Page 46 of The Fast Track

“I can meet you at your building?”

I do my best to stay cool, calm, and collected—per the TikTok Roz sent last week. “Sure,” I say breezily, as if I get invited to fancy parties by F1 drivers all the time.

Dietrich leans in and kisses me on the cheek, driving every ounce of cool, calm, and collected out of my head.

14.

I float on fluffy pinkcotton candy clouds the rest of the evening. Dietrich kissed me—it was only on the cheek, but a kiss is a kiss—and invited me to go to the gala with him! It’s like getting asked to prom by the quarterback, if prom had a hundred-thousand-dollar budget.

The heady feeling stays with me when I head to campus the next day. I don’t even mind morning conditioning, which consists strictly of burpees and box jumps, both exercises that usually make me question my desire to become an F1 driver.

At lunch, I grab the Friday burger and fries and wait for Roz at our usual table. It’s prime mealtime, so nearly every chair in the canteen is filled. Cameron’s already sitting with Pat and Grayson, his tray stacked with carrots and hummus. As if sensing me, he glances up and our eyes meet. He gives me a small smile, almost shy.

I suddenly wonder if he’s going to the gala with a date, too.

“Omigod!” Roz sits down opposite me. “You have to tell me everything.”

I’m grateful for the excuse to look away. “What do you want to know?” I texted Roz last night to let her know about Dietrich’s gala invitation, but it felt wrong to give her a blow-by-blow, massive infringement on Dietrich’s privacy and all.

“How’d you get him to ask you out?” Roz bounces up and down. “I can’t believe it!”

Her surprise would be insulting if it weren’t for the genuine enthusiasm shining in her eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You know what I mean. The bloke’s got actresses and models sliding into his DMs every second of every hour. I thought it’d take a lot more to get his attention. You’ve clearly got something the others haven’t.”

A direct window into his dysfunctional family. Not exactly the most romantic situation, but I guess I should take what I can get. I look around to make sure there’s no one listening. The F2 pit crew at the next table over are constructing a tower out of empty french fry containers, completely oblivious to our conversation.

“We talked about racing. And stuff.”

“Oh, come off it. You waltz off to a one-on-one race-review sesh and come out with a date to the gala? You’ve got to give me all the juicy details.”

Roz beams expectantly, but explaining what Dietrich and I talked about would require divulging that conversation in the OTC basement, and that feels too intimate to share. Even with Roz.

“Start from the very beginning. Like, what were you wearing?” She brushes her hair over her shoulder. I’m relieved to catch a glimpse of a distraction.

“Is that a hickey?”

“Keep your voice down!” She looks around us, then leans in. “All right, fine, Grayson and I’ve been talking. Tons. He took me out last night, like properly, at a restaurant with menus and stuff, not just me watching telly at his flat.”

“So are you guys gonna be acouplecouple?”

Roz purses her lips. “I’m not sure. You’re not supposed to shit where you eat.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for that?” Grayson is literally sitting twenty feet away, going to town on a grilled chicken sandwich while Pat shows him something on a tablet.

“I’m fine shitting where I eat. It’s just… I don’t want people knowing I shit where I eat.”

“Then why’d we stalk Grayson to a pub with Cameron and half the paddock as witnesses?”

“?’Cause it’s different when it’s just us, versus, you know, the actual adults and stuff.”

I nod in sympathy. At Orbital, we’re treated like employees and adults whether or not we’re legally of age, but there’s still a river of difference between us and the older, actual authoritative folks.

“Plus,” Roz says, dropping her voice to whisper level, “I want Frank to give me a spot in F2 next year. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m just a nepo baby.”

“Most people don’t think that,” I say encouragingly, even if I know no matter how fast she installs a new front wing or how brilliant her race strategies are, there’s still someone out there who will roll their eyes at her.

“Hold on, my mum just sent me something.” Roz grabs her phone, her face blooming in excitement. According to Roz, Mrs. Wilson is the only person in her family who supported her choice of career—supremely ironic, given who her uncle is—so they’re especially close. Her mom is a lot less invasive than mine, though. She mostly sticks to waving big Orbital signs in the grandstands.