I hate that I’m even considering it. I hate that it’s come to this. I hate more that I want to win.
He’s a competitor.
I’m a fierce competitor.
Having witnessed and won against him and the train. How hard could it be to race go-karts? Surely, my bike skills can translate easily to a kid’s game.
“Deal.”
I extend my hand, the fire of competition blazing through me. His grip is firm, and he has no hesitation when our palms meet.
“No holding back.” His warning is completely unnecessary.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shoot back, yanking my hand away and scrambling out of the truck.
Adrenaline hums through my veins as we walk silently across the parking lot. He pays at the counter, and I scrawl my name on a meaningless waiver.
“This isn’t going to be like the train, Isabella. I won’t back off this time.”
We’re led to the row of karts, their bright colors glinting under the fluorescent lights. I pull on the helmet handed to me, the strap snapping snugly under my chin.
“Good. Don’t.”
Diego does the same beside me. His movements are calm and deliberate, and his eyes are suddenly hidden behind the dark visor. We climb into our individual karts while the attendant rattles off the rules. No bumping, stay in your lane, flags mean slow down, but it all fades into background noise. My hands grip the wheel as the engine rumbles beneath me.
“Last chance to back out, Isabella,” he calls over the din of engines, his voice edged with challenge. “Or be prepared to be wide open all the time.”
The attendant’s face morphs into embarrassment, with Diego’s words sounding dirtier than he means. Or maybe he didn’t. Who knows, he’s going to lose either way, so it won’t matter.
“Not a chance.”
I rev my engine. The signal light flashes yellow. Then green, and we’re off. The world narrows to the track ahead, the sharp curves and straightaways blurring into one continuous rush of motion. My kart hugs the inside lane, Diego’s engine a low growl behind me.
The first turn comes fast, and I ease into it, the tires squealing against the asphalt. He takes it tighter, pulling his kart alongside mine as we hit the straightaway.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, his face set in concentration, his hands steady on the wheel.
“You’re not winning this,” I yell, my voice carrying over the wind.
His grin is fleeting, more a flash of teeth than anything else, before he pulls ahead, his kart cutting in front of mine with precision.
The next curve looms, and I push harder, my kart bumping his as I reclaim the inside lane. He doesn’t flinch or give an inch, matching my aggression with his own. The track stretches ahead, a twisting battlefield of speed and control. Every turn, every straightaway, every second is a clash of wills.
And neither of us is backing down.
I accelerate out of the turn, the tires squealing in protest but holding steady. The rush of air and the roar of the engine fuel the competitive fire burning in me. I glance back for a fraction of a second, catching Diego a kart-length behind me. A surge of satisfaction ripples through me, pulling a smirk to my lips.
Gotcha.
The straightaway opens up.
I press the pedal to the floor, and my kart surges forward. But then I hear it. The unmistakable growl of his engine, louder, closer, a predator closing in on its prey.
“What the?—”
The rush of wind swallows my words as his kart veers toward the outside, a reckless and audacious move. I watch, stunned, as he cuts wide on the curve, bypassing the inside line I thought I had secured. The move seems impossible and too risky, but he executes it precisely, his kart sliding just enough to maintain control while stealing the lead.
I grit my teeth, adrenaline spiking as he pulls ahead, his silhouette framed by the glow of the track lights. My hands tighten on the wheel, and I push harder, unwilling to lose to him, not about walls and crap but for the sheer will to win at all costs.
