Chapter 27 #3
I curse. He may have the personality of a banana slug, but there’s no denying he’s skilled. “Any danger of catching us?”
“You’ll be all right, but he’s gonna get Cameron. He’s closing in now.”
I curse again. If Sasha can get within DRS range of Cameron, it’s game over.
Sasha will place second and Cameron third in the race, and Sasha will wind up Drivers’ Champion.
He’ll be the one to go down in the official record, and he’ll be the one eyed as the prime candidate for F2, given he’s already a hot commodity with his father’s financial backing.
My fingers curl around Lizzie’s steering wheel.
There’s something so unfair about it all. It’s wrong that someone as awful as Sasha, because he’s born to a rich family, can have all the advantages in life while Cameron has to crawl and scrape and be thankful for every little scrap he can get.
I loosen up on Lizzie’s accelerator.
“Is something the matter? Don’t tell me it’s your eye.” Roz’s voice rises in pitch with each question.
“Remember how I said we’re gonna get him on-track?”
“Oh god.”
I let Lizzie’s speed drift until we lose the gap to P2.
I’m mere feet away from Cameron and Sasha, battling furiously with each other.
Sasha lunges again and again, his recklessness threatening to take them both out while Cameron hangs desperately on, worn tires just clinging to the track, barely enough to keep ahead with Sasha’s DRS advantage.
“You need to pull away from that NOW,” Roz barks. “Sasha’s going to pass Cameron and be on your tail.”
“Not if he’s stuck in a DRS train.” I drop back more, bringing the gap between Lizzie and Cameron’s car to under one second.
The rear-wing flap on Cameron’s car opens, immediately giving him a boost that matches the one Sasha’s getting.
Come on, Cameron, I silently beg. Please get the message.
A second later, he does. He follows Lizzie’s slipstream, using the DRS boost to fend off Sasha while keeping a respectable distance from me.
And just like that, we’re driving together as a team.
“Justine, you genius.” Roz’s breathing is heavy over the radio.
“Don’t jinx it!” I shout back. We’re still four turns away from the checkered flag.
Three.
Two.
One.
Lizzie and I cross the finish line, Cameron nine-tenths of a second behind us. The entire Orbital pit crew hangs over the fence, waving a giant sign:
P1: Kwong
P2: Evans
Team champions
In parc fermé, Sasha makes his feelings known by getting out of his car and kicking his front left tire so hard, I can hear the dull thud over our cheering teammates.
I climb out of Lizzie’s cockpit, my heart still pumping.
Sasha stalks over. “What the hell was that?”
“Helping out a teammate and nabbing the team champion-ship.” I remove my helmet and pull off my balaclava, shaking out my drenched hair. I normally do this well away from people, but Sasha deserves to get smelly postrace sweat sprinkled all over him.
“A teammate? Or your boyfriend?” He narrows his eyes.
My stomach squeezes unpleasantly. “It’s called strategy. Ever heard of it?”
Sasha’s response comes faster than I expect. One second he’s pushing past me with his shoulder, and the next I’m doubled over, my bad eye spasming.
I hiss in pain. Physically elbowing my taped-up eye is lower than I thought even Sasha capable of. If I weren’t crumpled on the tarmac in agony, I’d run up behind and shove him, disqualification rules and all.
Which is what Cameron promptly does.
He darts out of nowhere—I hadn’t seen him pull up—and pushes Sasha hard. Sasha stumbles, tripping over Lizzie’s front wing in a long-limbed, flailing heap. There’s a collective gasp from the bystanders—mainly Orbital and Triton team members and a handful of reporters.
“Did you see that?” Sasha yells at the nearest FIA official.
The official, the same youngish-looking guy who had a front-row seat to my Spa disaster, gapes at Sasha. “Erm. Uh. Let me check.”
“Sod off, Devin.” Cameron takes a menacing step toward him. “You practically stabbed her in the eye with your elbow.”
“You still pushed me, didn’t you?” Sasha gestures at the FIA official. “That ought to be a race disqualification.”
I gasp. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Not when it was with good cause.
Cameron pleads his case. “He could’ve seriously hurt her.”
The official hems and haws, scratching the back of his neck and looking like he wished he were anywhere but here.
Ignoring the blinding pain in my eye, I scurry over to join the fray. “Cameron’s right. I already had an injury and Sasha elbowed me on purpose.”
“That was an accident,” Sasha protests, turning to the FIA official with a toothy smile. “I only meant to get past her. I misjudged the distance, that’s all. We are so dehydrated after these races.”
The FIA official nods in sympathy.
Oh hell no. Sasha is not talking his way out of this.
“Since when did dehydration alter your vision? You clearly mistook my eye for someplace to rest your elbow.”
“You can hardly blame me for missing it. It was slittier than usual.”
Cameron lunges with a guttural growl. I throw myself in front of him and grab his arm, bodily preventing him from throwing a punch.
I’ve faced off with Sasha enough to know his game by now.
A physical altercation is exactly what he’s gunning for, hoping one—or both—of us will be disqualified and he can glide into the championship slot.
“There’s got to be punishment for attempted violence,” Sasha says to the FIA official.
“Did you hear what he said?” I demand.
Outside the ringed-off area, there’s a confused buzzing that grows louder. The official types rapidly on his phone. “Erm. Ah. Hold on, I’m texting race control.”
“What kind of an example are we setting by allowing such unsportsmanlike behavior to go unpunished?” Sasha drawls.
“He used a racial slur,” I snarl.
“That wasn’t a slur; it was a factual descriptive.”
I have to hold Cameron back again. Sasha crosses his arms, looking amused.
Part of me wants to say “Screw it” and let Cameron at him.
But the coolheaded, smart part of my brain is somehow keeping the cavewoman at bay.
Letting Cameron wipe the smirk—and possibly a couple of teeth—off Sasha’s face with his fist would feel better than digging into a pint of Oreo ice cream after a hard workout, but the delight for both of us would be even shorter-lived if he gets disqualified.
The FIA official breathes easier when he receives a ping on his phone.
“No race penalty for either party, though they will be reviewing for Super Licence infringements. So, er, I’m told you should all make your way to the cooldown room.
” He takes a giant step back but hovers, like he doesn’t trust us not to throw hands on international TV when left unchaperoned.
Sasha gives me a furious glare, then stomps off in the direction of the podium, the vein in his neck bulging.
Cameron stares after Sasha, a look of disgust on his face. “What an arse.” He clenches and unclenches his jaw. “Sorry I didn’t get to punch him for you.”
“I’m sure Frank would rather keep the points,” I say, a small smile on my face. Cameron’s anger and indignation doesn’t make up for Sasha sashaying off consequence-free, but it does kindle a small spark of warmth in my chest.
“I can’t believe this is the kind of crap you have to put up with.” He looks down at me, brow furrowed.
“Thanks, Cameron.” As Roz would say, another one converted to the dark side.
There’s a ripple in the crowd. Dietrich, his arm around Hannie, making his way into parc fermé to watch the ceremony with the team. He stops next to Roz and Lou Wilson. As if she knows where my mind is drifting, Roz looks right at me with a pointed stare.
My heart beats faster. It’s the end of the season. Who knows where we’ll both end up next year? There are a million trillion reasons why it won’t work. But there’s so many more reasons I want to try. I can’t not try.
“Cameron,” I say.
He looks at me, eyebrow raised. Behind him, fans are flocking into the public viewing space for the ceremony.