This was what people wanted — the comeback story. The man who had been in the ICU, winning in a brand new championship. And not just by a millisecond. By a 2.5-second gap on lap seven.
But, still, I felt a shiver of unease slowly creeping up my back. He was so fast. He almost blurred against his surroundings as he whizzedpast us.
Normally, that gave me a thrill.
I didn’t worry about the racers. I hardly even worried about Luca.
The knot in my stomach tied itself tighter with every corner, every curve, every rotation of his bike.
I started counting how long it took him to ride each lap, praying we were at the end of the race every time I opened my eyes.
But we weren’t. His wheels could turn at the speed of light, and yet we were going in slow motion. Everything buzzed — my headset, the crowd, my own pulse — and my feet were the only thing keeping me tethered to this plane.
My stomach dropped, gliding, like a dip on a roller coaster. As if I were going down a sharp decline at the speed he was going.
No, that wasn’t true. No rollercoaster went as quickly as he did.
On the screens, it briefly showed the speed of every racer, and Zolt had the fastest lap every single time.
He was out for blood.
There was one second he turned the corner, his knee skidding along the tarmac, he leaned so far over, and then he was straight up, and then he veered. The bike stuttered, rear wheel criss-crossing like it had a mind of its own, as Nix’s co-presenter exclaimed that he was‘wobbling.’
The back wheel skipped — the bike whipped sideways, skidded, bucked, and I stopped breathing.
He could save it. He could straighten. He could—
But it was like he wasn’t even trying. As if he were there for the ride and the crash.
Then he was on the green, then gravel was spraying, andthe bike was on its side, Zolt sliding the other way.
“Shit,” Livie shouted, but I was hardly hearing her.
“And there it is. From absolute control to chaos in half a heartbeat,” Nix said in my ear.
My body felt frozen — then burning. Legs leaden, throat dry. And then I was running, pushing past journalists, ignoring Livie’s shout.
We were close enough to see it unfold. Close enough to run. If he was in pain—if he was disoriented—he couldn’t translate. He shouldn’t have to. He needed me there.
The worst part, though, was that he was just lying there, next to his bike. No movement. When I saw him on the tarmac, through the heads of the crowd, I nearly paused, but my feet tripped over each other as I pushed through the gawking onlookers.
There had been worse crashes. Worse crashes in that race. Three had gone down on the seventh corner, and one had hobbled away, but… he had skidded. Zolt’s hadn’t looked as bad.
But he still wasn’t moving.
Medics rushed forward as I pushed the standing crowd out of my way.
“Got to be a mechanical fault, right? Not — I mean, he was on the straight. The bike just went—”
But I didn’t get to hear if Nix responded because I was at the one barrier I hadn’t yet crossed.
“Excuse me,” I called, trying to be polite to the staff that manned the gates to the track. “Get out of the fucking way!”
I didn’t have the patience.
The men in high-vis removed the bike, and then I was arguing with someone while trying to keep my eyes onthe scene on the screen above me.
“I work here!” I shouted, showing my lanyard.
