Page 53 of On The Edge

If it weren’t for the harsh, derisive expression on his face, I imagine the man would be considered classically handsome.

Dominic Navarro. He has to be by the mere resemblance alone.

And clearly, he is judging me. That is not up for debate.

Wouldn’t you judge me if you were in his shoes? His son’s new girlfriend when he’s never had one? A woman in the pits no less?

I offer a smile in return. It’s tentative but kind.

But he doesn’t reciprocate.

Not at all.

Instead, he gives a disgusting shake of his head and then walks away.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cruz

The car is quicker than shit.

It’s dialed in more than it’s been all season, and I can sense it.

“Good sector time, Cruz. Point three seconds faster than your fastest lap and ten seconds from Cavanaugh,” Otis says into my ear regarding the leader.

A fucking tight race. No room for error.

“Place?”

“Still P4. Top three remain unchanged.”

Fuck. I can be fast all I want but if I can’t move up the grid, I’m not doing my job. But it’s been an uneventful race if the lineup hasn’t changed. No crashes. No overtakes. No fucking nothing.

In the back of the field, yes. But not what’s stretched out before me.

“Bide your time. Something’s bound to change.”

“How far?” I ask, my voice vibrating with the G’s as I come out of the corner on the backstretch and engage the throttle for the fastest part of the course.

He knows what I’m asking. How far ahead of me is Rossi? What time do I have to make up or him to lose so that I can gain a position?

“One point two.”

“Permission to push?” I ask, knowing they have way more information than I do about the car’s telemetry.

That and they know that Rossi and Evans, the Apex team, has been struggling as of late. During last season, a podium without an Apex driver was an anomaly. This season? It’s a struggle for them to finish in the top five.

“Hold,” Otis says. No doubt he’s conferring with our team principal on a decision that’s best for the team collective.

When I hit the next straight, Rossi’s car is in my sight. His engine hasn’t been the strongest near the ass-end of races. I can reel him in. I know I can.

I push a bit more while I’m in limbo waiting for an answer.

Seconds ticking by as I wait. Precious fucking tenths of seconds.

He doesn’t want to speak to you. I’m sorry, Cruz.

The bitter taste of rejection hits me now out of all moments. My call to mi abuelo. The silence as his caretaker went to ask him. The crushing blow when she uttered those words.