Page 6 of The Fast Track

Preseason testing is far from a real race, but after what I overheard at the opening party, I don’t want to give a single inch.

We come up on another turn, a wider curve that allows Lizzie to carry additional speed into the corner. Cameron is already braking, moving slightly wide and leaving a slim gap.

That’s my opportunity. It’s showy, and it makes the statement I’m looking for.

I keep my foot on the throttle until I push past the conservative braking line. Lizzie turns, smooth as a skate through freshly resurfaced ice. Except Cameron, having gone wide, is now turning in. At a rate far, far too fast.

I turn the wheel to adjust my racing line, but it’s too late.

There’s a sickeningcrunchas our cars collide, carbon fiber on carbon fiber. I’m jolted to my right, then left, as Lizzie and I spin away, round and round like an out-of-control teacups ride. We skid off the tarmac and come to a stop in the gravellining the track, the smell of burnt rubber so thick in the air I almost gag.

Quickly, I scan for damage. My wrists can flex; my fingers can wiggle. My left clavicle is burning from the force of the harness strap and I can feel a bruise blooming on my thigh, but other than that, all facilities seem to be intact.

I look around for Cameron. His car is also stranded in the runoff area, sixty feet from Lizzie. He hops out of his cockpit, so clearly no harm done there either.

Thank god. I take a deep, shaky breath. The worst thing a driver can do is get themselves—or another driver—wheeled off on a stretcher.

My legs are rubbery as I push myself up and out, heart jackhammering against my rib cage. Part of me wants to curl up next to Lizzie’s mangled front wing for a second—just until my fingers lose their tremors—but the track marshals sweeping toward me like a Navy SEALs rescue mission remind me I’m still being watched.

And judged.

My stomach plummets. This—crashing Lizzie in front of the entire paddock—is the exact opposite of the impression I needed to make today.

“Kwong!” Cameron’s stomping toward me, gravel crunching with each step. There’s no trace of a smirk, or anything remotely resembling a smile, on his face now. “What the hell? I had the inside line.”

I take another deep breath, forcing oxygen through mybody to calm my rushing nerves. I don’t want to back down or show weakness, especially to Cameron Evans.

“You were wide, so I went for the gap,” I shout back, with more confidence than I feel.

“Two meters isn’t a gap.”

“Maybe to you it isn’t.”

“It shouldn’t be to you, either.” He comes to a stop inches in front of me, glowering down.

Frank gives a piercing whistle that cuts through the air, even from the other side of the circuit. “My office, now.”

I narrow my eyes at Cameron. He gives a disgusted shake of his head before turning and storming toward the exit. I follow him, no hurry to be first this time.

4.

Frank’s office is the secondlargest room in Orbital Racing’s F3 motor home, but Cameron’s hair still brushes up against the ceiling as we shuffle in like herded sheep. The fluorescent lighting makes me feel like I’m standing under a spotlight.

“Please, explain what all that was about.” Frank glares at us, arms folded across his chest. It’s surprisingly intimidating, given most of the time he resembles a teddy bear with overgrown sideburns.

I bite my lip.

Next to me, Cameron fiddles with the zipper on his racing suit.

“Go on, then. I’m waiting to hear why you brains thought causing fifty thousand quid of damage the first minute of testing was a good idea.”

“I was only trying to make my turn,” Cameron says. “Then this one came barreling around the corner like a madwoman with her hair on fire.”

A madwoman? He was the one who left the door wide open, then turned in. There’s no way I’m going to let him pin all the blame on me.

“I was faster,” I protest. “So of course I tried to pass him. But you saw how he drove into me, right?”

“How was I supposed to know you snuck in there?”