Page 54 of On The Edge

Clear your head, Cross.

Clear your fucking head.

“Go ahead and push.”

“I need DRS,” I say more to myself than to Otis. We all know I need it.

I just need to pull within range.

“Ten-four. Yes. Okay.”

Three answers. The thought has a smile flickering seconds before the G’s pull it tight again.

The engine whines its distinctive sound as I push it harder, faster, trying to get within DRS range when the caution lights flash on the light tree at the edge of the course.

“In the back of the field,” Otis explains where the caution has occurred.

“Everyone okay?” I ask as I slow the car down and weave back and forth on the track to keep the tires warm.

“Ten-four. Bustos and Costa touched tires. Just cleaning up debris,” Otis says in his uncanny calm voice that could narrate a nature documentary.

“Box?” I ask when I don’t want to. I have fresh tires, but it’s not worth risking a grid position.

“Tires?”

“Still have traction,” I explain. There’s not enough time left in the race to make up for a lost grid place. And even though I’m not content with a P4, it’s still better than P5. “Nico?”

“P7.”

It’d be a strong finish for us. It would be better if I were on the podium though.

I stretch my fingers out as I pull up right behind Rossi, the caution on the track allowing me to close the gap.

Just like almost everyone on this circuit, we’ve raced against each other our whole lives. In karting as kids. Up the ranks as teens into Formula 4. Then Formula 3 and Formula 2. And now.

We know each other’s signature moves. Our tendencies. We know who dives right off the line and who favors their left. There are patterns we’ve studied. Memorized. Become part of the way we drive.

And that pertains to everyone on the grid . . . everyone except for Oliver Rossi. He’s a loose cannon who’s unpredictable and who has made his reputation off being just that. A guy who has more talent than his own good and who doesn’t have any fucks to give.

He’s dangerous in the best kind of way, and right now I have to figure out which fucking way he’s going to favor so I can go the opposite when the green flag drops.

“Right,” Otis says, knowing exactly what I’m thinking. We’ve done this enough times that it’s like we share the same brain.

“He’s going left,” I say.

“Your call, but the track is clear. Caution will be lifted when you hit the start/finish.”

“Ten-four.”

And just as I say the words, the pace on the track picks up as we all begin to jockey for the best positioning possible.

I weave back and forth to keep my tires sticky and when we turn the corner on the last straight, we all pick up speed.

My body presses deeper into the seat with each and every kilometer per hour the speed increases to. We hit the line and we’re at full throttle within seconds. The first corner coming. We all bunch up as we let up some before hammering back down again.

I go to the right of Rossi as he feigns left before cutting back just as quickly.

“Fuck!” I shout as we make contact.