I know how Travis races.
I’ve watched every single Formula 1 race he’s ever been in. I’ve sat on the edge of my seat, hollered at the screen, held my breath whenever anyone tried to get past him. I know the way he defends. I know the moves he uses, the lines he takes to keep people behind him.
And I know that he isn’t thrilled with the way the Harper car is running on hard tires this weekend. He told me that yesterday, after FP3. I can see it, too, in the way that he’s driving. His lines are a bit more cautious, his braking points slightly less insane.
It might be enough. I might be able to get past him.
It takes me fifteen laps to get within DRS range. I could probably do it faster, but I’m babying my tires, getting ready for what’s next. I want to pass him as late as I possibly can, to give him as little time as possible to try and come back at me.
With sixteen laps left in the race, I start to test him.
I fly up behind him in the first DRS zone, with absolutely no intention of passing. I’m just letting him defend against me, making sure I have the measure of him. Maybe even luring him into a false sense of security. It would feel underhanded, if it wasn’t a trick I learned from him. It’s one of the ways he’s gotten the edge on Clayton and Mahoney this season, that and pushing them so hard that they make a mistake. I’m not stupid enough to try that one against him, though. Travis doesn’t make mistakes. He’s the best driver in the world.
But I’m in the faster car.
On lap fifty-nine, I throw open DRS, say a prayer to the racing gods, and take off after Travis coming out of turn five. It’s the same DRS zone he passed me on at the start of the race, and I make the move stick the same way that he did, by braking so late my life briefly flashes in front of my eyes.
When the world reforms, I’m still ahead of him, and from there, it’s a flat-out sprint to the finish line. Travis chases me around every single corner and runs up alongside me in every DRS zone, and there’s a moment on the last lap where I think he’s going to get me. But the tires are letting him down, just like he thought they might, and he locks up on the last lap trying to brake late, and then it’s over, and I’m flying first over the finish line.
“P1, Jacob. That’s P1.” I can barely hear Cory over the roar of the crowd, and the sound of the Crosswire garage cheering behind him. Plus I’m laughing, and almost crying, and slamming my palm against the steering wheel because I’ve just won a Formula 1 race.
I can’t believe it. I cannot fucking believe it.
Crosswire mechanics and engineers are hanging off the wall at the start-finish straight, cheering for me. A car drives up beside mine, a gloved hand waving over the halo. I smile so hard my face hurts and wave back at Travis, give him a thumbs up. He keeps driving ahead, and Mahoney passes by me, too, but I slow down. I want to remember every second of this lap. I want to imprint the feeling of it on my soul.
Travis and Mahoney are already climbing out of their cars when I pull up between them. I know the proper procedure from here: climb on top of the car, pump a fist into the air, wave to the crowd. Instead, I throw myself straight into Travis’s arms, laughing as our helmets clunk together. I’m not thinking about how it will look to the cameras—I’m not thinking of anything at all, really, beyond an incoherent stream of holy shit and yay—but in any case, Mahoney pulls me into a hug directly afterward, admittedly one that’s significantly less emotionally charged.
My hands are shaking so much with exhaustion and adrenaline that it takes a few minutes to pull off my race gloves and helmet. Travis comes close again and nudges my elbow. I follow his gaze to the Crosswire crew crowded behind the barricade, cheering, hollering, waiting for me.
Whoops. Probably should’ve gone there, first.
As I jog toward them, a familiar face materializes in the very center of the group. I let out a roar of excitement. “Kelsie!”
“Babe!” She throws her arms around me, briefly smothering me in her long blonde hair.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” I say. “How are you here?”
“Taxi,” she says, beaming. “Then plane, then taxi again.”
I try to ask her more, but there’s no use. Samuel is thumping me hard on the head, Marcie is crying and filming me with her phone, Cory is reaching over everyone’s heads to squeeze my hand, and Sofia is smiling at the back of the group, near Anne and Ben and Trevor and Jonathan. Heather squeezes in from the edge of the Harper group, and Matty appears at my side, which gives Travis a reason to come close again, his shoulder pressing hard against mine.
It's perfect. This moment is perfect.
“Are you mad?” I ask Travis, as we wait for Mahoney to finish his interview.
He grins. “Your concern would seem a lot more genuine if you weren’t smiling so hard.”
I smile even harder. “I know. I’ll try to stop.”
“Don’t,” he says. “You did it. Granted, it will never work again?—”
“Oh, no?” I ask innocently.
“—so I wouldn’t try it next year.”
“If I’m on the grid.”
“When you’re on the grid.”
