But there were no gaps.
Every time I tried to close in, he found a fraction more grip. The Anderson Bridge section came up, shadows cutting across the track under the grandstands. Callaghan held the inside through every corner, textbook defense.
I clenched my jaw.
One more lap. One more shot.
Callaghan braked into Turn 14, half a second too early.
I took my chance. Up the inside, wheel to wheel, braking later than I should have.
Tires screamed.
The car twitched, the rear stepping out as I corrected, keeping us side by side.
For one second, I thought I’d made it.
Then he squeezed me wide.
No room. No exit. No choice.
I backed off before I hit the wall, biting out a curse as he held the place.
Final lap. Gap: 0.6 seconds.
“Griffin, let Stefano through.” The radio crackled with Julian’s voice, cold and sharp.
I almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, I stayed quiet. Gunned it into the next corner, the car twitching under me. Maybe I’d misheard.
Maybe he’d lost his fucking mind.
“Do you copy?” Julian asked. “Let Stefano through.”
He had to be fucking joking. I tightened my grip on the wheel, sweat stinging my eyes. Stefano, who was barely clinging onto P3?
“What?” My voice came out flat, lethal.
“You heard me. Stefano is?—”
“If you say ‘faster,’ I’m driving this car straight into the fucking harbor.”
Al cleared his throat. “Griff?—”
“No.” My pulse pounded in my ears. “Tell me why. Give me one good fucking reason I should move over for him.”
Silence.
Then Julian exhaled like he was speaking to a toddler. “Because it’s what’s best for the team.”
The bitter laugh ripped out of me. Right. Best for the team.
Not best for me.
Not best for the guy who’d dragged this car from P9 to a fight for the win.
Not best for the driver who’d spent the last twenty laps on the absolute fucking limit, sweating through his race suit, pulling off overtakes that should have been impossible.
