46. Adrian
Race day.
Last day of the weekend before I get to take my angel out tonight. I have something very special planned, something Nevaeh will never see coming. She’s been meaning to go out in the city to explore it because this is the first time she’s returned to Austin since she left as a kid, but work—and my insatiable need to make love to her every chance I get—has kept her so busy, she hasn’t had a chance to.
I’m going to change that tonight.
“Breathe, race, and win, as long as it doesn’t cost you a limb,” my sister, Gabriel, and I say at the same time. We move toward our respective cars where they are on the grid, the U.S. anthem already sung and the race about to start.
I kiss my sister on the crown of her head and give Gabriel a half-hug with our hands clasped together.
They exchange ‘I love you’s as I walk away, trying to ignore the stabbing sensation in my chest to make my way toward James’ garage and kiss Nevaeh again. I stole a kiss this morning in her hotel room when I surprised her there, but I want to kiss her here, for everyone to see. As much as I’m enjoying keeping us secret from the world—except for my nosy family of course because they kept that secret from each other for all of three seconds, those jerks—I’d enjoy it a hell of a lot more if I got to touch her without her having to risk her job.
“Head out of your arse and helmet on,” Daniel says, and I burst into a surprised laugh, taking my balaclava from him.
He grins at me, but I can tell he’s a bit nervous.
After what happened with Lincoln last time, I’m also nervous. He’s a chaotic, dangerous racer. He’s aggressive and doesn’t seem to mind risking his own race to fuck with someone else’s. I only hope Robert Fuchs put him in his place after last time, reminding him that you can’t do whatever the fuck you want to in Formula One. There are rules firmly set in place to avoid someone getting killed.
We’ve lost a few drivers to reckless driving already since the sport was established almost eighty years ago. The number doesn’t have to rise because Lincoln fucking Nash drives with his dick doing the thinking instead of his head.
He’s in love with Nevaeh. I get that. How could you not be? But it doesn’t give him the right to mess with me on the track. Formula One isn’t a high school game, and Nevaeh isn’t a trophy he can win.
Before I can stop myself, I’m moving toward where Lincoln is standing with his performance coach. I force a smile even though I’d rather punch this guy’s teeth out than be polite to him.
“Good race?” I say and extend my hand in a peace offering.
He eyes it like I’ve slattered the thing in poison, which I should have considering how big of an asshole he is. I wait another second before retracting it and shaking my head at his immaturity.
“Try not to take me out this time, yeah? Let’s both make it over the finish line without amateur mistakes ending our race, rookie,” I say and watch his eyes grow dark with anger.
“Get the fuck out of my face, Romana,” he practically growls, so I give him several nods, my expression as unimpressed as I feel.
“I know this is your first year driving among the big teams, so I’ll let you in on a little secret. If you want to stay on top, you have to earn it. Earn your seat. If you don’t, they’ll take it away as quickly as they gave it,” I say and step back when he moves toward me.
“Why are you still talking? You’re leading the championship, you got the girl. You don’t have to rub it in,” he says, pointing a finger at my chest as anger consumes him.
“The championship is far from decided,” I grind out, hating that I have to say this. “And Nevaeh isn’t mine, nor is she something to ‘get,’” I add. “Drive with your head, not your heart, and we’ll be good.”
It’s a bad idea to let your emotions control your actions when you’re racing. It’s also hard not to because when you’ve got so much adrenaline pumping through your veins, your emotions spill all over the place without a filter. Some drivers are better at keeping them locked down, like me. Others, Lincoln, haven’t quite figured out how to glue their mouths shut or keep their limbs from moving before thinking.
Don’t get me wrong, passion and emotion are important in F1 too, but there are moments for that and none of them occur when you’re racing down the track, driving three hundred kilometers per hour.
I walk away from Lincoln and to my car, hoping he’ll get a fucking grip on himself so we can start and end the race without an incident like last time.
The scent of hot asphalt fills my nose as I slide the balaclava over my head. Daniel is giving me an unsure look, but I give him a cocky smirk to ease his nerves. Lincoln won’t do anything stupid now. He won’t give me the satisfaction of being exactly who I’ve called him out to be: a rookie.
“Remember, the track is bumpy,” Daniel reminds me as I slip my helmet on.
“I know. My ass is still fucking sore from the last few days,” I joke when in reality, my entire body is sore. It feels like I have bruises all over.
“I know,” Daniel says with a comforting smile.
After making sure I’m in the car with my earpieces working and my gloves on, he leaves me to let my crew work on the car for the last two minutes before the formation lap.
My heart starts racing just like it always does. Burning rubber fills my nostrils, the scent dulled by my helmet, but I still smell it. I let it pump more adrenaline through me. I let it consume me.
When I was younger and found my love for racing, I never thought I’d become so addicted to this feeling. To how alive I’d feel. They have a name for people like me, like everyone on the grid. They call us adrenaline junkies. When your life is at risk every single time you step into the car but you crave the thrill, the excitement, and the weightlessness as you race, it’s hard to argue with that title.
