I stare at his messy handwriting for a minute. Then I put the shoes down, cross the distance between us, and kiss him hard.
“You are the love of my fucking life,” I say.
He smiles widely, a deep dimple splitting each of his cheeks. “And you have to go get in your car.” He puts his shoes back in my arms and nudges me toward the door. “I’ll see you out there. I’ll be the one driving much, much faster than you.”
I grin over my shoulder. “We’ll see about that.”
Travis’s race shoes fit me perfectly, and I’m pretty sure only Sofia notices the Sharpie. She snorts under her breath and says, “Really, Jacob?” but she doesn’t make me change out of them. It’s not like anyone’s going to see them once I’m in the car, and she can probably tell I’m more relaxed with them on. Part of it is just having shoes that fit properly, but it also feels like a bit of good luck, having something of Travis’s on me.
The new seat in Clayton’s car fits me perfectly, too, and the crash helmet the team got for me is really cool. It’s a super dark, shimmery green color, and when my image pops up on the TV screens around the garage, it looks really awesome under the lights.
I find the cameraman filming me and give him a thumbs up, and to my surprise, I hear a distant cheer from the grandstands. I think a lot of people are rooting for me because of what happened last year. I’m not sure being in a horrible crash makes me deserving of their applause, but honestly, right now, I’m going to take it.
I settle into the car, flexing my fingers around the steering wheel and feeling the shape of the pedals under my feet. Someone thumps the top of my helmet for good luck—Samuel, I think—and Cory’s voice comes to life in my ear. His tone is calm and reassuring, but I don’t need to be reassured.
I’m ready for this moment. I’ve been waiting for it for years.
As soon as the pit lane opens, the pit crew wave me out of the garage. FP3 lasts an hour, and some of the other drivers, like Travis and Mahoney, might only do a handful of laps. But I have to use every available second to get used to this beast of a car.
I’ve driven Crosswire’s old F1 car before, but that was on a private circuit on a cool English day. This is a narrow, walled-in track at nighttime, and it’s one hundred and twenty degrees inside of the car. By the end of my out lap, I’m soaked with sweat. By the end of my first push lap, my neck muscles are on fire.
But I’m doing this, I’m actually doing it. I’m driving an F1 car, and I’m not doing a terrible job. Admittedly, I have a few harrowing brushes with the wall, and a snap of oversteer that almost ends in disaster, but by the end of the hour, my laps times are getting good.
Really good. Like, two tenths of a second off Mahoney.
“Well done, Jacob,” Cory says in my ear. “You’ve got time for one more, if you want it.”
I push the radio button. “Yes, please.”
I really want to beat Mahoney’s time. I know he’s probably not pushing as hard as he would in quali, and I know that lap times in practice don’t mean that much for the other drivers. But Sofia is watching me right now, and Tom Kellen, and I don’t want to prove to them that I might be as good as Mahoney someday. I want to prove that I’m as good as him now. That if they put me in this car next season, I’ll come out of the gate fighting for wins.
I put my foot down and fly across the starting line. I’m a tenth up on Mahoney by the end of sector one. I’m two tenths up by the end of sector two. Halfway through sector three, Cory warns me, “Traffic up ahead,” but I round a corner and see that it’s Travis on a cool-down lap, and I know he’ll stay off the racing line and out of my way.
Instead, at the very last second, he jerks his car to the left, and I nearly hit the wall swerving out of his way.
“The fuck,” I splutter.
But even as the words leave my mouth, I see a flash of white in the corner of my eye.
“You okay, Jacob?” Cory says in my ear.
An incredulous laugh bubbles out of me. “Yeah,” I say, a bit breathlessly. “There’s a dog on the track.”
“What?”
“A dog,” I repeat.
There’s a beat of confused silence. “Er—affirm. Box this lap.”
I laugh all the way down the pit lane, high on adrenaline and relief. The pit crew push the car back into the garage, and I sit in it for a few minutes, pretending to fiddle with my helmet while I get my giddy laughter under control.
“Nice work,” Cory says, after I’ve climbed out of the car. “Really well done, Jacob, seriously.”
I beam at him. “Thanks.”
“Do you want us to report Keeping for impeding on that last lap?”
I smother another laugh. “No, that’s okay.”
