Page 22 of Break My Heart

If you’d give me a chance, I’d like to explain.

I’ve been doing this every single night since she told me to leave. Sometimes the messages are brief. Other times, they are confessions. One night, I gave in and sent her an email that she never replied to.

It may be too late to say I’m sorry, but nothing can keep her off my mind.

“Again,” I spit into the mouthpiece.

There’s a pause before Dario’s voice reminds me, “We’ve run this leg three times, Leo.”

“And it’s been wrong every bloody time!” I snap, already rolling back the throttle as I bring the car around for another lap.

His sigh is drawn out through the headset built into my helmet. “Fine. But this is the last time. I’m not having you total the car before the consultant we hired can identify the real problems.”

Ignoring Dario’s dramatics, I push the car harder this time. Before braking into Turn Three, I adjust my grip slightly, forcing the twenty-million-dollar monster beneath me to respond the way it’s intended to.

Every time I’m behind the wheel, I’m flabbergasted that I’m trusted to drive a small fortune of complex aerodynamics. Knowing my team’s incredible maintenance of this machine, I’ve reluctantly come around to believing Dario when he says he thinks he knows the problem. Yeah, I’m forcing the car to do what I demand of it instead of relying on the usual smooth transitions, but I trust Dario when he suggests the telemetry is off.

Just then, Dario’s voice comes through my headset, “Readings show you’re overcorrecting.”

I grit my teeth. “That’s bollocks.”

“According to the data, you’re good to open…look out!”

I feel the backend slide—enough to throw off the car’s aerodynamic precision. I correct but it costs me precious time. I don’t say anything; I just finish the lap.

By the time I cross the line, I’m frustrated. How am I supposed to compete for the team? The idea that I might not be able to terrifies me. Bringing the car in, I hit my marks perfectly before killing the engine.

Then Dario’s voice is in my ears. “Let’s give Hogan a turn on the track while we talk.”

Hogan Grant is Apex Orion’s rookie race driver. One of the sport’s brightest young prospects, he’s still finding his footing as he learns what it takes to compete at Formula One’s highest level.

While I wait for Dario to approach, the cockpit feels too quiet. It reminds me of the way I lie in bed at night, unable to get Christin’s face out of my mind. Shoving aside those thoughts, I yank off my gloves. Detaching the steering wheel is a must before I climb out. I’m in the process of removing my helmet to hand off to the crew when Dario sidles up next to me.

“Tell me what you think the problem is.”

“It’s lagging,” I admit, shoving a hand through my drenched hair. “I’m making corrections I shouldn’t have to make.”

Dario watches me, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Telemetry shows a delay in response under load.”

“So, you were right.”

“No shit.”

I mutter, “I thought it was me.”

“It’s not.”

“Christ, Dario. All this from the telemetry? It feels like I’m driving through sludge.”

A couple of the senior engineers hover nearby, trying to avoid my ire because they can’t fix the problem. They don’t even know where to start. Ignoring them, I face Dario. “Now that I’ve confirmed this isn’t on my driving⁠—‍”

His brow lifts slightly. “I never said it was exclusively the telemetry.”

I flick him off before finishing my sentence, “—I want to understand your point of view.”

He gestures for me to follow him into the garage, where a wall of monitors has been tracking every lap I ran today. “Check this out.”

Grabbing a towel, I drag it across the back of my neck, trying somehow to cool off from the Vegas heat. The team already has the data up—lines and curves that should tell a clean story.