Chapter Thirteen – Lola
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LOLA
“Lola, what the hell was that?” Distorted by the headset, Cole’s voice crackles with barely contained fury. “That line was all wrong! I almost kissed the wall!”
The air crackles with tension that has nothing to do with the headset. There’s a palpable hum of frustration that mixes with the exhaust fumes and the scorching Florida sun. It’s our first official practice session since I’ve become Cole’s race engineer, and so far, it’s a complete disaster.
“You wouldn’t have almost kissed the wall if you hadn’t overcorrected,” I shoot back, my fingers flying across the laptop keyboard, analyzing the telemetry data that scrolls across the screen. “I told you to ease off the throttle, not slam on the brakes!”
“Ease off? Ease off? We’re not baking a cake here! This is racing!”
“And we’re not going to win if you keep driving like a maniac!”
The silence that follows is thick with animosity, punctuated by the roar of engines as other cars whip past Cole on the track.
This is a mistake. A colossal, career-ending, relationship-imploding mistake.
I slam my fist against the table, the flimsy metal wobbling precariously under the force of my frustration. We’re four hours into practice, and every run is one catastrophe after another. Cole has blown turns, missed apexes, and let’s not forget the near-miss with the wall that left my heart hammering in my chest and Cole spitting fire at me through the headset.
We are supposed to be a team. A united front. A force to be reckoned with.
Instead, we’re two volatile elements colliding, creating a storm of chaos and resentment that threatens to derail everything. The worst part? It isn’t just about the racing.
The memories of the other night, the tequila-fueled confessions, the feel of Cole’s hands on my skin, the lingering scent of his cologne in my nostrils… it all adds a layer of complexity, a dangerous undercurrent of unspoken emotions that makes it impossible to focus on the task at hand. And don’t get me started on the moment we shared at our old racetrack.
This is a job, Lola. A job. Remember the plan. Fake it till you make it. Cash the checks and get the hell out of Dodge before you end up with your heart scattered across the asphalt—again.
But even as I repeat the mantra, I can’t ignore the way my pulse quickens every time I hear Cole’s voice through the headset, the way my skin tingles at the memory of his touch, the way my gaze is drawn to him every time he roars past pit lane, his face a mask of concentration and his hands a blur of controlled power on the steering wheel.
“Lola, are you even listening?” Cole’s voice, laced with frustration, snaps me out of my spiral.
“Of course, I’m listening,” I retort, my voice sharper than intended. “What do you think I’m doing, knitting a damn scarf?”
“Sounds about right, given the pace we’re setting,” he mutters. “Look, we need to figure this out. I can’t drive like this, and you’re clearly not giving me the information I need.”
He’s right. We’re a hot freaking mess. Our communication is off, our timing is disastrous, and the tension between us is thicker than the Florida humidity.
This is your fault, Lola. You’re letting your emotions get in the way. You’re letting the past cloud your judgment. Ugh!
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the data scrolling across the laptop screen, ignoring the way my heart aches at the sound of Cole’s frustrated sighs.
“All right.” My voice is calmer now, more professional. “Let’s take it from the top. Same corner, same approach. This time, I’ll give you the braking point earlier, and you try to…”
But before I can finish the sentence, Cole cuts me off, his voice tight. “No. This isn’t working. We’re going about this all wrong.”
“What are you talking about?” I frown. “This is how it’s done, Cole. This is how you win races.”
“Not this race,” he says, his voice low and intense. “This isn’t just about lines and apexes, Lola. It’s about… trust. And right now, we have none.”
His words hit me with the power of a slap to the face, knocking the breath out of me. He’s right. We’re a tangled mess of history, resentment, and unspoken desires, and it’s bleeding into our work, poisoning our performance.
What do we do? How do we fix this?
For a moment, I’m lost, adrift in a sea of doubt and frustration. Then, a memory flickers, a lifeline from a time when things were simpler, when Cole and I spoke the same language and our passion for racing was all that mattered.
“Try it again, Cole,” I say, my voice quieter now, the sharp edge of frustration replaced by something softer, something almost… pleading.