Maybe that’s why being with Nevaeh is so addictive, too. Being with her feels like I’m risking my life in the same way I am when I’m racing. Tying myself to her feels strangely like tying myself to the car, becoming one with it for the goal of reaching a dream that seems impossible.
Winning a championship.
Growing old with someone who loves me and wants to start a family with me.
They’ve started feeling a lot more possible when I changed teams and met Nevaeh.
Velocità Rossa will get me that title.
Nevaeh… will she get me my other dream?
The way I feel about her, I fucking hope so.
“Focus,” Chloe says into my ear when I’ve slowed down during the formation lap a little and Lincoln almost drove into my ass because he wasn’t paying attention.
“It was on purpose, there’s a huge fucking bump there,” I reply, telling the truth. I may have gotten lost in my thoughts, but I know this track inside out. I’ve studied it, before and during the free practice.
“Mhmm,” my grumpy race engineer mumbles into the earpiece, and I almost chuckle.
“Have a good race to you, too,” I say, lining up on the grid and feeling my heart pump nervous energy through me, mixing uncomfortably with the adrenaline.
The first light turns on, then the second, the third, the fourth, and lastly the fifth. I hold my breath, anticipation wrapping around my lungs. I stare up, my fingers hovering over the buttons on my steering wheel, my engine roaring with the need to drive.
I feel the same.
I let out the breath the moment the lights turn off, slamming onto the throttle and shifting into gear to push ahead. Lincoln’s start doesn’t compare to mine. My reaction time is better than his by miles, but he brakes later into the first corner, his front wheel lining up with my rear one. I take my corner well, leaving him behind as I shoot forward.
A glance in my mirror shows Gabriel attempting to overtake Lincoln, my teammate already halfway ahead when Lincoln’s front tire touches Gabriel’s side, causing him to spin off track in circular motions. He slams into the barrier as I keep racing, my heart dropping a little at the sight.
“Fuck, is he okay?” I ask Chloe, but she tells me to focus and that she’ll give me an update when she gets one.
Goddamn Lincoln.
Yellow flags are waved as soon as I enter the second sector. I slow down my speed to the required percentage.
“Gabriel’s out of the car. He said he’s okay, but there’ll be a safety car,” Chloe informs me, but I already knew this would happen before she told me.
Gabriel crashed in a dangerous section of the track, and if they don’t get the car out of there, it could pose a safety hazard.
“Safety car, not a red flag?” I ask.
“No red flag,” Chloe confirms. It wouldn’t be ideal two laps into the race, but safety comes first.
A red flag means the race would be paused and all of the drivers would return to the pitlane, lining up in their respective places to restart the race once all of the debris is moved and the car is no longer standing in a dangerous zone.
“Who else is out?” I ask, watching the safety car appear in front of me. This vehicle, a Grenzenlos for this race weekend, comes out to control our speed until the track is safe to race again.
“A Klein and a Carousel. Everyone else is still in,” she says, and I can’t help my next question.
“Where’s she?”
“Worked her way up to P6. Had a hell of a start,” Chloe says proudly, and I smile at the thought of my sister overtaking everyone in the back to get into sixth place.
“Put her in a competitive enough car, no one else will stand a chance.”
My grandfather’s words echo in my head. I remember the day he said this to me when Valentina won her Karting Championship after Christian fucking Crovetto, her biggest childhood rival, tried to cheat and push her off the track to win. He didn’t succeed. My sister came out on top, just like I know she will as soon as her car is fast enough to keep up with the rest of the teams. Talent and skill will only get you so far without a competitive enough car.
If everyone had the same car on the grid, my sister would win every single time. But we don’t. We have cars with different top speeds and advantages, and that prevents her from winning at the moment. But if she keeps this up, assholes like Lincoln won’t get to keep their seats for much longer. She’ll be the one the top teams consider for a seat.
I’m waiting for that day.
“Safety car ending in two laps,” Chloe says as sweat drips down my back.
“About fucking time,” I mumble to myself because the longer we’re doing this slow tempo, the more my adrenaline will wear off.
“One lap.”
I grit my teeth.
“You can restart,” Chloe says once the safety car is gone.
I take a deep breath, slowing a little to confuse Lincoln behind me. Restarting a race after the safety car is tricky. You have to somehow manage to deceive the driver behind you that you won’t restart the race or restart it at moments you’re not. Then, you have to shoot away at the moment they least expect it, catching them off guard. Because Lincoln is an idiot, it should be easy enough to trick him.
And it is. It’s embarrassingly easy.
I slip ahead, and my race continues smoothly from there.
Until my first pitstop.
My pit crew can’t get the screw off one of my tires until ten seconds have passed. I’m cursing, counting the time in my head, and asking Chloe what the hell is going on at the same time. I see more of the crew running around, my car on three new wheels now, the left, front one still stuck with the old tire.
“They can’t get the tire off!” Chloe says, and I let out more curse words, not giving a fuck if the race control, the people in charge, can hear me. I’m fucking furious.
This just ruined my race because, by the time I get back onto the track, I’m last.
From first to last.
“Lincoln’s P1,” Chloe informs me, which is the worst part of it all.
The little rookie is in first place.
As soon as I’m out of the car, I’m throwing myself off a fucking cliff.