“Riiight. And that’s why you’re grinding your teeth?”
“I’m not.” Lie. I absolutely am. Because if Nico let me take pole, if he backed off to prove some point about clean racing or proper principles or whatever noble Spanish code the Belmontes live by, I’ll cut off his cojones.
“Let it go, Petra. Your last sector was clean yesterday,” Bowie says quietly. “You earned P1.”
“Did I, though? Because the more I think about it, the more it looks like someone decided to make a point instead of engaging in a proper battle on the track.”
Zara looks up from her data station, dark eyes wide. She knows what I’m implying.
Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. Get a fucking grip, Petra.
“What matters is your race prep for today’s sprint,” Bowie says firmly. “Whatever games other drivers might or might not be playing are immaterial.”
“This isn’t about games.” Or is it?
Is he deliberately keeping me off balance by siding with me against Wyn? Is that what his kumbayah-let’s-be-friends song and dance is all about?
“Pet.” Dad’s voice from his garage office doorway makes me look up. His expression says he thinks I’m missing something obvious. “Either focus on setup or sort this out with Belmonte. But stop wearing a hole in Bowie’s stomach.”
“I’m focused.” Another lie. “We’re discussing tire strategy for the sprint.”
“Discussed. We just discussed it,” Bowie says. “But you haven’t heard a word I’ve said in the last ten minutes.”
Right. Because I’ve been too busy replaying that final sector, analyzing every micro-movement and questioning Nico’s motives and strategy instead of planning mine.
“Fine.” I head for the garage’s rear door. “I’ll handle this.”
“The sprint’s in three hours,” Bowie reminds me. “Whatever this is, sort it fast.”
Sort it fast. Right. Because everything about Nico Belmonte leads to simple answers and quick resolutions.
“If he let me take pole, I’m going to kill him.”
“Please don’t,” Dad calls after me. “Too much paperwork for me.”
The paddock buzzes with pre-sprint energy, but I barely notice as I stride toward WolfBett’s garage before I can overanalyze why this matters so much.
“Looking for someone?” Reece is heading my way from Nitro’s team building.
“Don’t start.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” But the smirk on his face disagrees. “Though if you’re headed that way, you might want to wait. Graham’s currently killing what’s left of my brother’s spirit with a pre-race pep talk.”
“How long?”
“Could be a while.” He pauses. “I saw Nico head for the fitness center about ten minutes ago.”
I’m moving before I fully register the decision. Behind me, I swear I hear Reece laughing.
Wanker.
COTA’s F1 fitness center is quieter than yesterday now that most of my fellow drivers are focused on final sprint preparations. I scan the main area, but there’s no sign of Nico.
Muffled words come from one of the private rooms. Spanish, clipped with frustration. They’re followed by the distinctive sound of someone taking out their feelings on a heavy bag.
Right, then.
I push open the door without knocking. Nico’s alone.
He doesn’t stop his combination, though his slight hesitation tells me he’s noted my arrival.
He wears trackies. No shirt. There’s a lot of smooth skin and lean rippling muscle on display as he hammers the bag again.
A sheen of sweat emphasizes the hills and valleys of his lats, the lines of his ribs and spine.
My mouth goes dry and damn him for being such a thirst trap.
“Here to practice your right jab?” He speaks between measured breaths. “Or just checking the competition’s preparation techniques?”
Ignore the sex appeal, Petra. “Why did you back off in sector 3?”
He stops, steadying the bag as he turns. “Excuse me?” He actually looks annoyed.
“You heard me.” I step further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me. “That final lap. You had more to give. P1 was yours but you didn’t take it. Why?”
His expression shifts to something carefully neutral. “I took the clean line.”
A bead of sweat rolls down his chest and I track its progress toward some impressively cut abs before jerking my gaze back to his face and hoping like hell he’s too stroppy to notice.
Focus, you horny twat. “You took the safe line. The diplomatic line. The ‘look how principled I am’ line.”
“The fast line. The one that worked.” He steps back from the heavy bag.
“Did it?” I move closer because I’m getting more pissed off. “Or did you decide to make sure everyone saw just how capable of winning a woman can be?”
“What?” He matches my advance, all controlled power and barely contained frustration.
For the love of all that’s holy, why does he have to be half-naked?
“I took the better line for my setup. It was the safer and cleaner line, Petra. If that choice gave you an advantage, that’s not your problem. It’s mine.”
“You did! Damn it, Nico! You absolute prick!” Christ, what is it with these fucking male drivers? “I don’t need you to show the world how good I am or protect my reputation or whatever the fuck!”
“Protect you?” Now real anger colors his voice. “That’s what you think I’m doing?”
“Obviously.” I’m close enough now to see the tension in his jaw as he clenches his teeth. “Poor Petra needs El Conejo to show everyone how racing should be. She needs a male driver to validate her place on the grid!”
He steps closer. “Validate you? Christ, Petra, have you seen yourself drive? You don’t need anyone’s validation. You never have.”
“Then why?” I’m not going to back down. I never have. I never will. “Why take that perfect, textbook line instead of fighting for pole?”
“Because it was the right line!” The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face. Sweat still gleams on his neck. “Because sometimes the clean way is the fast way. Because maybe I—” He stops, fingers flexing against his hand wraps and making them creak.
“Maybe you what?”
He leans closer. “Maybe I wanted to prove something to myself.” His reply is quiet, intense, his breath mixing with mine in the small gap between us. “That I could race you straight up, no games, no politics. Just pure racing.”
