Chapter Forty-Four
Asher
Iknow it’s going to be a shitty day when the weather reports a thunderstorm incoming during the second half of the day, coinciding with the end of the race.
Since this is Florida, which I generally consider to be the divine’s urinal, there’s no way to know when it’ll actually hit and fuck everything sideways.
My spotty outlook on the day only intensifies when Finn fucking Ulrich decides to approach me while we’re waiting to buckle in.
I’m leaning against my car, watching Victoria talk to Declan about something from afar, fantasizing about my plans the next time we get a few hours alone together.
I find it to be an extremely successful way to lower stress before a race.
Ulrich takes a spot beside me, dirtying my car with his slimy presence. It’s been years since we traded insults—about the same length of time it’s been since I decided to check out and do the bare minimum. Now that I’m back in the game, old feuds are going to rise to the surface.
“I wonder what has your interest.” Ulrich’s thick German accent makes the words come out even harsher than intended—and I don’t assume he’s here to be nice.
I pointedly tear my gaze away from Victoria and look at the stands housing thousands upon thousands of people. “The usual. The weather, that there are too many people, the annoying fucking drivers—”
“The intern.”
I don’t give Ulrich the satisfaction of a reaction; instead, I force a bored yawn. Internal team chatter is one thing; other teams catching on is an entirely different game, and means that the time has come to announce our relationship.
My vote was for announcing it the night of the gala, but I tried to respect Victoria’s boundaries. My patience has just about run out.
“Well, she is my engineer,” I point out. “Some attention has to be allotted to underlings.”
“Funny. I’ve heard a rumor that she spends a lot of time under you in various ways.”
Don’t react. Don’t react. Do not fucking react, or he’ll smell blood in the water.
“Prone to gossip, Ulrich? What other hobbies occupy your free time? Smutty book clubs? Knitting groups?”
“Can’t blame you,” Ulrich goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “If I had a girl that pretty at my beck and call, you can bet my favorite hobby would be fucking her raw.”
My hands clench into fists, and my posture tightens. I know he’s trying to bait me—that should be enough to keep me cool, but it isn’t. I can’t stand him even thinking about Victoria, let alone talking about putting his filthy goddamn hands on her.
She’s mine. I will not share her, and I want to kill Ulrich for even thinking of her.
When the hell did I become so possessive? No matter; it is what it is. Only thing I can do now is roll with it, and try not to catch a first-degree over it.
“I hear she’ll be shopping around some fancy software she’s building.
” Ulrich must not possess even a single braincell, because the idiot keeps fucking gabbing on.
“When you’re done stretching her out, I might put in a good word for her with Thorsten.
Bring her over with me, and use up what’s left of her—”
That’s all I can stand. I round on him, baring my teeth.
It takes every bit of control I possess to not punch this fuckwad in the face, and the only thing holding me back is imagining Victoria’s expression of disappointment.
“I don’t care about your assumptions, grandstanding, or bullshit,” I lie.
“But get rid of any designs you have on my intern. And you better watch your fucking back on the track, Ulrich. It’d be a real goddamn shame if something were to happen to your piece-of-shit car. ”
An announcement goes off, calling the start of practice lap in just a few minutes. Ulrich doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. He simply offers me a thin smile, letting me know that he’s onto me.
“May the best man win.” He walks away.
Ulrich is starting out in P18 after a series of fuckups during qualifying. If I have even a bit of luck mixed with my strategy, I won’t have to worry about him… too much.
“We’re starting you out with the sea for as far as the tide can rise, then moving you to the desert for the bulk of the race,” Victoria murmurs in my ears after warmup, using the code developed for this particular race.
Since I don’t want every other team to know my tyre strategy, we have code words to speak freely without tipping the world off.
Translation: we’re starting out on softs and keeping them until they’re useless, then hards for the bulk of the race, and then we’ll pick a strategy based on the rain.
Typically, we would’ve gone over this in briefing, but with Florida being God’s urinal, it’s wise to leave some decisions to the last second.
“Got it,” I reply smoothly, eyes flicking to the starting lights as the first one blinks on. I adjust my grip on the wheel, and breathe deeply.
I’ll break top 10 this race. I have to, or I’ll be cutting it way too close to the wire.
I have the advantage of a solid starting position, and I have Victoria and the entire team on my side.
Even Elio told me last night that he was willing to run support/ interference if that helped get the team points.
Only problem there is that he’s absolute shit at defense, but I appreciate the thought.
The last starting light turns on. I force myself to relax, and ignore the sinking sensation in my gut that this race is going to prove to be anything but a smooth ride.
The starting horn sounds, and I take off. The familiar sensation of being flattened to my seat by speed, of having nothing on my mind except the track, the other drivers, and my car, all give me a focused, light-headed feeling.
Victoria’s instructions start spilling through my helmet.
Rapid, brilliantly, and integral. Unlike my previous engineer, she slips quips in here and there to soften the mood just when the stress of potentially fucking up makes me tense.
In such a short period of time, she’s become exactly what I need to excel.
And excel I do. In the first fifteen laps, I manage two overtakes and three flawless defenses.
I even get to make Ulrich drive on dirty air for a quarter of a lap, accidentally blocking him from passing and killing his tyres.
I can almost hear the reprimand in Victoria’s next set of instructions, but I don’t mind.
I’ll fuck the attitude out of her later.
By the twentieth lap, my tires are shot, and I’m forced to box. I’m knocked down to P10, but that’s all I need. If I can hold this place, I satisfy my deal with Ilya, and I can push to have my upgrade package by the time we hit Montreal.
Elation makes my head spin. It’s been years since I drove this effectively. It’s been forever since I got to feel the weightless sensation of flying on the track.
It’s like I was on a faulty form of autopilot for seasons, and now, I’ve found the perfect way to cruise.
