Chapter 27 #4
I barge on before I lose my courage. “I really, really like you. Dietrich is an amazing mentor and a great friend, but that’s all he is.
I-I’ve been battling my feelings for you all season, because who needs to fall for someone that can push them off—you know what I’m saying?
” Cameron’s staring wordlessly, so I elaborate. “But I’m done with that. For good.”
“You’re unbelievable,” he says in a strained voice.
My heart sinks. Maybe bringing up testing wasn’t the brightest of ideas.
This is truly the end, then, if you can call it an end when we didn’t have a chance to begin.
Thank goodness the chance of us winding up on the same team next year is minuscule—it’ll at least save the awkwardness of dodging each other in the garage.
The thought doesn’t comfort me as much as I wish it would.
“I’m sorry. I promise I won’t act weird or anything next year.”
He lowers his head and his shoulders tremble. At first, I think he’s crying. Which kind of makes sense, because he’s just won the Drivers’ Championship and it’s not a surprising reaction to cry, even if it’s kind of delayed.
A second later, I realize he’s shaking with laughter, tears of mirth seeping out of his eyes. “You,” he says, leaning in and pressing his forehead against mine, “really know how to pick your moments.”
Then he kisses me.
Acting on pure instinct, I stand on tiptoe and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He releases a delighted sigh against my lips, one hand dropping to the dip in my waist, the other moving to cradle the back of my head.
There’s a loud cough behind us. Frank, face redder than the time he caught us fighting during media boot camp seventy-two hours after he told us to figure out a way to get along. “Bloody hell.”
Behind him, the crowd is crickets silent. Someone—Pat, maybe?—lets out a whistle and claps. It spreads, growing in speed and volume, until everyone in parc fermé is cheering at the top of their lungs and the grandstands join in too. I can hear Roz shouting, “Get it, girl!”
“Sorry, Frank, couldn’t help it,” Cameron murmurs. His eyes are dazed, half lidded as he tilts away from me. I fight the urge to pull him back, even if Frank is two feet away.
“It’s not against the rules or anything, right?” The morning after we first kissed, I read the FIA rule book front to end three times to check, but it never hurts to be extra careful.
“Thankfully not. Can’t deal with another interpersonal fire drill. Though whoever wrote it probably never thought to cover this.” He shakes his head, a wry grin on his face. “I reckon they’ll have to put in some clarifying language now that we’re going to have more girls in the sport.”
Changing the rules one by one. I can’t wait to tell Roz.
“Anyhow.” Frank clears his throat. “Good job, both of you. What a way to bring home the championships.”
Hearing Frank say the words out loud feels like running through sprinklers in the middle of a heat wave.
“Hell yeah, team champions!” I grab him in an excited hug, hopping up and down.
“Right.” Frank frees himself and steps back, his mustache twitching with a smile. “I was told you’re late for the ceremony. Would’ve sent one of the mechanics if I’d known the cause of delay.”
“Sorry, we’ll head over now.” Cameron grins. He grabs my hand, laces his fingers through mine, and tugs me gently in the direction of the podium.
“I better not see you two necking up there!” Frank yells.
Cameron ignores him and plants a kiss on the top of my head as we half walk, half jog to the cooldown room. “By the way, just so we’re clear, you were at fault for preseason testing.”
“No way.” I squeeze his hand. “You were the one who didn’t leave enough space.”
We make it in time to hear Cameron’s name being called for second place.
“Hurry,” the same FIA attendant who got caught in the middle of our Sasha Devin showdown hisses.
“This isn’t over; we’re continuing this conversation after,” Cameron calls over his shoulder before jogging out.
I take a moment to catch my breath, picking up the Winner Caps set out in the room. I’ve been dreaming of this moment—a triumphant season end—for so long. Now that it’s finally arrived, alongside so much more than I expected, it’s surreal in the best way.
The announcer booms over the loudspeaker, “First place, this season’s F3 Drivers’ Champion runner-up, Justine Kwong.”
I jam the cap on, thread my hair through the ponytail hole, and jog out onto the stage.
From the platform, I can see Dietrich, arm still around Hannie, standing with Otto Warner and some of the other Orbital F1 team who’ve come out to watch.
He gives me a nod, his eyes twinkling in the morning sun.
Next to them, Roz and our mechanics have thrown their arms around one another, swaying and belting “We Are the Champions” off-key.
Mom stands a few feet away, next to none other than Mateo Bianchi himself. She looks so smug and gleeful I know she has to be cooking something up.
The award presenter, some local state rep wearing a white cowboy hat, beckons me forward and hands me two trophies—one for the race and one for the Drivers’ Championship. I hold on to both, savoring the moment.
Then I thrust the trophies up over my head, and the crowd goes wild.