Page 37 of The Fast Track

“I wish.” I sink deeper back into the couch. “He was probably just being polite because I was with Dietrich.”

My eyes drift to the Marino model car on top of our decorative glass bookshelf. For a second, I let myself imagine. Wearing the iconic Marino red, hoisting the first-place trophy high at Monza while red, white, and green confetti rains down on the sea of fans below. Mom and Roz jumping up and down, crying and shrieking with joy and pride. Dietrich standing in a cordoned-off section, his blue eyes shining and that slow, drowsy smile on his face as he claps.

Last year, Mom tried using my Orbital offer to see if Marino wanted to talk. They finally responded, on her third follow-up email, politely letting us know their roster was full at the moment and they wanted to be respectful of our time, but they looked forward to touching base next year. (Translation:We’re stacked with talent already, but let’s talk if you perform.)

They’re so iconic, every driver champs at the bit to drive for them. Dad’s old office walls were plastered in posters of Marino cars.

Someday, some way, I’ll get there. But first, the Orbital F2 seat.

12.

Cameron’s already waiting at theentrance of the OTC by the time I arrive for our next FC-80 session, huffing and puffing on my bike. I would’ve normally asked for a later start time, but the last two afternoons were so unbearably warm, I agreed to earlier.

“You carting a house in there?” He glances at my backpack.

It’s bulging with SAT prep books—I promised Mom I’d get some studying in today—but I’m not about to tell him that. None of the other F3 drivers waste time in academics beyond what’s legally required by their home countries. It’s a sign of weakness to make preparations for life outside of racing, because you’re basically admitting you’re not confident you’ll cut it. And if you’re not confident in yourself, why should any team principal or sponsors be confident in you?

Mom’s still insisting I take the test though. “Just in case,” she always says. I’ll never admit it, but part of me secretly agrees.

“Just some dry cleaning I’m dropping off later,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.

I tie up my bike, then hop into the driver’s seat of the golf cart Cameron’s standing next to. It’s been an unspoken rule since our second get-together that I drive. Whether it’s because Cameron doesn’t want to risk another wreck or because he can’t be bothered to fight with me, I’ve never asked.

I fail to stifle a giant yawn as I start the cart.

“Big night out?” He climbs in next to me.

“Sort of.” If staying up until midnight learning a new TikTok dance with Roz counts as a big night out. “What about you? Pub night with ‘the lads’?”

“Nah. I don’t go out when I have morning training.”

“You already hit the gym?” I glance at my phone. Eight a.m. Amazing. I usually can’t get myself out of bed until seven, and that’s on a good day. “You don’t even smell bad.”

“Do I look like the type to go unshowered after conditioning?”

Probably not, now that I know him a little bit. It’s actually surprising how nice he smells—like a freshly mowed summer lawn.

I resist the urge to lean in closer and take a sniff.

“Here,” Cameron says as we pull up next to the black shed on Lot 19, unfortunately a too-familiar sight now. “I’ll give you a hand.”

Before my foggy morning brain can process what’s happening, he gets out of the cart and grabs my backpack off the rear seat, swinging it over his shoulder that isn’t already occupied with his own bag. The books inside thump and clunk.

He raises his eyebrows. “What kinda laundry you got in here?”

“None of your business.” I hop out and reach for my bag.

He takes a step back, the beginnings of an evil grin spreading on his face. “Wait, let me guess—you’ve got five kilos of tampons in here.”

“Har-har, you’re so funny. Now give it back.”

Cameron holds the backpack high above my head, lifting the heavy load without a single tremor. “You’ll have to come get it if you want it so badly.”

He’s smiling way too widely for someone who’s torturing me before the sun is fully out. I jump and grab the side of the canvas, pulling with all my might—at the exact moment he drops his arm.

The motion throws me off-balance, and I go stumbling onto the concrete, backpack landing heavily next to me.

“Shit.” He kneels. “Are you okay?”