All to Play For (Frontrunners #3)

Chapter 1 Portland, Oregon

PORTLAND, OREGON

SAGE

I focus on the target, cocking my arm back, assessing the trajectory: right into the middle of that clown’s face. Release the breath slowly with an underhand snap of the wrist, and—

Bull’s-eye.

I can’t hold in my laugh. “That’s for ‘mouthy little hoyden with more ink than talent.’”

Beside me, Priya hands over another hefty wooden ball. “Get it out of your system, girlfriend.” Her tone is half motherly soothing, half impatience.

I toss it up and catch it—weighing the mass, balancing, integrating it as part of my arm—then launch another straight into the high-score ring.

Bam!

“And that’s for ‘pint-sized poppet with more assets in the seat of her trousers than in her helmet.’” Lights flash and bells chuckle. Another string of tickets spits out of the game, just below the start button.

Priya leans to tear it off before draping them around my neck with the piles of others. “I know this is therapeutic, but how much longer? I’m starving.”

“Go get some of that stale popcorn.” Eyes locked on the Skee-Ball game, I jab a finger at the coin slot. “Gimme more. I’m not quitting ’til I beat the high score.” I nod toward the clown face. “Looks a little like him, doesn’t it?”

My PA and lifelong best friend drops nickels into the slot, sighing, then tips her head and gives the target a glance. Her glossy, dark hair slips around her shoulder. “Maybe the bow tie? Alexander Laskaris seems like the kind of guy who’d own one.”

I grab three balls from the return gutter and launch them into the air, juggling. “I’d like to make him eat it, the misogynist dickbag.”

“Um, language?” Priya scolds. “This place is full of kids.”

Behind me I hear a child’s giggle. I carefully turn, keeping the paint-chipped balls in motion. A little girl with hair pulled into a ponytail on top of her head is watching me.

In a grand finale move, I toss the balls high and do a 360 spin before dropping to one knee and catching them. “Ta-daaaaaa!” I sing out.

“You’re a good juggler,” she tells me.

“Aww, thanks. Wanna take over my lane? I just put in new coins, but my whiny friend here says it’s time to go.”

The girl takes the balls from me, eyeing one of the curls that’s escaped from my seventies trucker cap. “Why’s your hair blue?”

“Grew that way.” I stand and brush off the knees of my jeans, which are dusted with popcorn shards from the dirty floor. “My mother’s a mermaid, and my dad—”

“Don’t lie to children!” Priya hisses.

Lifting the prize tickets from my shoulders, I drape them around the girl’s neck. “Here—get something big. Don’t go for the lava lamp, though. I got that once and it was a piece of—”

“Sage!” Priya snaps.

“I was gonna say ‘junk’! Chill out, babes.” Waving goodbye to the little girl, I hook an arm through my best friend’s and drag her away from the Skee-Ball lanes.

Just before the exit doors leading out to a rainy Oregon afternoon, I stop at a bank of candy dispensers. I love how everything in this arcade is a time warp from my childhood. This place—the whole funky, artsy Southeast Portland neighborhood, really—has barely changed since I was a kid.

My parents’ house, a mile from here, is the same one I grew up in.

We could’ve afforded fancier—my dad made a fortune in the late-nineties dot-com boom—but my parents have always preferred experiences to “stuff.” We went on tons of family vacations: Mom, Dad, my brother Julian, and me.

And my karting was a major investment, along with Julian’s mountaineering.

The only thing Jules has to show for his efforts is a missing toe from frostbite when he climbed K2 and a string of brokenhearted women around the globe.

Sounds mean of me to say, but… we’re not the best of pals.

As for me, all the money and time my parents shelled out set me on the road leading to this year’s dream drive: second seat on the Emerald F1 team, the sole woman driver in the sport.

“You shouldn’t eat that junk,” Priya scolds as I feed a quarter into a machine full of ancient-looking Good & Plentys. “Dagna will strangle you.”

“That’s why I’m having it now. All season she’ll be giving me the stink eye if I touch a cocktail or a candy bar.”

“She’s an amazing physio. You’re lucky to have her.”

