Page 22 of The Fast Track

“Why didn’t you say so beforehand?” I hiss back. I spot an empty chair close by and plop myself down as casually as I can. It’s sticky, as is the wobbly table that accompanies it.

Roz places our order at the bar, then takes the chair opposite me. She immediately starts running her hand through her pink-tipped platinum-blond hair while glancing over at Grayson every six seconds. None of the guys seem to register our presence; their eyes are glued to the game. It appears to be a nail-biter, judging by the way the crowd is shouting and waving their fists every few minutes.

“Okay,” Roz says after a waiter brings the lemonade cocktails she ordered. “You can go and talk to them now.”

I’m not sure what the point of all that was. I love Roz, but sometimes I wonder if we’d be friends if we weren’t the only women on the team. I sigh, resigned, and pick my way through the crowd. I come to a stop next to the wide cornerbooth containing Grayson and company. Cameron sits at the other end, brow furrowed at the TV and a plate of very delectable-looking battered chicken tenders in front of him.

“Hi, guys,” I say at the exact moment a loud, synchronized cry bursts forth from everyone watching the game.

“C’mon ref, red flag!” Grayson yells, banging his pint glass on the table.

“What is he, blind?” Pat shakes his head.

So much for a smooth greeting. I want to call it a day and slink back to my seat, but Roz’s eyes are drilling holes into my back.

I try again, louder this time. “HI, GUYS!”

They freeze and stare at me. I’m so loud, the table of guys in matching Arsenal jerseys next to us stare too.

Grayson gives me a perfunctory nod by way of greeting before his eyes dart back to the nearest TV. “Are they going to do bugger all?” he says to no one in particular, then tilts his head back and drains his glass. “Sorry, what were you saying, Justine?”

He’s looking at me with an expectantwhat do you want?look on his face. No friendly chitchat, no “howdy, fancy running into you here,” no way to casually insert myself and join their table. Beads of sweat form at my temple. This has the potential to end in complete social humiliation, an apt continuation of my Formula 3 experience so far.

“How was your last gym session?” I blurt, blanking on anything other than the nonsensical topic Roz foisted on me before we walked in here.

“Uh, good?” Grayson stares at me like I’m a total weirdo.

Which, to be fair, I am completely being right now.

“How are you doing after the last race?” Sasha Devin speaks up. He’s an F3 driver for Triton whom I’ve seen hanging out with the Orbital guys. Like Pat, he’s the son of a billionaire—his family owns an oilfield or something like that—but unlike Pat, he’s known to be one of the better drivers, currently runner-up behind Cameron in the championship tables.

“I’m all right,” I say carefully, trying to determine if he’s intentionally being insulting by bringing up my less-than-desirable results at Spielberg or if it’s incidental small talk.

“Shame about the spin.” His lips draw up in a sneer. Definitely the former.

“What happened?” Grayson asks, looking way more intrigued by this than me planting myself in front of him trying to start a conversation.

“She had a bit of a shunt.” Sasha laughs. It’s the kind of laugh where his mouth moves but his eyes don’t. The opposite of smizing, what Mom is always trying to get me to do with my face at photo shoots.

“Ooh, this sounds good.” Caleb pops a thick-cut fry in his mouth and gives Sasha a look that makes me feel lower than low. It’s the kind of unspoken communication that makes it very clear they have thoughts about you, and those thoughts are in no way complimentary.

Whoever said teenage girls are the meanest creatures onearth has met zero aspiring F1 drivers. I glance over at Roz to check if she’s seeing this, but she’s holding a menu in front of her face, rigidly scrutinizing the same spot.

“How many times have we already talked about Spielberg?” Cameron lets out an exaggerated yawn, stretching both arms above his head.

“Just rehashing Justine’s Austrian highlights, mate.” Sasha snickers.

“Well, I’m bored,” Cameron says. Our eyes meet, and I get the sense he’s redirecting the conversation for my benefit. Why, I’m not sure, but I’m grateful all the same.

“Yeah, quit drowning out the postgame analysis,” Pat, who hasn’t taken his eyes off the TV this entire time, says in between bites of onion rings.

Sasha shrugs, sneer still in place, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything more and the guys focus their attention back on the game.

Except Cameron, who holds out his plate of deep-fried deliciousness to me. “Fancy a bite?”

“Okay,” I say, still confused as to why exactly he decided to intervene.

He elbows Pat and scoots farther into the booth, leaving more than enough space for me.