I look up, desperately searching forsomethingor someone to agree with me—and meet Ilya’s eyes. He arches a challenging eyebrow, as if taunting,what are you gonna do about it?There’s no help in his gaze, no correction or intervention; just calculation. He’s watching me the way he watches live telemetry, waiting to see if I spike or flatline.
That’s when it hits me. He put me in this tough predicament to see howIperform under pressure. If I stay silent, I’m forgettable, and if I speak, I’m reckless. Either way, Ilya’s taking notes.
Will I fold and let someone else make the wrong call, or will I rely on my model, my intuition, and everything I’ve learned about Asher and fuckingapplyit?
My next move is something that could well get me fired, and it’s completely impulsive. My pulse hammers so hard I’m certain it’s visible in my throat, and my hands tremble with anxiety, but I know what I have to do.
I rip off Ethan’s headset, slap it over my ears, and say into the microphone. “Asher, two flying laps now. Banker first, then another one immediately. Everything you’ve got on the second.”
Translation: one slower flying lap, and then one all-out flying lap. Both of them will be timed.
For half a second, the entire pit wall freezes, and all eyes swing to me. I’m breaking every protocol imaginable and risking my neck in the process, but if I don’t, Ethan will keep making a fool of Asher.
My recommended strategy is risky in itself; if it fails,I’llbe the one making a fool of Asher. Ideally, Asher would have an out lap to warm his brakes and tyres before two consecutive flying, timed laps, but there’s not enough time left on the clock for that. So, I’m hoping that his banker lap will serve the purpose of a usual out lap.
Not having a cooldown between his first and second flying laps could also cause issues, but he’s run this in simulations before. I know he can do it.
And I know that if he does well, he’ll place a lot better than P-fucking-20.
“Got it.” Asher’s voice is labored, but contains a hint of warmth. I glance up at the screens tracking his car, a thrill like static electricity charging the air when he takes my instructions, puts the car into boost mode, andfliesacross the course.
Ethan snatches his headset back, giving me a glare that almost makes me want to shrivel.Almost,because his directives were shit.
“Are you fuckinginsane?” he hisses furiously. “Lawrence’s tires are shot—”
“They’re not. They can take two more flying laps.”
“You don’t know that!” Ethan explodes. “You can’tdothat!” he looks at Ilya, who watches our exchange with a bored expression.
Ilya waves a hand at the screen, where Asher’s sector times are coming in live. He’s already well ahead of his earlier flying lap. “Give her the headset, Ethan, and stop being a prima donna. We have enough drama with our drivers already.”
A smile pulls on my lips as I accept the headset from a red-faced Ethan and fit it over my ears. I set my tablet at the edge of the table, right beneath the screen monitoring Asher’s progress, and rapidly go through the car’s vitals. Then, I remind him, “No cooldown. You’re going again the second you cross the line.”
“Got it,” Asher repeats.
He finishes the banker lap in a better time than before, one-tenth of a second faster than the last one. That’ll put him around P18.
He crosses the start-finish line and immediately begins his final flying lap. On the timing screen, the session clock shows less than three minutes—he started the lap just before the checkered flag waved to signal the end of the session.
My eyebrows hit my hairline as I realized Asher washolding back.Thislap really shows the definition of what he’s like when he flies. “Brake late on this turn,” I murmur. “X-mode on next straight.” He doesn’t respond, but he follows every single directive I give him seamlessly.
Sweat beads on my forehead as the longest minute-and-change of my life ensues. Everything feels like it happens in slow motion; each mode activation, turn, and straight. I watch his numbers trickle onto the screen above me one by one, when in reality, the data being pulled flashes over the monitors in rapid succession.
“Push the hell out of it,” I murmur. This is his last chance to secure a favorable place.
Fuck me, he does. It’s clear that Asher Lawrence still has the spark that got him on the F1 circuit in the firstplace—it’s just been lying dormant beneath his inability to change.
His carfliesacross the finish line seconds later, and for a heartbeat, it almost feels like the world stops altogether. The air thins, the desert heat vanishes, and even the commentary in my headset cuts to static. Sound filters, until all I can hear is the thud of my heart in my ears. All that exists is the screen monitoring Asher, and I watch it like a hawk, waiting for his finishing time to appear. It blinks over the monitor, digit by digit. 1:31:584.
Putting Asher in P15.
Just as quickly as it slows, time resumes, and sound filters back in. Cheers erupt from stands, the roar of cars pulling into lanes, shouts as teams of crew members run around.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and check Elio’s driver times as they pop up on screen.P18. Elio will be cut, while Asher will live to fight another round.
Ireallywish I had a chair to fall into as the announcers zero in on Asher’s performance, scrutinizing his high-risk final laps and the payoff.
I take off the headset and wipe the sweat from my forehead, pacing a few steps away from the wall. Elation creates a buzzing vortex of excitement over my skin. Asher didn’twin… but he showed that he’s stilldamngood when he wants to be.