I twist the dispenser knob and cradle the spill of purple and white sugar pellets. “Yeah, well. When I told her I was craving chocolate, she sent me a recipe for whipped tofu with cacao nibs.” As Priya tries to lead me to the door, I protest, “Wait! I need Hot Tamales…”

“What you need is self-control.”

She drags me into the rain, shooting a cranky side-eye at me as we walk down the street to where my restored 1974 Triumph TR6 is parked. “I should’ve gotten a video of you talking to that little girl,” Pri says. “Social media gold. Better than a rescue-puppies post.”

I tip candies into my mouth and awkwardly talk around them. “Cynical photo op,” I mumble, transferring the mound of stale licorice to one cheek.

“Maybe a pic of you with your car? Fans must be curious to see what a Formula 1 driver gets around town in.” Priya pulls her phone from a back pocket as we walk up.

“Meh. I don’t need strangers to know that.” I hop into the driver’s side.

“Phaedra told us to get fun pics for Insta,” Priya insists, climbing in. “Gotta ‘build your brand’ and all that.”

“No thanks.” I mop the condensation off the inside of the windshield.

“You’re so weird about social media. Anyone who’s met you would think you’d be live streaming every time you brush your teeth, and your dad made a zillion bucks off the internet, but you act like I’m trying to steal your soul if I hold up a camera.”

“Yeah, but my mom was adamant about ‘being present’ for experiences. It’s part of what gave me the focus to excel at racing. ‘Make memories, not content,’ she always says.”

“Well, your boss sees it differently. Taking pictures of you is part of my job. And you know who cares the most about your socials? Sponsors. Which is exactly what Phaedra will say.”

“The season hasn’t even started yet. Let me enjoy one last month of not having a camera up my ass.” I start the car, the engine coughing before it roars to life. “Soon enough I’ll be back in the snake pit, my privacy all kinds of invaded by dickweed journalists like He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”

“That’s my point. It’s not helping that two of the bloggers who talk about you the most do it because they hate you.

We need to create content that makes you fun and relatable.

Get ahead of the narrative. According to that Carol-Jeanne lady on Sports and Tortes, you’re a conniving villain who sabotaged her precious daughter. ”

“CJ Ardley is a delusional sports-mom who happens to have a big following. Mostly because she posts those cougary cheesecake pics along with… like, actual cheesecakes. No one takes her seriously.” I rev the engine not only to encourage it but also because I’m irritated and enjoy the aggressive sound.

“Her own daughter thinks she’s cringe. Maya Ardley and I were super supportive of each other in karting. ”

“Sure, but lots of people read her blog. And you know who has even more influence? This guy.” Priya holds up her phone: Alexander Laskaris’s dumb, smirky face in the profile pic beside the banner of his In the Mirrors blog.

“Whatever. Alexander who?” I put the car into gear and screech onto the road.

It’s a shame that he’s been dragging me for months, because I used to be a fan of his writing.

He’s smart, funny, and… okay, kinda handsome—I can’t deny that.

I used to follow his blog. But after I got the Emerald seat, he started posting all this snarky shit.

What a disappointment, discovering he’s just another insulting, clickbait-generating douche.

Priya scrolls down his latest post, skimming the content. “Uh-oh…” she groans.

I look over after navigating a turn. “What?”

She rotates the phone to face me again. I can only afford a brief glance while I’m driving, but it’s enough to see an unflattering pic of myself climbing out of a car outside a club with a flash of crotch.

“Oh, fuckbuckets. What’s it say?” I demand.

“The headline is ‘Putting the “Cock” in “Cockpit,”’ and the lede is, ‘If rumors are true about how much time punk-rock racer Sage Sikora has spent at Klaus Franke’s home on Santorini, it’s no mystery how her perky bum landed in Emerald’s second seat.

Does Franke, a notorious womanizer, have a Formula 1 casting couch on his Greek isle getaway? ’”

Fury wicks up my spine and spreads in a blanket of heat.

I clutch the steering wheel hard. “Okay, that’s it.

The creep’s gone too far this time.” At a stoplight, I swivel and give Priya a determined look.

“I’m calling Phaedra, and we’re gonna sic legal on him.

” I stare back out at the rain, eyes narrowed.

“Prepare to be humbled, you sexist London dickbag.”