Chapter Twenty #2
A smile pulls on my lips as I accept the headset from a red-faced Ethan and fit it over my ears.
I set my tablet at the edge of the table, right beneath the screen monitoring Asher’s progress, and rapidly go through the car’s vitals.
Then, I remind him, “No cooldown. You’re going again the second you cross the line. ”
“Got it,” Asher repeats.
He finishes the banker lap in a better time than before, one-tenth of a second faster than the last one. That’ll put him around P18.
He crosses the start-finish line and immediately begins his final flying lap. On the timing screen, the session clock shows less than three minutes—he started the lap just before the checkered flag waved to signal the end of the session.
My eyebrows hit my hairline as I realized Asher was holding back. This lap really shows the definition of what he’s like when he flies. “Brake late on this turn,” I murmur. “X-mode on next straight.” He doesn’t respond, but he follows every single directive I give him seamlessly.
Sweat beads on my forehead as the longest minute-and-change of my life ensues.
Everything feels like it happens in slow motion; each mode activation, turn, and straight.
I watch his numbers trickle onto the screen above me one by one, when in reality, the data being pulled flashes over the monitors in rapid succession.
“Push the hell out of it,” I murmur. This is his last chance to secure a favorable place.
Fuck me, he does. It’s clear that Asher Lawrence still has the spark that got him on the F1 circuit in the first place—it’s just been lying dormant beneath his inability to change.
His car flies across the finish line seconds later, and for a heartbeat, it almost feels like the world stops altogether.
The air thins, the desert heat vanishes, and even the commentary in my headset cuts to static.
Sound filters, until all I can hear is the thud of my heart in my ears.
All that exists is the screen monitoring Asher, and I watch it like a hawk, waiting for his finishing time to appear.
It blinks over the monitor, digit by digit. 1:31:584.
Putting Asher in P15.
Just as quickly as it slows, time resumes, and sound filters back in. Cheers erupt from stands, the roar of cars pulling into lanes, shouts as teams of crew members run around.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and check Elio’s driver times as they pop up on screen. P18. Elio will be cut, while Asher will live to fight another round.
I really wish I had a chair to fall into as the announcers zero in on Asher’s performance, scrutinizing his high-risk final laps and the payoff.
I take off the headset and wipe the sweat from my forehead, pacing a few steps away from the wall. Elation creates a buzzing vortex of excitement over my skin. Asher didn’t win… but he showed that he’s still damn good when he wants to be.
Ilya glares at me. “Where do you think you’re going? Sit down and keep at it. It’s only the first round.” He squints up at Asher’s timing screen, nodding to himself. “Ethan, stand and observe. Victoria, get your ass in the chair and make him perform like that again.”
Alrighty, then.
Another grueling round later, Asher finishes in P14. It’s not the best rank… but it’s certainly a hell of a lot better than what he’s done all season. And last season, and the one before that. It’s his highest qualifying ranking in years.
Elio retired into the paddock right after Q1, out of sight. Ethan has been hovering over my shoulder and glaring at me for the duration of Q2. I’m pretty sure he’d murder me if he thought he could get away with it, but he can’t. There are far too many witnesses.
Ilya catches my gaze and nods. “Good work. I want the outline of your algorithm as soon as we get back to HQ.
Alarm tightens my posture. “It’s not ready—”
“If it’s good enough to yield these sorts of results now, then it’s ready to be talked about now.” He jerks his chin. “I’ll see you at debrief after Q3.”
Technically, nobody’s supposed to abandon the pit wall until after all of qualifying has concluded, but I’m also not strictly-speaking supposed to be here. And I want to see Asher’s face when he climbs out of the car.
Nerves quicken my breathing as his car pulls into the lane and rolls to a stop. He unbuckles with Thomas’s help, who gives him a hand getting out, and removes his helmet. His top is visibly stained with sweat, which also darkens his hair and beads on his forehead.
His eyes dart around the garage and lane until they fall on me. Slowly, a smile splits his beautiful lips… and it feels like the world stops spinning.
His smile is fresh air after a lifetime of being trapped in a cold, damp cell. It’s glacier water at the end of a trek through the desert. It’s warm sunlight and sheer joy.
Now I understand why he never smiles; the sight is disarming. It’s unraveling. I have to manually lift my jaw from the ground to seal my lips again.
We both know he’s nowhere close to winning, but I also know he’s one step closer to getting a renewed contract and maybe even offers from other teams. And I’m one step closer to making the program I’ve spent years of my life theorizing and building into something practical and useful in my favorite sport.
I jog across the pitlane without bothering to look left or right—something that could otherwise be a fatal mistake, but I get lucky.
I stop right in front of Asher, breathing hard, trying to keep my eyes from roaming his body.
Now is not a choice time for my libido to make an appearance, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
He’s devastatingly gorgeous all the time, but his competence and the fact that he listened makes him even sexier.
“Good work out there,” I say, my voice strangely breathless.
“Good work on the pit wall,” he replies. “P14. Think we can get a podium this season?”
He’ll need an upgrade package on his car.
And I’ll need to finish my algorithm, teach it the behaviors of other teams so that it can compute their drivers in real-time, running its own projections against any barriers that others may present.
Assuming I can get all of that done—which is no easy feat—“Yes.”
Boyish excitement lights up Asher’s eyes. A moment later, they darken; not with anger, but with something else. Something that I won’t allow myself to mistake for lust. His eyes lower to my lips, and mine lower to his. My breath catches in my throat, and our surroundings blur.
Is he going to—
The moment is shattered by an engineer calling Asher’s name.
He takes a startled step back, smile dropping.
“Uh… you want to talk tonight? About tomorrow’s strategy, I mean.
” Holy shit, is he nervous? “We can meet up at one of our rooms.” His cheeks brighten when he realizes the implications of his words, and he coughs. “Or the hotel bar, or—”
“Text me,” I tell him. “I have a bunch of stuff to get done, so it’ll have to be late—or it’ll need to be a working meeting.”
“Okay.” He nods. “Uh… thank you. For your help.” He clears his throat. “Out there. We make a good team.”
It’s the first time he’s genuinely thanked me for everything. I smile, my heart melting like ice in the warm summer sun. “Anytime.”