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Chapter 1
Fia
LIVIE ARMAS:Zoltán speaks five words of English. So far, I’ve heard ‘cunt,’ ‘dickhead,’ and ‘shit.’ But Nix promised there are two more.
LIVIE ARMAS: You’re going to need some headache tablets. From what I’ve gathered, he doesn’t answer a single question seriously.
LIVIE ARMAS: And thank you. I don’t think I’m going to be able to thank you enough.
Livie, Head of Publicity for StormSprint, was known to overthink everything.A last-minute addition to the major league? Who only spoke Hungarian?She was in overdrive. Their regular translators didn’t speak Hungarian. Their back-up had bailed yesterday, and Livie, three months pregnant and already juggling three StormSprint dramas, had bribed me with a free holiday to Portugal and unlimited race day tickets.
As well as a new placement.
Hungarian was one of the few things my biological fathergave me—my mother tongue, even though I hadn’t lived there since I was six.
I sat in the production studio waiting room, back pressed against sleek black leather, scrolling through Livie’s frantic texts.
She could be a stranger, ask me to work for StormSprint, and I’d bite her hand off for the opportunity. My dad had worked for them up until four years ago. My sister and her boyfriend still did. I’d grown up in garages and pit lanes, half-raised by the petrol fumes and advertised energy drinks.
At twenty-two, at university with a multilingual master’s degree, I needed a placement.
The one I’d had in a hospital was—ironically—soul-destroying. And boring. For all the hours I worked, there was little in-person talking. I learned and spoke languages because I loved the sounds, the rhythms, the flow. Not paperwork. So, when Livie asked about StormSprint, I didn’t mind if it meant I had to restart a placement from scratch and lose the hours I’d previously worked at the hospital. Which meant my placement would take me into November.
I wanted to be in on the action.
And StormSprint? Motorbike racing?There wasn’t anywhere with more action. It was speed and sweat and adrenaline, and I didn’t care if that meant I wasn’t likely to have a job after. I was here for the entire year. Livie had promised to pay me until the end of the championship.
But first:results.
Zoltán Farkas.
The grandson of one of the most legendary racers.Ever.
We’d have a productive, evocative pre-season interview where he’d shine. The media would love it. Liviewould worship it. StormSprint would beg me to stay permanently.
I believed that, right up until I started hearing the voices on the other side of the studio wall.
Racers. Crew. Camera flashes. The motorbike revs.
This never used to faze me. My sister had worked at StormSprint for the last six years. My stepfather, who for all intents and purposes was my Dad, had worked here for the entirety of my life.
But I’d always been here as the daughter or as the little sister.
With no responsibilities.
And no one to impress.
Now, though…
I turned up the volume of the podcast I’d put on, jamming my headphones further in my ears. I was fluent in four languages and could get by on another two, but sometimes, I needed to ease myself back into the language of the moment. I hadn’t spoken Hungarian in nearly a year. My biological father, Imre, and I didn’t see eye to eye, so the language had slipped from most used to least.
I missed how the words tasted in my mouth.
The Hungarian podcast predicting championship standings was a good warm- up. I didn’t need to hear more about Zoltán’s crash last year—I’d already read every article. His career nearly ended at the MotoBike championship. He’d been hospitalised for months. Now medically cleared and hungry for a new start, he’d joined StormSprint and team Veltar.
He’d worked with Imre briefly because he was a bike mechanic.
