Chapter 10
Milton Keynes, United Kingdom
Orbital Racing Campus
Orbital Technology Center (OTC)
My next check-in with Frank is the first one where I haven’t felt like I’ll come out getting on a plane back to Chicago.
No way they’ll cut my contract short, not when I’m officially a podium finisher and now a contender for the Drivers’ Championship.
I’m still a chunk of points shy of Cameron and Sasha Devin in the standings, but it’s early enough that it can still be anyone’s season, including mine.
“Very nice work in France,” Frank says. “Exactly what we’re hoping to see.”
“Thank you.” I beam. Before I can help myself, I add, “There’s way more where that came from.”
I cringe. Apparently, I’m in my cheesy-motivational-poster era.
Luckily, Frank doesn’t seem to notice my corny faux pas.
He leans forward in his mesh swivel chair, forearms resting on his industrial-style desk.
“I’ve got a bit of news I’d like to share.
I’ve been informed Jack Florent’s retiring at the end of the season.
Grayson’ll be promoted up for next year. ”
My pulse flutters. Grayson getting an F1 seat means his F2 seat will be up for grabs.
Orbital can technically hire whoever they want for this spot, but as a general rule, teams like to promote from within—good endorsement and advertising for their young driver programs—which means there’s an excellent, excellent chance the open spot will go to me.
Or Cameron.
My heart vaults into my throat. “Have you decided who’s going to take the F2 spot?”
Frank shakes his head. “Not yet. We’re not likely to finalize the decision until the end of the season.”
“I think I would be a great candidate,” I blurt out, wishing for once Mom were in the room with me. She’s so much better at the unabashedly-selling-yourself thing than I am.
“We think you are too,” Frank says. I can’t tell if he’s being sincere or just placating me so I don’t blather on. “That being said, there can be so much change still. Lou Wilson prefers to preserve optionality at this point in time.”
Translation: They’re going to torture me and wait until the end of the season to announce if it’s me or Cameron.
“Is there anything I can do to increase my chances?” I ask.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” Frank says with a frustratingly inscrutable smile on his face.
I leave Frank’s office with my head whirring and my palms sweaty.
There is an open seat at Orbital F2.
There is an open seat at Orbital F2, and if I play my cards right, it can be mine. All the best drivers move up the ranks quickly. If I can secure an F2 seat after one year in F3, it’ll get me noticed and promoted to F1 that much faster.
Fantastical scenes dance through my mind. Driving at F2’s top speed of 200 mph. Leveling up one more step. Being only a breath away from F1.
I round the corner and bump head-on into Cameron.
My tote bag drops, its contents spilling onto the polished linoleum—lip gloss, hair ties, and, much to my horror, an entire week’s supply of tampons.
“Where’re you skating off to?” He snorts.
I fall to my knees and scrabble toward the tampons, shoveling them into my bag as fast as I can.
Cameron bends down next to me, a Tampax Light dangerously close to his white sneakers. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice as he picks up my phone charger. “You wanna head over to Lot 19 now?”
In the excitement of Frank’s news, I completely forgot next up on my schedule for the day was an FC-80 building session.
“Right, of course. Lot 19.” I wonder if Frank’s told him about the open F2 seat already. I sincerely hope not. I want to be their lead horse, the only one Frank gave a special heads-up to.
I’ve hesitated a moment too long. Cameron’s absent-mindedly reaching for the remaining tampon.
“Wait, no, I got it!” I lunge.
Our hands collide, mine closing over his. A tingling prickles through me, but before I can pause to dissect it, I lose my balance and fall face-first onto the floor.
“You all right?” Cameron helps me up by the elbow. Humiliatingly, he still has his hand wrapped around my tampon.
I snatch it from him and shove it deep into the recesses of my backpack, praying he hasn’t had a chance to consciously recognize what it is yet. “Sorry, that was something important.”
An incredulous smirk plays on the corner of his lips. “Your tampon? That’s what you’re all worked up about?”
Hearing those words come out of his mouth makes me want to shrivel up and die. I fasten the singular button on my tote and power walk toward the lobby. “I am not talking about my… bodily functions with you.”
Cameron swaggers alongside me, easily keeping up. “Don’t see why you’re so squeamish. My sister used to leave that stuff all over the bathroom counter. Bit annoying, actually.”
So that was why he hadn’t run away screaming. “How old is she?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Are you guys close?” I’ve always wanted a sister, someone I could confide in and complain to about Mom. I wonder if Cameron and his sister are best friends, or mortal enemies, or somewhere in between. If he enjoys needling her as much as he does me.
