Page 67 of The Fast Track

“Hey, Mom,” I say weakly.

“I’m on my way back—on the train now. I just got an email from Lou Wilson’s assistant. He wants to schedule lunch after Spa for the two of us. I think they want to talk terms!”

“Oh my god,” I gasp. I had a hint as to where Lou was going at the gala, but to have the follow-up be so swift is breathtaking. Any more good news this morning and I might just combust with happiness.

“I’m being tutted at for talking, so I’ll go, but I’ll see you in a bit!” Mom trills, then hangs up.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door. Cameron’s eyes are wide and concerned, his lips still flushed from kissing. “All okay?”

“I think they’re going to offer me the F2 seat!” I blurt before realizing who I’m talking to.

“Oh. Congrats.” His voice is strained, and it gives me a cold, hard wake-up call as to who—and what—we are to each other.

“There’s nothing confirmed yet,” I backtrack.

He gives me a forced grin that breaks my heart. “Stop being modest. The way Lou was looking at you last night, I’msurprised he didn’t whip out a contract at the dinner table.”

“There might be other F2 teams looking for next year,” I say quickly.

“Yeah, maybe at Neptune.” He snorts, naming the team that consistently finishes dead last and has never sent a driver on to F1.

“You’re the most well-rounded driver in the series. You’re not going to have any trouble getting to F2, I know it.” I can beat Cameron on a good day, but all the years he’s spent on European circuits gives him an edge I can’t top without some wild luck.

A month ago, I would have rather chugged a gallon of broccoli juice than admit this. I’m shocked at how easily the words flow off my tongue now.

Cameron laughs wryly. “I don’t know how I feel about having your sloppy seconds, though your Quali pace is astonishing.”

He’s sidestepping and making light of things, but I can’t tell how truly happy he is. If I heard the Orbital F2 seat was looking like it’d go to someone else—even if it was someone as talented, as hardworking, and as fantastic of a kisser as Cameron—it would certainly make me want to grab Mom’s Swarovski Tigger figurine off the bookshelf and throw it against the wall.

“You think I’m the fastest qualifier on the grid?”

“After me, of course.”

We smile at each other, the tension thawing a tiny bit. He grabs my wrist and pulls me toward him.

“I bet,” I whisper when our lips are inches away, “I qualify higher at Spa.”

“If I pretend to agree, will you let me kiss you again?”

I nod, and he leans in. It feels almost as good as the first time.

Almost.

20.

I’m giddy the next morning. I didn’t dare let Cameron stay much longer in my apartment with Mom on a train back, while he has parents and grandparents coming and going from his place constantly, so today’s conditioning session is the first time I’ll get to see him since we kissed.

My stomach goes buttery at the memory. I wonder where we go from here—we never got a chance to talk and it’s too awkward to text about. Will he take me out on a real date? Or—my heart freezes—was this just a one-time thing, complicated by the whole “we’re actually teammates” reality of it all?

“Where are you going?” Mom asks as soon as I walk into the living room.

“Group conditioning.” I try my best to play it casual, twirling the house keys on my finger. “Did you not see it on the calendar?”

“Why are you dressed like… that?” Mom looks me up and down.

I’m wearing the hot-pink body-hugging top an athleisure brand sent months ago. Wearing something so showy to training sessions always felt like it would make me unnecessarily stand out (the boys usually dress like they ran out of clean laundry), but I have extra motivation to look good today.

“I thought maybe I could take a quick photo for content.”