Chapter 9
The red lights turn on one after another, a slow, steady sequence that matches the beating of my heart. The world holds its breath for one long second, then another. Then, all at once, the five red lights go out.
I hit the gas pedal and fly, launching off the line like I’m in a roller coaster. I’m not thinking of Travis beside me or Mahoney behind me. I’m not really thinking at all, just racing, and it feels so good and right I could scream.
I reach the apex of the first corner and I’m still in the lead.
Turns two, three, four, and I’m still holding on.
But there’s a car right behind me, and I know that it’s Travis, and I’m definitely thinking of him now, but not as my boyfriend.
I’m driving two hundred miles an hour and the best driver in the world is chasing me down.
I have the advantage on pure speed, but I can’t drop my guard for even a second.
I pull ahead on every straight, then Travis closes the gap on every corner.
We started on the same tires, the mediums, but he’s hooked them up way faster than I have, and he’s taking corners with a grip I don’t have.
I’m driving as defensively as I’ve ever done in my life, but it feels like I’m trying to outrun a train.
And at the end of the first lap, DRS will become available, and if he’s still within a second of me, he’ll get a lethal speed advantage in the DRS zones.
I throw everything I have at him, but as we come around turn five on lap two, I know I’m in trouble. The rear wing flap on Travis’s car is open, and he’s catching me on the straight—he’s beside me—he’s braking ludicrously late into turn seven—
Motherfucker.
He’s taken the lead.
I try to stick with him. I do stick with him, for a few laps, dipping in and out of DRS range, chasing him up and down the straights.
Cory is a steady voice in my ear, telling me where I’m losing time to him, giving me advice and urging me on, but by lap fifteen, I’ve fallen four seconds behind.
It may not sound like much, but in these cars, at this track, four seconds means it’s impossible to pass.
Unless Travis makes a mistake, or has some sort of car issue, I’ve lost my chance of getting past him.
Time to shift gears, settle in and focus on staying ahead of Mahoney.
The next thirteen laps are an exercise in concentration.
Mahoney is two seconds behind me, which means if my attention slips for a single second, he’ll be in DRS range.
And if that happens, I won’t be given the chance to defend against him.
Mahoney is fighting for a world championship against Travis, and Crosswire is not going to let a reserve driver affect his chances.
The moment Mahoney gets in DRS range, Cory will be in my ear telling me to let him by.
Hell, some teams on the grid wouldn’t even wait that long.
They’d be telling me right now to fall back and let Mahoney pass me.
But before the race, Sofia told me that they’d only ask me to let him through if he got within DRS range. Which means I’m going to stay more than one second ahead of him, from now until the end of the race. I have to.
It’s damn near impossible, though. There’s a reason that Travis is stretching the gap out ahead of me, a reason Mahoney is creeping closer and closer behind.
Driving a Formula 1 car isn’t just about driving fast and braking late, it’s about managing tires, and that’s something that comes with experience.
I pushed my tires too hard chasing Travis in the first laps, and by lap twenty-nine, I’m paying the price.
It's a massive relief when Cory’s voice in my ear says, “Box, box.”
I veer off track into the pit lane. I was a bit nervous about this part before the race—it’s no small feat, maneuvering an F1 car between two rows of human beings—but in the moment, I don’t even think about it. I’m stationary for 2.2 seconds, then I take off again on a fresh set of hard tires.
I come out in sixth, the team slotting me into a gap behind Josh Fry and Cole Milton.
I knock out a few strong laps in clean air, then Cole and Josh take their own pit stops, and I’m left with even more clear air behind Mahoney and Travis, who are well up the road.
They both started on medium tires, like I did, so they’ll have to pit in the next few laps, but they’ll be hanging on as long as possible, hoping for a safety car that would give them a free pit stop.
Mahoney pits first. I put my foot to the floor and drive the next lap like a madman, even though I know the risk of an overcut is low. When Mahoney comes out on track again, he’s still two seconds behind me.
Travis pits on the next lap. He’s too far ahead for me to see it happen, but Cory tells me on the radio. As long as Travis has a decent stop, he’ll come out four seconds ahead.
Instead, as I fly toward the pit lane exit, he’s right there in front of me.
I don’t need Cory to say it, but he does anyway. “Slow pit stop for Keeping. 1.7 ahead, let’s make it happen.”
Fuck, yes.
The world funnels down to the sight of Travis’s car and the feel of my own.
It’s like the start of the race, but the roles have reversed.
I’m chasing him down this time, and my car is faster on the straights, and I’ve had two laps to warm up my tires.
And, as I close the gap between us, I realize I have another advantage.
I know how Travis races.
I’ve watched every single Formula 1 race he’s ever been in. I’ve sat on the edge of my seat, hollered at the screen, held my breath whenever anyone tried to get past him. I know the way he defends. I know the moves he uses, the lines he takes to keep people behind him.
And I know that he isn’t thrilled with the way the Harper car is running on hard tires this weekend. He told me that yesterday, after FP3. I can see it, too, in the way that he’s driving. His lines are a bit more cautious, his braking points slightly less insane.