“As close as we could be, I s’pose. I like racing; she likes maths. She went to uni in Manchester and works as a financial analyst in the City now.”
“Do you get to see her a lot?”
“She comes to almost all of my races. Still can barely tell Orbital from Marino, though.”
Scuderia Marino is our fiercest rival. I giggle despite myself.
Cameron shrugs in a what can you do? way. “What about you? Have you got any sisters?”
I shake my head. “Only child. I have a cousin around my age, though. I only see her a few times a year, less now that we’re over here.”
“Do you miss the States?”
I pause. No one has bothered to ask me this the entire four months I’ve been in the UK.
I haven’t even thought about it properly because it’s been sensory overload jumping into the world of Formula 3 racing—but now that Cameron asked, the words come tumbling out.
“Most of the time, no. But every now and then, randomly, I guess? Like how you can go drive up to a window and someone will hand you hamburgers. Or normal-size parking spaces. Or just the general air of not feeling stressed out all the time.”
“What are you stressed about?”
I chew my lip, debating whether to pull it back or keep going. I opt for the latter. We’ve already discussed feminine hygiene today—might as well. “I guess, since I’m new to Europe and all, feeling like I’m on the cusp of blowing it every second?”
“Welcome to the club.” He chuckles.
I glance at him curiously. What could he be stressed about? He’s leading the F3 championship, beloved by the staff, popular up and down the paddock. He literally grew up here, in the heart of Motorsport Valley. A sure thing doesn’t exist in racing, but Cameron Evans is as close as it gets.
“It’s a pressure cooker,” he says. “But it’ll be worth it.”
He stops there. I know he’s thinking about Formula 1, the path ahead. He radiates determination in a way that makes me certain Frank told him about the open seat before me.
The thought is depressing. Not that I expected to be the lead horse, but thinking you’re not and knowing you’re not are very different things.
We come out the side exit of the OTC to the transit dock. There are enough open golf carts today that we don’t have to share. I hop into the first empty one.
Cameron, to my surprise, follows me. “You gonna strand me again if I don’t take my own buggy?” he asks, resting his hand lightly on the top of the cart.
My lips twitch despite myself. “No urgent meetings today. But no promises.”
“Guess I’ll take my chances.” He slips into the passenger’s seat next to me. “Don’t worry; wheel is all yours today.”
“So, Kwong,” Cameron says after we’ve been working at the FC-80 for what feels like hours. “I’ve been thinking.”
“And?” I push a strand of damp hair behind my ear. It’s not as hot out as the last time we worked on the car—thank the heavens—but it’s still a muggy, overcast type of day where I’d rather be indoors with a bowl of Chunky Monkey ice cream and the AC blowing in my face.
“This isn’t working.” He gestures at our respective parts piles, both of which are dwarfed by the astronomical mountain of pieces still in the shed. “There’s no way we’ll finish by Spa at this rate.”
I chew on my lip. As nice as it is to avoid having to deal with him directly, he’s speaking the truth. Our progress has been pathetic. “What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s do it jointly. Sort everything in one batch first.” He taps his foot at nondescript patches of concrete ground next to the shed. “We can put chassis parts here, wheel parts here, then wings.”
“The piles are going to end up bleeding into each other.”
“Still gonna be faster than what we’re doing right now.”
I heave a sigh. He’s right, but between working for twenty hours in silence with Cameron versus working for ten hours with him irritating me, it’s a lose-lose no matter what I do.
“C’mon, think of all the old movies you’ll get to watch with all that free time.”
“How do you know I watch old movies?”
“You were wearing a shirt that said ‘Rebel with a cause’ last week.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what I’m more surprised by, that he got the reference or that he can remember what I was wearing.
“How ’bout this—if you say yes, I’ll give you some crisps?” He gets up and fetches his backpack from the cart. “I know you like these.” He waves a bag of Walkers.
I purse my lips, trying my best to hide my amusement. “I have three full-size bags stashed under my bed that my mom doesn’t know about. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
“How about these chocolate stick things, then? Or these?” He pulls out a box of Pocky, followed by strawberry Koalas. He wasn’t kidding at The Hound. He really has been watching me.
The thought makes me feel weirdly flattered (and kind of embarrassed). “Were you planning on bribing me today?”
“I was intending it to be a peace offering of sorts. But since you insist on being stubborn…”
“I’m not stubborn,” I say.