Chapter 27
DOUBLE OVERTAKE: PASSING TWO CARS IN ONE MOVE
The world narrows the moment I slide into the cockpit. It always does.
All the noise from the crowd and commentators fades into something distant and irrelevant. What’s left is mechanical. The wheel in my hands.
The weight of the car beneath me.
The track ahead.
Barcelona isn’t forgiving in the same way Monaco is tight or Jeddah is fast. It’s technical. Demanding in a way that exposes everything—every overcorrection, every hesitation you didn’t know you still had.
Which means there’s nowhere to hide. Ruefully, I think, Not that Christin will let me.
Not anymore.
The launch is clean. I slot into position, heart rate steady. My mind tries to anticipate Turn Three, but I force it back by thinking of what Christin would say if she were in the car with me.
Stay present. Don’t anticipate what’s ahead.
Digging down deep, I center myself and drive.
Lap after lap, my rhythm builds. Tyre management is spot on.
Brakes feel good. My steering input feeds through Christin’s software.
She is in here with me. I tighten my hands around the wheel, as close as I can be to her in this moment.
Her telemetry program is so sensitive, I’m certain it feeds that flicker of change back through the software.
But as much as I can picture her frowning over it, I know she’s also recognizing I’m not making the micro-adjustments I would’ve made eight weeks ago. Hell, five months ago.
Now, I choose what actions to take because I’m thinking about them—not reacting to what’s happened in my past.
The blur settles in around lap five. For me, the blur isn’t a loss of control. It means my focus has sharpened so tightly that everything else ceases to matter. The car becomes an extension of my body.
I take Turn One clean.
Turn Three comes out into a fast right, long stretch of road.
I recall anticipating the understeer before it even happened.
Correcting before my car’s inputs gave me a warning to do so.
This time, it’s different. I’m tempted—boy, am I tempted—to engage in old habits.
I’m practically quivering with the urge to start my turn just a fraction sooner, to compensate for something that hasn’t happened yet.
Then, her voice cuts through my headset. Calmly advising me, “Don’t assume failure. Trust what’s happening.”
My grip tightens for half a second, then I let the last of it go—not the wheel, but my side of the wall I built between us. With it, tension flows out of me. Holding the straightaway, I trust the telemetry.
Trust the system.
Trust her.
The car responds exactly the way it should. No understeer. No correction needed. It’s so clean as I power out of the corner that I call out, “That’s the way to do it!”
There’s raucous laughter over the headset, including hers.
Exhaling sharply, I realize how much I missed the sound of her genuine excitement. Something I promise I’ll give to her when she’s ready.
Along with my heart and soul.
With a grin on my face, I accelerate. From that point on, everything settles. The drive isn’t effortless, but oriented in a way I haven’t felt before. Each lap builds on the last. Each input is cleaner. Every decision is grounded in what is actually happening instead of what might go wrong.
By the final laps, I’m not chasing. I’m leading. And for the first time in my career, I know I’m not going to lose it.
The checkered flag waves. After I speed through it, a jolt of pure elation slams into my chest.
First!
My first win. No, my second. I correct myself. My first win was Christin. And I’m going to win her again, I vow to myself.
The radio explodes in my ear—voices overlapping. I hear Dario losing his mind somewhere in the middle of it. “You WON! Damn it, Leo. I could kiss you right now.”
Then Christin’s voice, controlled but unmistakably amused. “Why don’t you let him decide who he wants to kiss?”
I don’t respond immediately because I’m too choked up. I didn’t fight the car. I didn’t try to control every outcome before it happened.
I trusted it. Trusted her.
The team celebration is chaos. There’s champagne flowing—a lot of it over my head.
Random hands clapping my back. Noise levels that should be illegal in a garage that echoes.
People shout things at me I’ll never recall.
Cameras flash, capturing every second of something that’s supposed to define me.
It doesn’t. Not the way I thought it would because I already know who and what matters.
I just can’t find her in the crowd I’m scanning before the podium ceremony even ends.
There are too many people; too much movement.
I can’t find Christin.
Then, I see her just beyond the cluster of Apex Orion’s engineers. She’s wearing a beaming smile and relaxed in a way no one else is.
That’s because, I realize with awe, she’s not surprised.
She knew I could do this.
Even from here, I can tell she’s proud.
I don’t wait. I leap off the platform, ignoring the calls behind me. The expectations that usually dictate my postrace movements can wait. The pull of Christin won’t.
When I reach her, I don’t hesitate. I slip an arm around her waist and kiss her. It’s not careful. It’s passionate and filled with every emotion I’ve spent months trying—and failing—to contain around her. It’s need mixed with gratitude, not for anything else but for her giving me a second chance.
Her breath stills against my mouth for half a second before she melts into me, fingers curling into the front of my race suit like she needs to feel my body against hers as much as I do.
The crowd around us dissolves into noise and light, irrelevant compared to the way she immediately fits against me.
I kiss her deeper, chasing the taste of champagne and victory and Christin herself. God, I’ve missed this. Not just the kiss—the certainty behind it. The way she doesn’t hold herself back. Here, now, we’re just Leo and Christin.
The only thing that ever should have mattered.
My pulse pounds harder than it did in the final laps as I pull her impossibly closer. Her body presses against mine, warm and steady despite the chaos surrounding us, and I realize I’d cross every finish line in the world if it meant finding her waiting for me on the other side like this.
When I finally pull back, both of us breathing harder, her eyes are bright and a little stunned. My head is still spinning in a way that has nothing to do with the race.
“It’s because of you,” I say, voice rougher than I expect.
“The system—” she starts.
“No,” I cut in, shaking my head. I loosen my grip so she can lean back in my arms. “It has nothing to do with that. I trusted you. What you built. What we’re building.”
The words land between us. Not light, but real. “And I didn’t try to control it. For the first time, I didn’t get in my own way.”
Her breath catches slightly. I see when my words really resonate. This public display of emotion isn’t just about the win. She clarifies, “That wasn’t about the car?”
“No, it’s about us.” I slacken my grip so she knows she can move away at any time, but she’ll have to pull out of my arms. I don’t want to let her go. “I believe in you. I believe in us.”
Silence stretches for half a second before she murmurs, “I do too.”
The shield she’s been holding lowers. And this time, I know, I got it right.
I didn’t just win the race; I won my heart.
And deep down, I know I don’t have any reason to be afraid.