“Lola…”
“Just trust me,” I repeat, my fingers hovering over the stereo controls. “One more run. Your way.”
He hesitates, then, with a sigh of resignation, says, “Fine. But if this doesn’t work…”
“It will,” I respond, more to myself than to him. Fake it till you make it, right?
As Cole roars back onto the track, the engine of the Viper a symphony of power and frustration, I hit play on the stereo, the familiar chords of Led Zeppelin filling the garage.
It was our song. Our anthem. A reminder of a time when we were young, reckless, and united by a shared dream.
The music washes over me, the drums a steady heartbeat, the guitar riffs a raw expression of emotion, the lyrics a reminder of a love that had once burned as bright as the sun.
And as Cole’s car slices through the turns, his movements smoother now, his lines more precise, I feel a shift in the air, a palpable release of tension. The music, a bridge between our past and present, seems to mend the gap between us, too.
“Turn four, apex late,” I instruct, my voice calm and steady, the data on the screen guiding my words. “Ease off the throttle, let the car drift…”
“I got it, Lola,” Cole’s voice comes back, a hint of a smile in his tone. “I got it.”
And he does.
He and the car move fluidly as one, a graceful dance between man and machine, his movements flowing, his instincts sharp. The Viper, responding to his touch, to our shared understanding, roars down the straightaway, a black blur against the sun-drenched asphalt.
I watch him, my heart swelling with a mixture of pride and something that feels dangerously close to love.
No. Don’t go there, Lola. Lock that down. This is a job. A contract. A carefully constructed lie.
But even as I repeat the mantra, I can’t ignore the truth that is staring me in the face. The chemistry between us, the way our minds work in tandem, the undeniable spark that ignites every time our eyes meet… it’s all real.
The rest of the practice session flies by, the earlier tension replaced by a focused intensity that hums between us. We’re in sync, each lap building on the last, pushing the limits, honing our strategy, and becoming a single, powerful unit.
I can feel the team watching us, their initial skepticism melting away with each successful run. Even Gene, with his perpetually furrowed brow and arsenal of Cole-related grudges, seems to be reluctantly impressed.
And as Cole pulls into the pit lane, his face flushes with exhilaration, a triumphant grin splitting his face, and I know that this is just the beginning. We’re a team. A force to be reckoned with.
And maybe, just maybe, something more.
“That,” he says, his voice husky with exertion as he climbs out of the car, “was… better. A lot better.” He pulls off his helmet, running a hand through his damp hair.
My gaze snags on the movement, the way the sweat glistens on his skin. I can practically see the muscles in his arms flex through his fire suit. Focus, Lola. Work. Engines. Not abs and arm flexes.
“It was good,” I agree, trying to keep my tone professional, my voice steady despite the way my pulse is hammering and the blush that I can feel creeping up my neck. “But there’s always room for improvement. I want to try a different line through turn thirteen.”
“You sure?” Cole tilts his head, his gaze meeting mine with a challenge that gets me more hot and bothered. “You think you can trust me to handle it?”
The question, loaded with double meaning, hangs in the air between us. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
“I trust you,” I admit, my voice a soft whisper that is almost lost in the roar of the nearby engines.
The corner of his lip twitches, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Good,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Because I trust you, too.”
The air sizzles between us, charged with something more potent than the exhaust fumes and racing fuel surrounding us. The weight of his gaze is almost too much to bear, and I find myself leaning closer, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
“Lola…” he breathes, his voice a husky murmur.
But before he can close the distance between us, and our carefully constructed fa?ade crumbles completely, a voice booms over the loudspeaker, shattering the moment. Practice is over. Time to face the cameras, the sponsors, and the world outside of our bubble on the track.
And I can’t shake the feeling that the real practice is just beginning.
He turns and strides back towards the Viper, his movements fluid, his confidence radiating off him like heat waves off the asphalt. As I watch him climb back into the car, his gaze meeting mine one last time before he pulls his helmet on, I know that this isn’t just about winning races anymore.
This is about something much more dangerous. Something that could wreck both of our lives if we aren’t careful. Smile and wave Lola. Just smile and wave.