“Kind of is,” I mumble.
“—it’s that I know you feel like this sometimes, and I hate it. You think I don’t see all the things you do for me? You think I don’t see it, every time you choose to be open with me? I know how hard it is for you, and you do it for me every day. And if you want to do one more thing for me—if you want to even out this imbalance that you think exists between us—then do me this, okay?” He kisses me again, gentle and warm. “Believe me when I tell you that you’re good enough for me. Stop worrying that you’re tricking me, somehow, or that I’ll meet some other guy I’ll want to be with more. You’re it for me, Jacob. You’re the love of my fucking life.”
I squeeze my eyes shut again. It’s too much, too perfect, too completely overwhelming. That, and I don’t want to start crying, because the race is starting any minute and I need to be able to see.
“I really, really love you,” I choke out.
“I know you do,” he says. “And you’ll start really, really loving yourself?”
Objections are already rising in my mind. The look on his face when I dumped him in the hospital. Heather and Matty’s doubtful voices on the hotel balcony in Australia. That damn hill I have to climb over every time I want to be with him. It feels impossible to push it all away.
But Travis is asking me for this. And there is nothing that I won’t do for him.
I grip his forearms tightly, keeping his hands against my face. “I promise,” I say quietly. I keep my forehead against his for a moment longer, loving him so much it hurts. Then I lift my chin, kiss him hard, and summon up the cockiest smile I can manage. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a race I need to kick your ass in.”
Chapter 9
The red lights turn on one after another, a slow, steady sequence that matches the beating of my heart. The world holds its breath for one long second, then another. Then, all at once, the five red lights go out.
I hit the gas pedal and fly, launching off the line like I’m in a roller coaster. I’m not thinking of Travis beside me or Mahoney behind me. I’m not really thinking at all, just racing, and it feels so good and right I could scream.
I reach the apex of the first corner and I’m still in the lead. Turns two, three, four, and I’m still holding on. But there’s a car right behind me, and I know that it’s Travis, and I’m definitely thinking of him now, but not as my boyfriend. I’m driving two hundred miles an hour and the best driver in the world is chasing me down.
I have the advantage on pure speed, but I can’t drop my guard for even a second. I pull ahead on every straight, then Travis closes the gap on every corner. We started on the same tires, the mediums, but he’s hooked them up way faster than I have, and he’s taking corners with a grip I don’t have. I’m driving as defensively as I’ve ever done in my life, but it feels like I’m trying to outrun a train. And at the end of the first lap, DRS will become available, and if he’s still within a second of me, he’ll get a lethal speed advantage in the DRS zones.
I throw everything I have at him, but as we come around turn five on lap two, I know I’m in trouble. The rear wing flap on Travis’s car is open, and he’s catching me on the straight—he’s beside me—he’s braking ludicrously late into turn seven?—
Motherfucker.
He’s taken the lead.
I try to stick with him. I do stick with him, for a few laps, dipping in and out of DRS range, chasing him up and down the straights. Cory is a steady voice in my ear, telling me where I’m losing time to him, giving me advice and urging me on, but by lap fifteen, I’ve fallen four seconds behind. It may not sound like much, but in these cars, at this track, four seconds means it’s impossible to pass. Unless Travis makes a mistake, or has some sort of car issue, I’ve lost my chance of getting past him.
Time to shift gears, settle in and focus on staying ahead of Mahoney.
The next thirteen laps are an exercise in concentration. Mahoney is two seconds behind me, which means if my attention slips for a single second, he’ll be in DRS range. And if that happens, I won’t be given the chance to defend against him. Mahoney is fighting for a world championship against Travis, and Crosswire is not going to let a reserve driver affect his chances. The moment Mahoney gets in DRS range, Cory will be in my ear telling me to let him by. Hell, some teams on the grid wouldn’t even wait that long. They’d be telling me right now to fall back and let Mahoney pass me.
But before the race, Sofia told me that they’d only ask me to let him through if he got within DRS range. Which means I’m going to stay more than one second ahead of him, from now until the end of the race. I have to.
It’s damn near impossible, though. There’s a reason that Travis is stretching the gap out ahead of me, a reason Mahoney is creeping closer and closer behind. Driving a Formula 1 car isn’t just about driving fast and braking late, it’s about managing tires, and that’s something that comes with experience. I pushed my tires too hard chasing Travis in the first laps, and by lap twenty-nine, I’m paying the price.
It's a massive relief when Cory’s voice in my ear says, “Box, box.”
I veer off track into the pit lane. I was a bit nervous about this part before the race—it’s no small feat, maneuvering an F1 car between two rows of human beings—but in the moment, I don’t even think about it. I’m stationary for 2.2 seconds, then I take off again on a fresh set of hard tires.
I come out in sixth, the team slotting me into a gap behind Josh Fry and Cole Milton. I knock out a few strong laps in clean air, then Cole and Josh take their own pit stops, and I’m left with even more clear air behind Mahoney and Travis, who are well up the road. They both started on medium tires, like I did, so they’ll have to pit in the next few laps, but they’ll be hanging on as long as possible, hoping for a safety car that would give them a free pit stop.
Mahoney pits first. I put my foot to the floor and drive the next lap like a madman, even though I know the risk of an overcut is low. When Mahoney comes out on track again, he’s still two seconds behind me.
Travis pits on the next lap. He’s too far ahead for me to see it happen, but Cory tells me on the radio. As long as Travis has a decent stop, he’ll come out four seconds ahead.
Instead, as I fly toward the pit lane exit, he’s right there in front of me.
I don’t need Cory to say it, but he does anyway. “Slow pit stop for Keeping. 1.7 ahead, let’s make it happen.”
Fuck, yes.
The world funnels down to the sight of Travis’s car and the feel of my own. It’s like the start of the race, but the roles have reversed. I’m chasing him down this time, and my car is faster on the straights, and I’ve had two laps to warm up my tires. And, as I close the gap between us, I realize I have another advantage.
