Page 45 of The Fast Track

It’s all I can do to keep my jaw from dropping. Is Dietrich Lange, F1 god, potential breaker of a bajillion records, the driver I wouldn’t hesitate to give my two front teeth—no, scratch that, all my teeth and hair—to switch places with, saying he doesn’t want what he has?

He turns away and stares hard at the padded, sound-cushioned wall. “It’s nice, winning. And driving is fun. But I don’t love it, not the way my father does. Sometimes I want it all to go away and I wish I could be a regular university student.”

I’m not sure what to say. As far as the F1 world goes, he’s the celebrated King while I’m somewhere between court jester and maid who takes out the garbage. But even though I’m metaphorically (and literally) on the lowest rung, I could never imagine wanting to give up my place here.

I love the thrum of adrenaline. The intensity of competition. The headiness of winning. Of trying to be the best.

What Dietrich’s talking about—walking away, leaving—is unimaginable. But then I think of the hunched tenseness in his shoulders, the crushed expression on his face the moment before he threw his phone, and I know all this is as meaningless to him as it is meaningful to me.

I clear my throat. “What would you study if you went to school?”

“Environmental sciences,” he says without skipping a beat. “For example, there are lots of bad headlines about Formula 1 and how the cars should go electric, but did you know that’s only a fraction of the emissions from opening ceremony jet flyovers? No one is talking about that. I want to figure out how to change things like that, maybe use my platform to do it.”

His face lights up in a way I’ve never seen, not even when he’s standing on the top step of a podium. “If you already know what you want, why not go for it now?”

Dietrich winces. “My father would like me to stick around until I beat Hamilton’s records.”

“But he’s got eight championships—that’ll take years!”

“Don’t remind me. I don’t know if my sanity will last, honestly.”

“You should talk to your father.”

He visibly deflates, sinking deeper into the cushy black leather. “I have tried. Every time I don’t get two sentences in before he starts yelling.”

From what I’ve seen of Niels Lange, this is not hard to imagine.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, truly feeling it. Which is incredible, because if someone told me a year ago I’d be in this situation—comforting the reigning F1 champion about his deeply rooted desire to not be an F1 driver—I would have pinched myself to wake up from whatever weird simulation I’m in.

“Thank you for talking to me.” Dietrich flashes a sad, tremulous smile that makes me want to hold him until he’s okay. “There’s not too many people I can be honest with.”

The halls are quiet when we reemerge from the A/V dungeons. Our footsteps echo off the shiny white floor, magnified by the cavernous OTC walls. The real Dietrich is so different from what I thought, but no less amazing of a human being.

We come to a stop in the lobby.

“Well, this has been lovely.” Dietrich smiles so sweetly I could melt into a puddle right then and there. “Thank you for spending your afternoon with me.”

“Thank you.” I glow.

“Justine! It is nice to see you.” Niels walks over from where he must have been sitting on one of the lobby benches. He smiles broadly at me. I force a polite smile back, though part of me is dying to yell at him for stranding a literal child at gas stations. “Dieter said you are reviewing race tapes?”

“Your son is an incredible driver,” I say pointedly.

“You are very kind.” Niels preens like I gavehimthecompliment. “It is encouraging to see young women with so much hunger, is it not?” He nudges Dietrich, who grimaces.

“I’ll see you soon, Justine,” Dietrich says.

I give him a goodbye nod back. We separate for different exits, Niels jabbering away in German to a barely responsive Dietrich. Just as I’m about to reach the door nearest to the bike rack, Dietrich calls my name.

He jogs across the spacious lobby, coming to a stop in front of me. “Would you like to come with me to the gala next weekend? As my guest?”

“Seriously?” My heart leaps. The annual gala is Orbital’s most important social event of the year. All of senior corporate—including Lou Wilson—attends, as do current and prospective sponsors. It’s also become famous for how raucous the after-party gets—the only time when throwing up on the F1 team principal’s shoes, like Grayson did last year, becomes an amusing anecdote and not a cause for firing.

I’ve been dreading it—six hours in black tie while making small talk with sponsors is not my idea of a good time—but going on Dietrich’s arm… that would be a different story.

“Seriously,” Dietrich says, all twinkling blue eyes and sparkling smile. It’s all I can do to keep from swooning like aBridgertonheroine.

Niels watches us from the other side of the lobby. He gives an approving nod, and it makes me wonder, just the tiniest bit, if he had anything to do with the invitation.