Page 55 of The Fast Track

I change the topic quickly, before I can explode from nerves. “You know, I bet if you told your story more broadly, you’d get more media attention. And sponsors.”

Good lord, I sound like Mom.

“You’re probably right, but…” Cameron scrunches up his nose. “There’s just something that feels off about using personal stories for attention. I don’t want to relive how my family nearly lost the house because they mortgaged it three times to fund my karting, y’know?”

I bite my lip. My family isn’t own-an-oilfield rich like Sasha’s, or even regular investment-banking rich like Grayson’s. But even after Dad took off and Mom had to switch to a work-from-home job, the thought of losing our house never crossed my mind. All I had to focus on was winning races on the weekend and getting good grades during weekdays.

“Am I grateful they sacrificed everything? Yes. And am I buying them a new house the moment I sign my first F1 contract? Also yes. But that doesn’t mean I want it all over media clips. I want to race and be good. Not be known as some soppy Oliver Twist inspirational phoenix-rising-above-the-ashes story.”

I tell myself not to soften. Try to remind myself that him getting the Orbital F2 seat means that I won’t, but I can’t help wishing there was more than one open seat up for grabs. Because as badly as I want to prove myself, and as badly as I want my dreams to come true, I know it means just as much for him.

“I know,” I say. “It’s kind of how I feel about being a female racer.”

“Kind of?”

“I dunno… Maybe just ‘owning it’ won’t be that bad.” Chloe’s little sister treasuring Orbital energy bars just because my face is on them makes me feel like maybe I should put myself out there more, even if it makes me stick out. “It’s not like I can hide I’m a girl.”

We slow to a stop, dawdling in front of the entrance to our building. The soft yellow lighting from the lobby throws Cameron’s expression into shadows.

“It’s never occurred to me that at least I can hide the ways I’m different.”

He takes a step closer, and it’s as if someone has pushed the mute button on the world. The faint lobby music emanating from the entrance doors, the rumbling of passing traffic, all fade into the background. The night is ours alone.

There are just inches between us. His dark eyes skim up and down my face. Inadvertently, my gaze drifts to his lips and I wonder, in spite of my best attempt to pump the brakes on my own brain, what it would feel like to kiss him. My heart thuds so loudly I’m shocked he can’t hear it.

He leans in close, closer.

My attempts to keep from softening are mushing up faster than my insides. It takes every ounce of willpower I have—and a mental image of Frank huffing about unprofessionalism—to take a step back.

Confusion, so quick I don’t know if it’s a figment of my wishful imagination, flashes across Cameron’s face. Then Mom’s voice cuts through like the world’s loudest record scratch.

“Gougou!”

16.

Everything moves in a blur. Me jumping back. Mom seizing my wrist and perp walking me into the lobby. Cameron, still stunned, watching helplessly from the sidewalk while the doorman does his best not to look wildly entertained. It’s like an episode from a bad 2000s sitcom with a laugh track.

Mom doesn’t release her death grip until the elevator doors ding shut behind us.

“Was that your teammate?” The way she says it, it’s not a question.

“We were hanging out with Pat and Georgios,” I say, my heart still galloping like it’s going to burst out of my chest. “It was a team get-together bonding kind of thing.”

“Is that what they call it these days?”

I blush. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going down to London.”

“You never listen to me. I told you I changed my mind—I’m taking the morning train tomorrow instead.”

She must have dropped this news at breakfast, somewhere between planning the next photo shoot and complaining about her accountant. I make a mental note to do a better job not zoning her out.

The elevator opens on our floor, and Mom resumes the perp walk, like I’ll run away and go make out with Cameron if she gives me an inch of wiggle room. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get involved with your teammate.”

“Why not?” I ask defiantly, even though I’ve been debating the exact same thing and I did, in fact, pull away first—not that Mom seems to have noticed.

“Do you think a distraction like this is really what you need right now?” She unlocks the door and we step into the apartment, kicking off our shoes.

I don’t answer. She’s right; it’s what I’ve been trying (and failing) to remind myself all night.