“And?” I don’t remember moving, but suddenly we’re breathing the same air.
“And you beat me.” His eyes lock with mine, shifting back and forth as he holds me in place with that amazing grey gaze.
Something changes between us. The anger’s still there, but it’s tangled with something else. Something that makes my pulse jump for reasons that have nothing to do with racing.
“I didn’t need you to prove that.” All my anger’s evaporated.
“No.” He raises his hand, fingers hesitating a centimeter from my face. “You never need anyone to prove anything for you. That’s what makes you amazing.” He brushes my cheek with his fingers.
The touch feels like qualifying lap adrenaline, like perfect apex precision, like...
“Petra, are you in here?” Jacintha’s in the gym. Reece must’ve told her where to find me.
We jump apart like startled rabbits.
“Fuck. I need to go.” I gesture toward the door.
“Sí.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Sprint prep.”
“Right.” I take three huge steps toward the door, then hesitate and look at him again. “Nico?”
“Hm?”
“Next time, race me properly. No proving anything to anyone. Just...” I roll my eyes. “Just try to keep up, Bunny Boy.”
His answering grin makes my heart do stupid shit. “Sí, senorita.”
Bloody hell.
When I emerge from the room, Cin pivots toward me, but her gaze goes past my shoulder even as she shoves a protein shake into my hand.
“No skipped meals.” This is a red flag she waves any time I’m late for one.
It’s reasonable, given my history. “Then we prep and—” She stops, studying my face. “Why are you flushed?”
“Rage.” That lie comes automatically.
My cousin’s eyes narrow. “Are you okay? You look...”
“I’m pissed off, Cin.” That comes out sharp. I head toward the front doors and she follows, though I don’t miss her glancing back toward the room I just left.
“At Nico?” She falls into step beside me.
“Who else?” I suck down some shake, grateful for the cool liquid. Mm, chocolate chia.
She gives me a look. “Where do I start? These days the list seems endless.”
Shit. Double shit. And triple shit.
My physio switches to professional mode. “Now, about sprint prep.”
But my mind’s circled back to that touch, those grey eyes and contained power. An eyeful of bare skin and taut muscle, sweat and warm breath.
“Petra?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to focus. “Sprint prep. Yes.” Drink more shake, idiot.
Jacintha’s not buying any of this, but thankfully she lets it slide. “Two and a half hours until lights out. Try to keep your head in the game?”
“Always.” But I touch my cheek where his fingers brushed my skin. Bloody hell indeed.
Ahead of us, Rodrigo carves through the paddock chaos like a guardian angel. I don’t even know where he came from.
Cin hooks her arm through mine and tugs me along. “Driver’s room. Stretching. Warm up. Now.”
I hold up the protein shake. “I need to finish this.”
“You need to focus.” She steers me away from the paddock chaos and into the small Nitro business unit. “Everything else can wait.” She’s right. Cin’s always right. We reach my driver room, normally a sanctuary of pre-race calm. “Stop it. I can hear you thinking from here.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re spinning, Petra.” She plucks the shake from my hand. “Your brain is chewing to bits whatever happened in that fitness center. And what’s wrong with your cheek?”
Caught. Fuck me. “What? Nothing. Just a little itch.” I scrub at my skin, trying to erase the feel of Nico’s fingers and the memory of his breath against my face.
“Rash?”
“No. I don’t think so. Just itchy. It’s nothing, Cin.”
What it is is so damn stupid that Nico touching my face has scrambled my brain and fucked my focus like this. But I still feel the ghost of his fingers there, warm and deliberate, and my skin tingles like it’s trying to hold on to that moment.
Bloody hell, get it together. It was just his fingers on your face. It’s not like the man hasn’t touched you before. Honestly. You’re being an idiot, Petra.
“Breathe.” She guides me through stretches I’ve been doing pre-race for as long as I can remember. “Find your center. Everything else is noise you need to tune out.”
The familiar routine starts working its magic. My head clears, my breathing deepens, and my muscles and joints feel more limber.
“Good. Now show me those world-class reflexes.” Cin directs me to a reaction light board and sets up a session.
Lights flash, the pattern varies. I move automatically, hitting each one, peripheral vision and reaction time honed after a lifetime of practice.
“Better.” She adjusts the sequence and speed, challenging me to keep up. After a few rounds, my mind and body are finally working in concert. Cin packs the board away while I finish the shake, then settle on the massage table.
“Now close your eyes, Tonka. Find that quiet place in the center of your belly. Let’s walk the track.”
I sink into our visualization routine, the one we’ve perfected since karting. It’s not the rigid meditation many coaches use, but something that works for my brain.
“First corner,” she murmurs. “Feel the grip. Find your line.”
But I keep drifting to a different kind of grip—Nico’s fingers on my cheek, the way his pupils went huge when he looked at me, and how my body had responded to him like his touch had flipped a switch and turned on a new part of my nervous system.
Shit-shit-shit! Stop it. Right. Fucking. Now. Focus on the damned race.
My cousin continues, “Now the braking point. Feel the car shift beneath you, Petra.”
I home in on her voice and everything else fades. Kelley’s drama, FIA politics, Nico’s touch—all of it dissolves into pure racing focus as Cin walks me through every corner, every line, every acceleration and deceleration point.
This is what matters.
This is what I know.
This is what I am.