Page 59 of Redline
I don't yield. I bury my foot.
The rear end kicks out as I bury the throttle, the tires spinning uselessly against the hot asphalt. I’m demanding grip that the rubber simply no longer has to give. I fight the snap of the wheel, every twitch of the chassis feeling like a personal betrayal by the person in my ear. If he hadn't forced me to compromise, I wouldn't be down here in the dirt, wrestling for scraps.
The mistake doesn't happen all at once. It’s a fraction too much throttle on the exit of the fastest turn. The car bobs, the traction breaks, and I have to catch a slide that feels like a mountain falling over. The steering wheel snaps back, bruising my thumbs.
The car behind moves past. Then the next one.
“You lost the exit. I told you the temps were too high,” Landon’s voice is a dead weight in my ear—monotone, rhythmic, like he’s reading a grocery list instead of a post-mortem. He doesn't even pause for a reaction. “Focus on bringing it home.”
“Because you had me sitting like a damn duck!” I yell into the radio, my voice cracking with the strain. “Your ‘patience’ cost me the gap!”
I can feel the lie curdling in my throat even before the radio cuts out, but I lean into it anyway. I wrap the blame around me like a shroud, familiar and controlled, shielding me from the sight of my own hands shaking on the wheel. It’s a smoother ride being the monster than the failure.
By the time the checkered flag flashes overhead, P2 is a memory. I’m P4. A podium sacrificed to a girl’s laugh and a joke I wasn't part of. I stare at the back of the car ahead, my pulse thudding against the silence of the cockpit, already reaching for the match to burn down the only connection I had left.
The engine cuts, and the silence that follows is airless.
I don't wait for the car to stop properly before I’m unbuckling. I climb out, and the cameras are already there, long lenses poking through the gaps like hungry insects. I see Landon standing by the screens. Usually, he’s the picture of professional compliance—someone who keeps his head down and his voice low to keep the peace. He’s spent months absorbing my hits, trying to rebuild a life, and I’m the one pressing the wound.
But today, he doesn't look like he’s bracing for a hit. He looks like he’s waiting to deliver one.
“We need to look at the data for that final stint,” Landon says. His voice isn't just level; it’s hard.
“The data?” I snap, stepping into his space. I’m still charged with adrenaline from the cockpit, my helmet swinging violently in my hand. “The data says I was gaining when I ignored you.You choked the lead. You let the other car into my slipstream because you were too busy playing it safe.”
I expect the usual quiet endurance. I expect him to wait for me to finish my tantrum so we can move on. Instead, Landon takes a step toward me. He doesn't raise his voice, but there’s a new, sharp steel in his gaze.
“The slipstream wasn't the problem, Dominic.” Landon didn't even look up from the monitor, his finger tapping a line on the screen. “This spike right here? That’s a four-degree jump in surface temps because you jumped the throttle on the exit. You cooked the rears because you lost your head.”
“I didn’t lose anything!” I stay in his space, giving him every chance to make this his mistake. “The strategy was weak. You let the gap shrink until I had no room to breathe. If I’d stayed aggressive from the start, we wouldn't be staring at a P4.”
Landon didn’t back up. He didn't blink as I loomed over him. He just looked at me with a steady, clinical expression that made the fire in my veins feel pathetic.
“You do this every time,” he said, his voice dropping below the whine of the pneumatic guns in the next bay. “You had it today. For fifteen laps, you were hitting every mark. The car was balanced, the pace was there.” He shifted, forcing me to either hold my ground or reveal how much I was shaking. “Then you decided the car wasn't enough. Or I wasn't enough.”
He gestured vaguely toward the track, his mouth set in a hard, final line.
“The strategy was a podium. You drove us into fourth.” He turned back to the screen, dismissing me before I could even draw breath to argue. “Don't blame my headset for a choice you made with your right foot.”
The air in the garage turned brittle. I was paralyzed—not by the words, but by the fact that he was already looking past me, as if I were a part that had finally malfunctioned beyond repair.Marco was there in a second, his hand a heavy anchor on my shoulder, physically wrenching me back.
“Dominic, cool it. Now,” Marco says, his voice a low warning. “The lenses are on you. Walk away.”
“Let them look!” I snarl, shoving Marco’s hand off. I can hear the rapid-fireclick-click-clickof the photographers capturing the meltdown. I don’t care. I want to hit something. I want to be as loud as the failure ringing in my ears.
I storm past them all, the air in the garage feeling too thin to breathe, and slam the door to the hospitality suite behind me.
I’m in the back of the room, tearing off base layers, when the door bangs open again.
“That was a masterclass in self-sabotage.”
My father. He’s draped in the prestige I’ve built for him, looking as unruffled as a person who didn't just watch his son lose a podium.
“Not now,” I say, my voice raspy.
“You had them,” he says, stepping farther into the room. “Landon had you on a string. You were driving like a champion. And then? You lost your head. Over what? A blow to your pride?”
I turn, my shirt half-off, my skin slick with sweat. “I didn't lose anything. The strategy was too conservative. Landon's suggestion put me in the line of fire.”
