The Fast Track

Chapter 1

Milton Keynes, United Kingdom

Orbital Technology Center

Orbital Racing Season Opener reception

Mom always says you never forget your first love.

Which is a complete lie, because the moment I lay eyes on Lizzie, my F3 beauty, I can barely remember what my first-ever racing kart looked like.

She—all sixteen glorious, gleaming feet of her—stands resplendent in the middle of Orbital’s race car showcase. Her top speed is 180 mph, the fastest I’ll drive in my life—so far. I buzz with anticipation, energy racing through my veins as if I just chugged a gallon of Red Bull.

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?”

I startle. I’m so tunnel-visioned by Lizzie, I’ve failed to notice my teammate joining me in front of the display. I’ve never met Cameron Evans in person, though I have his junior racing record memorized.

“I love the livery this year,” I say, trying my best to ignore the fact that Cameron is ten times better-looking in real life than his pixelated headshot in the team directory.

The event space swarms with hundreds of staff across the F1, F2, and F3 teams celebrating the kickoff of a new season. Laughter and chatter echo off the modernist concrete walls while servers weave in and out of the crowd, handing out glasses of expensive champagne like it’s Halloween candy.

“I can’t wait. Will be fun to keep this one on-track.” He grins, dimpling.

I flush. With those cheekbones and that cologne-ad hair, he’s the classic, swoony type of handsome that wouldn’t look out of place in an old Hollywood movie.

Focus, Justine. Not that there’s anything wrong with admiring a fellow driver, but that would fall squarely in the “on-track distractions” camp.

And it’s never a good idea to have distractions.

Especially when you’ve moved across the ocean and skipped senior year of high school to take a shot on professional racing.

Especially when you’re competing against said distraction.

I clear my throat and force my eyes back to the display. “Your drive in Budapest looked like the car was on rails.” His performance in the torrential downpour during the Hungarian Feature Race last year all but screamed “future F1 champion.”

His smile gets broader. “You’ve watched my races?”

“Of course. I have to keep an eye on the competition.” Despite my best intentions, this comes out flirtatious.

He doesn’t look like he minds, if his smirk is anything to go by. “I guess we should do formal introductions. Cameron Evans.” He holds out his hand. “F3 driver, obviously. Which department are you with?”

I freeze, certain I’ve misheard. But he keeps talking.

“Let me guess—one of Britt’s interns, right?”

Britt Perkins, Orbital Racing’s head of PR & Marketing, is standing ten feet away, next to the temporary bar set up for the opening party. She’s flanked by two summer interns. They’re among the only other girls our age here.

Record.

Scratch.

Turns out Cute British Teammate hasn’t bothered looking up the bare minimum on me.

Meanwhile, I’ve spent the entire spring (and, okay, winter and fall too) studying up on him to gain any edge I can.

Cameron Evans is clearly one of the many unbothered rich-boy-playing-with-Daddy’s-money types floating around.

My last category in the US was chock-full of them.

I don’t even know why I’m surprised, except maybe I expected a bit more out of F3, feeder series to F1 and all.

“Justine!” My race engineer, Roz, charges over.

She’s eighteen—eight months older than me—and the only other girl on our team.

She’s as hungry as I am to win. To prove we’ve got what it takes.

We’ve already had multiple planning sessions over FaceTime (some when I was supposed to be cramming for summer classes so I could graduate early).

Recognition sweeps over Cameron’s handsome features. His transition from cool-driver-who-thinks-he’s-chatting-up-the-PR-intern would be hilarious if it weren’t also kind of irritating.

I give his hand, still outstretched, a wry shake. “Justine Kwong. Nice to meet you.”

“You’re the girl driver?” If his eyes got any wider, they’d go boing-ing out of his head.

I fight back a scowl. It’s not that I’m not used to being singled out—I’ve been “the girl” from the first time I set foot on a karting track at the Illinois State Fair—but just once, I wish my defining characteristic could be something more.

Roz puffs up indignantly. “How many other Asian girls with American accents d’you see floating around here?”

“Good point.” Cameron laughs, and something about his unapologetic blasé-ness rubs me the wrong way. I’m simultaneously envious and annoyed.

Roz rolls her eyes. “Anyway. I came over to tell you…” She grabs my shoulders and turns me toward the entrance of the cavernous event hall.

“He’s here.”