It might be enough. I might be able to get past him.
It takes me fifteen laps to get within DRS range. I could probably do it faster, but I’m babying my tires, getting ready for what’s next. I want to pass him as late as I possibly can, to give him as little time as possible to try and come back at me.
With sixteen laps left in the race, I start to test him.
I fly up behind him in the first DRS zone, with absolutely no intention of passing.
I’m just letting him defend against me, making sure I have the measure of him.
Maybe even luring him into a false sense of security.
It would feel underhanded, if it wasn’t a trick I learned from him.
It’s one of the ways he’s gotten the edge on Clayton and Mahoney this season, that and pushing them so hard that they make a mistake.
I’m not stupid enough to try that one against him, though.
Travis doesn’t make mistakes. He’s the best driver in the world.
But I’m in the faster car.
On lap fifty-nine, I throw open DRS, say a prayer to the racing gods, and take off after Travis coming out of turn five.
It’s the same DRS zone he passed me on at the start of the race, and I make the move stick the same way that he did, by braking so late my life briefly flashes in front of my eyes.
When the world reforms, I’m still ahead of him, and from there, it’s a flat-out sprint to the finish line.
Travis chases me around every single corner and runs up alongside me in every DRS zone, and there’s a moment on the last lap where I think he’s going to get me.
But the tires are letting him down, just like he thought they might, and he locks up on the last lap trying to brake late, and then it’s over, and I’m flying first over the finish line.
“P1, Jacob. That’s P1.” I can barely hear Cory over the roar of the crowd, and the sound of the Crosswire garage cheering behind him. Plus I’m laughing, and almost crying, and slamming my palm against the steering wheel because I’ve just won a Formula 1 race.
I can’t believe it. I cannot fucking believe it.
Crosswire mechanics and engineers are hanging off the wall at the start-finish straight, cheering for me.
A car drives up beside mine, a gloved hand waving over the halo.
I smile so hard my face hurts and wave back at Travis, give him a thumbs up.
He keeps driving ahead, and Mahoney passes by me, too, but I slow down.
I want to remember every second of this lap.
I want to imprint the feeling of it on my soul.
Travis and Mahoney are already climbing out of their cars when I pull up between them.
I know the proper procedure from here: climb on top of the car, pump a fist into the air, wave to the crowd.
Instead, I throw myself straight into Travis’s arms, laughing as our helmets clunk together.
I’m not thinking about how it will look to the cameras—I’m not thinking of anything at all, really, beyond an incoherent stream of holy shit and yay—but in any case, Mahoney pulls me into a hug directly afterward, admittedly one that’s significantly less emotionally charged.
My hands are shaking so much with exhaustion and adrenaline that it takes a few minutes to pull off my race gloves and helmet. Travis comes close again and nudges my elbow. I follow his gaze to the Crosswire crew crowded behind the barricade, cheering, hollering, waiting for me.
Whoops. Probably should’ve gone there, first.
As I jog toward them, a familiar face materializes in the very center of the group. I let out a roar of excitement. “Kelsie!”
“Babe!” She throws her arms around me, briefly smothering me in her long blonde hair.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” I say. “How are you here?”
“Taxi,” she says, beaming. “Then plane, then taxi again.”
I try to ask her more, but there’s no use.
Samuel is thumping me hard on the head, Marcie is crying and filming me with her phone, Cory is reaching over everyone’s heads to squeeze my hand, and Sofia is smiling at the back of the group, near Anne and Ben and Trevor and Jonathan.
Heather squeezes in from the edge of the Harper group, and Matty appears at my side, which gives Travis a reason to come close again, his shoulder pressing hard against mine.
It's perfect. This moment is perfect.
“Are you mad?” I ask Travis, as we wait for Mahoney to finish his interview.
He grins. “Your concern would seem a lot more genuine if you weren’t smiling so hard.”
I smile even harder. “I know. I’ll try to stop.”
“Don’t,” he says. “You did it. Granted, it will never work again—”
“Oh, no?” I ask innocently.
“—so I wouldn’t try it next year.”
“If I’m on the grid.”
“When you’re on the grid.”
We grin at each other, stupidly wide, then it’s Travis’s turn to be interviewed.
“Say lots of nice things about me,” I tell him.
He doesn’t, but only because the interviewer, an obnoxious guy named Carl, only asks him stupid questions, like “What went wrong at the end there?” and “Are you worried about holding onto such a fragile lead heading into Austin, where Crosswire is so heavily favored?”
Tool.
He can’t pull that crap with me, though, mostly because the crowd is cheering so loudly I can’t hear a word he says.
I ask him to repeat his first question twice, then I give up and just smile at the grandstands and thank everyone for their support.
I hear half of Carl’s second question—“—give you some sort of closure after the crash?”—but I pretend that I don’t.
“Sorry, didn’t catch a word,” I lie. “Thanks again, everyone.” I wave at the crowd. “This really means a lot.” I glance sideways at Travis and give him a smile, crooked and subtle and just for him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”