Belonging to someone so wholly and completely, when there’s no guarantee that they’ll ever belong to you, is terrifying in theory… but laughably simple in reality.
I’m hers. It’s that easy. Whether or not she’ll ever be mine, I’ll always be hers.
It’s devastating and enlightening, all in the same breath.
I accept Thomas’ help buckling in. He pats me twice on the shoulder. “I’d say break a leg, but considering how the last race went…” he grimaces. “Try not to crash and burn.”
My chances are better now that Ulrich is no longer on the track.
The speaker built into my helmet crackles, and my heart leaps.Is it going to be her?
“Good morning.” Ilya’s curt tone comes over the line. My heart, stomach, and soul all sink at the same time, but I draw on my nonexistent fortitude.
Ilya directing me is already unusual; it’s supposed to be Ethan. A job like this should be below the head of trackside engineering. I should be grateful.
“Let’s get any kinks wrinkled out in the formation lap, hmm? I’d like to see you tyre temperature…” he trails off, going over my car’s vitals with me.
I do exactly as he asks during practice lap. I even manage to do it well, but my heart’s not in it. My eyes glue to the starting lights as they turn on, one by one. My heartbeat is steady, absent of the adrenaline I should be feeling. My breathing stays normal. I’ll do my best, but that extra burst of power that only Victoria can ignite will be missing.
The race starts. All the cars peel out onto the track, and—
“Hey.”
Holy fuck, it’sher. She’s in my headset. “I hear you can use some extra input, what with the complexity of theamazingnew car you’ve gotten.” There’s a light lilt of amusement to her words, but also, melancholy. “Let’s make this racetrack yours, shall we?”
A reel of instructions leave her lips rapidly. I don’t even think; I just act, following each set flawlessly.
One overtake later, I’m P10, and I start to feel it. That reckless sense of confidence that used to fill me each time my tyres hit a track. The feeling of flying, of being on top of the world, of being fucking unstoppable.
“Not mine, sweetheart,” I whisper, so faintly I don’t think she’ll catch it. “Ours.”
70 laps, countless defenses, overtakes, and insane maneuvers later, I finish in P8.
Victoria’s nowhere to be seen after the race. I search for her everywhere, scan the crowd and the team, but she’s in the wind.
The high I felt post-racealmostleaves me… but I don’t let it. I hold onto it with a goddamn death grip, and I even agree to the team press conference that Ilya informs me I’ll be attending. What Iwantto do is go back to my hotel room and drink.
But I know that’s not the right thing for me. And the decision doesn’t just come from a desire to be better for Victoria; it comes from a desire to be better for myself,because the way I’ve been behaving… it’s not just beneath Victoria. It’s also beneathme.
That’s how I end up sitting in the press room, gritting my teeth against cameras flashing in my face, and keeping my rude quips to myself. It’s just Elio and I at the table—Ilya, Declan, and Soren are gathered on either side of the dais where the table is set up.
Elio’s best in the spotlight, so I let him steal the show, charm the reporters, and get all the acolytes. My racing today speaks for itself, but so does his.
He finished in P12. An insane improvement from his work thisandlast season, and something that both he and I know is because Victoria redid his strategy. She has a unique way of taking the strengths of a car and the strengths of a driver, and writing them into a symphony of success.
But it’s not just because of her that he did well. It’s because he is, fundamentally, a good driver. Rookie or not, he has the spark of talent. He’ll get there.
“Asher!” One of the reporters calls out.
Fuck, this again?
I muster a smile that probably looks more like a grimace for the cameras, and try not to glare at the reporter too hard.
“There was a lot of speculation that you were on your way out of F1 this season,” the woman calls out. “But your performance in the last few races undercuts that theory. Can you expand?”
“Sure, happy to clear it up.” I’mnothappy to talk to a single fucking journalist, but I will. “I have no intentionof leaving this sport. It’s one of my great loves in this life. While I was in stasis for a bit, I’m back now.” My smile turns devilish. “As I think everyone knows.”
“There’s no guarantee that you’ll keep your contract at Gaston, though,” the reporter volleys back. “What will you do if they don’t renew?”
