The guy barely glanced at it before narrowing his eyes. “Not allowed on the tarmac unless you’re a medic.”
“I’m Cris Bacque’s daughter,” I snapped.
The man nodded slowly and shifted out of the way. “I didn’t see you.”
By the time I made it to the crash site, he was sitting up, his helmet in his lap as a guy pulled him to his feet. He was shaking his head as the helmet crashed on the ground.
“What are you doing here, Zsófia?” he hissed, voice slurred but eyes sharp. “On the track?”
I bent to grab his helmet, grateful the turul had saved it from cracking open like last time. “I needed to—to translate for you—”
“You didn’t,” he snapped and winced, closing his eyes tightly. “It’s not safe.”
I reached for his arm — instinct, not thought — to lead him to the barrier. My hands only stopped shaking when they gripped him.
He shook off the man beside him and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, walking us quickly through.
To get me off the track as if I were the one in danger.
“Are you okay?” I asked, hoping that no matter how abuzz my body was with worry, he’d lean into me more. To keep him upright.
“I’m fine,” he said. His nod was slow.
“We need a crash test,” I said, and gestured at the track marshall to open the gate, and pointed at my racer.
“Maybe I’ll milk this,” Zolt murmured in my ear, “if it means you’ll nurse me back to health.”
I rolled my eyes and tried to stop after the barrier.
But Zolt kept going, not stopping for the check-up we both knew he needed.
“Sannier radioed in,” the track marshall said, stopping him with an arm. “You shouldn’t be walking anywhere.”
I translated for him.
Zolt said in English, “You let Fia track?”
The guy shrugged and closed the gate behind us. Zolt shoved against his shoulder. “You let her on track?”
“Fuck off, mate,” the guy said, and my heart sprinted, knowing that was not a way to talk to Zoltán Farkas.
“Tell him if he lets you put yourself in danger again for me, I’ll see to it that he’s not just out of the job, but out of working limbs.”
“I am not telling him that.”
I didn’t need to. His glare said it all.
“Zolt, we need to get you checked over,” I said and tugged at his hand.
He took one more second to dare the track marshal to argue back before squeezing my hand. But he didn’t stay. He headed toward the tunnel. I stayed close to him, feeling our entwined hands at my stomach, in the hopes no one would see.
I couldn’t bring myself to let go. Feeling his warmth, hearing his steps behind me, and his‘hello’ to the staff that let us through the doors reminded me that he wasn’t unmoving on the track. He was safe. He was here.
“I’m fine,” he said once we were in the tunnel. “You don’t need to worry.”
“I’m not,” I said, but I didn’t let go of his hand and started to lead. If he wasn’t going to be checked on track, we needed to get him to the medical bay pronto.
“Not fine or not worrying?”