I’ve also learned Victoria’s patterns through all the time we’ve spent in simulations, so I anticipate most of her instructions before she gives them and have at least a few seconds to prepare—more than enough time for an experienced driver.
The hard tyres I stay on for the next 25 laps aren’t ideal.
I’m forced to defend, with few opportunities to overtake—but I fight hard to hold my position, and I succeed.
I can taste the win on the tip of my tongue, and I can feel what it’ll be like to finally stand on a podium again.
I haven’t been there since my second season.
Then, just at lap 46, a faint drizzle starts… and one by one, almost every driver boxes—including me.
Tensions snaps the air taut. This weather was expected, but it still throws a wrench in…
everything. Strategies have to become more fluid that anyone’s comfortable with, and tough, split-second calls have to be made that can lead to a win or lose.
More than ever, the technical team has to be in tip-top shape.
“You’re getting skies,” Victoria murmurs when I box. There’s a lot of uncertainty in her tone, which is extremely goddamn valid, because skies is our code for greens. Intermediate tyres that can handle wet tracks, from a drizzle to a reasonably short pour. But they can’t handle flooding.
The weather isn’t forecasted to be dry for the rest of the day. The rain will intensify and intensify. Green tyres might be faster in some conditions, but they’ll be unstable as fuck if worse comes to worst.
Almost everyone else is going with blues. But… there are only just over 10 laps left in the race. All I have to do is keep holding my position, and on greens, I might even be able to overtake and get myself back to P9. Maybe.
As long as the drizzle doesn’t turn to a deluge in the next 10 laps, I’ll be fine. And, even if it does, I’ve handled worse conditions before. I can do this. I can keep top 10.
If this is Victoria’s recommendation for me, I trust her. We’ve gotten this far together.
I peel back out onto the damp track, shoulders bunched, breathing hard. I can do this. I’m in the home stretch. I can do this.
If I keep repeating it long enough, I might actually believe it.
On lap 52, the track is thoroughly soaked and puddles are starting to form.
I have to swerve to avoid them, and my tyres are starting to skid and lose traction.
While I can go faster on them, the slightest fuckup could cost me the race—so I’m more careful than usual, and all of Victoria’s suggestions support that.
On lap 55, I pull a slightly—okay, very—reckless move when I see a golden opportunity present itself.
Jules Prescott’s first driver, Sebastian March, is trudging along through ever-deepening puddles-and there’s just enough of a gap on the side of him for me to push.
We’re about to hit a turn, so if I make the move, I have to make it now.
If I do, I’ll be in P9. I won’t have just made top ten, I’ll have broken through it. I’ll be a serious player on the board.
“Hold position.” It’s as if Victoria can read my thoughts. “Do not overtake.”
I inch forward. I can fucking taste the podium I’ll get after my upgrade package. If a reckless move gets me there faster, fuck it.
“Asher.” Victoria’s voice is shrill and edged with panic now. “Hold position!”
We hit an active zone. I flick on X-mode while I have the chance, an insanely risky move, but one that gives me the exact burst of speed I need. The force of the forward motion damn near crushes my ribcage as I zoom directly past March.
P9. P-fucking-9. All I have to do, want to do, is defend for the last few laps. My tyres are not stable enough for another overtake with the rapidly accumulating rain, but they don’t need to be. I’ve made it. I’m getting the upgrade package, and—
March is right on my tail. How the fuck is he on my tail already? He should be losing speed, not gaining it.
Probably because he is one talented goddamn driver. His technique is excellent; the only reason he’s not top 5 is because he, like others, has a family and is risk-averse when it comes to extremes. But it appears I’ve angered him.
I pull into a turn, tyres skidding and screeching. My downforce is not ideal, I’m riding the edge of losing control, but If I want to stay ahead, I have to push… except I’m stuck behind fucking Ulrich.
He should let me pass him. He’s slowing down while I’m still going strong, but Ulrich puts on a burst of fucking speed. His engineer should be telling him to let me pass, considering there’s no way he’ll jump from his place to mine, but he’s deliberately blocking me.
The end of the turn comes into sight, and the boundaries widen just a bit. March inches closer. I’m put in an impossible position. Victoria is saying something in my ear, but I’m too far gone to hear her.
Ulrich has to let me pass if he has two brain cells to rub together. He will. I swerve to the left of him at the end of the turn and push my speed to dangerous levels.
He veers sideways just as we pull next to each other, and crashes into the side of my car.
The world tilts. My heart stops. Reality suspends as a terrible screech and tearing noise sounds through the air.
Weightlessness lifts my stomach as my car flips…
then crashes back down onto the track with a sickening crunch that jars my body from head to toe, and slides.
And slides. And keeps fucking sliding, until I slam into the kerb with enough force to knock the wind out of me.
My seatbelt nearly fails me, and my head slams so hard against the headrest I see stars. Through blurry eyes, I see smoke beginning to pour from the front of the car. I have to get out. A horrible ringing sounds in my ears. Get out, get out, get out.
Corner marshal cars swarm me from all sides. A fire extinguisher is aimed and deployed at the front of my absolutely wrecked fucking car—it seems almost funny, since the pouring rain should take care of it.
Another marshal wrenches open the door, unbuckles me, and shouts, “Can you move?”
He’s asking me if anything’s so broken that moving would be a greater risk than staying in place. I’m banged up and I’ll have a fuck ton of bruises, but I don’t think I broke any bones.
“Yeah.” I’m half in shock as I accept his help out of the car. My head pounds, my ears keep ringing, but I don’t know if it’s a concussion or depression that has me so discombobulated.
All I know is that I’ve just lost my best chance at a podium this season. And it was because I got put on a pair of tyres even more reckless than I am.