My first flying lap is alright, only a 1:29:90, but the track is ramping up as more rubber is laid down, and when I set off again after a brief stop in the pits for a fresh set of soft tires, I can tell right away that it’s going to be magic. Everything clicks into place, and I fly around track like the car is on rails. Sweat pours from my skin, and my muscles actually shake with exhaustion and effort, but when I cross the finish line, I’m smiling so hard it makes my head ache.
“That’s provisional pole, Jacob,” Cory says in my ear. “Incredible lap, really great work.”
I laugh aloud, bright and happy, even though I know I might not hold onto it for long. Mahoney will be finishing his final flying lap any second now, and Travis, too.
“And Mahoney P3,” Cory says.
Yes. Yes.
I actually did it. I outqualified Mahoney.
I wait for the inevitable, for Cory to tell me Travis has taken pole. Instead, thirty seconds later, his voice comes through again. “And that’s P1. Pole position, Jacob. Absolutely brilliant lap, really well done.”
I can hear people in the Crosswire garage clapping in the background.
“Really?” I say hoarsely.
“Really,” he confirms. He keeps talking, telling me where I’m supposed to drive to and what settings he needs on the car, but I’m only half-listening.
I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it.
“What about Travis?” I ask.
“P2,” Cory answers. “Track limits on his second lap.”
My mouth drops open. “Seriously?”
“Yes. So, when you pull up, let’s kill the engine, then wait five seconds and switch fully off?—”
I pull up in front of the “1” flag and do as he says, my mind still reeling. It’s not like Travis to screw up on a final quali lap. I know it’s possible—as much as I tease him about being a robot, he’s human like the rest of us, and capable of making mistakes—but it seems more likely that something went wrong with the car. Or maybe it’s Cole Milton’s fault, somehow. That would make much more sense.
I take off the steering wheel, climb out of the car and put the steering wheel back in. I’m distantly aware of the crowd cheering, and cameras flashing, and Mahoney pulling his car up in front of the “3” flag, but I think I’m still in shock, because it doesn’t quite feel real, like everything around me is a scene playing on a TV screen.
I come back to myself when I see the Crosswire crew waiting for me behind the barriers. They’re clapping and hollering, and Sofia is with them, standing a bit at the back with an appraising sort of smile on her face. Grinning, I jog toward them and let them hammer me on the back and on the top of my helmet. Mahoney joins the celebrations, congratulating me and shaking my hand, then I follow him back toward the cars, to the boxes where we can take off our helmets.
I’m fumbling with my helmet strap when someone steps close and squeezes my shoulder. I know that it’s Travis even before I look up, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to throw myself into his arms.
Instead, I grip his hand as hard as I can and beam at him under my helmet.
“You did it,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say breathlessly. “What the hell happened to you?”
“It was that dog!” I can actually hear the smile in his voice.
“You’re joking.”
He laughs. “No, I swear. It ran straight across the track, I almost binned it swerving out of the way.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Crazy,” he agrees. Then he squeezes my shoulder again, tightly, and steps away to take off his helmet.
With effort, I make myself turn away from him to do the same. A woman with an FIA badge appears and helpfully points me to the scale to get weighed while Travis goes to celebrate with the Harper folks who are waiting for him.
While Mahoney is interviewed by James Riley, Travis drifts toward me again, standing close enough that our shoulders briefly touch. There are cameras trained on both of us, so I stop myself from smiling at him stupidly and ask instead, “How’d Matty do?”
He takes a swig from his water bottle. “P9, I think.”
