Page 73 of The Fast Track

It all blew up in my face, and I have no one to blame but myself.

“Let’s break this up.” A meaty hand settles on my shoulder. Frank. “Justine, my office. Cam, walk it off—privately, please. Let’s not air any feelings in the paddock. Plenty of that floating around already.”

Cameron turns and stalks away.

I follow Frank, my stomach dropping with every step. Clearly it didn’t take long for the article to do the rounds. Mechanics and other support staff shift their eyes away like my disgrace will rub off on them while paddock journalists stare hungrily like sharks on the scent of blood.

I enter our F3 motor home, turning into Frank’s office on the right.

He shuts the door behind us. “I got a call from Lou Wilson a minute ago.”

My stomach turns. Please, let it all just be a coincidence. Let Lou be calling about anything else.

Frank clears his throat. “I’ll get to the point: The decision has been made to terminate your contract early.”

His words knock the breath out of me. This can’t be happening. Not now, not after everything I’ve put in. Not when I’m so close. I’m a race winner now, an accomplishment only a handful of my peers can claim. Whatever damage done via tabloid fodder doesn’t merit a firing.

“But there are only two races left,” I say when I finally have air flowing through my lungs again.

Frank massages his temple. “If you ask me, I personally would’ve stayed the course… but there’s a view that the reputational damage Orbital has suffered, could suffer, is too large of a risk to keep going.”

“Reputational damage?” I glare. “It was a tabloid article. Everyone knows they’re bullshit.”

“There’s limited tolerance for Orbital’s name being associated with such behavior, no matter how scurrilous the source.” Frank looks as exhausted as I feel. “Orbital can’t be seen to condone underage drinking, not to mention the colorful personal life and poor sportsmanship on display today. We expect our drivers to be role models, on-track and off.”

“You’re joking.” I’m so angry the edge of my vision blurs. The guys were underage drinking for years, but every time they go out too hard and wind up in gossip rags, it’s always dismissed with an indulgentboys will be boyschuckle and a community service project. There was a clip of some soccerplayer arguing with Grayson (for hitting on his girlfriend) making the rounds on social media that the PR team worked overtime to bury.

And sportsmanship. As if I’m the first driver to disobey team orders. Caleb literally walked off the podium in a fit after being edged out of first place in Jeddah, and everyone skated over it by way of “passion.”

Frank’s eyes tell me he agrees, but outwardly he only coughs. “I’m sorry. Our title sponsor feels strongly about this, apparently. They’re trying to make a push in the US and having an underage American driver photographed in a nightclub that sells their product has made them rather upset.”

I narrow my eyes. “Was it the drinking that bothered them? Or the fact that I wasn’t enjoying their drink?”

“It’s not personal, Justine. You know we think the world of you.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” I snap. “If you’re going to fire me, you might as well call it what it is.”

Frank heaves a deep sigh. “HR will be in contact to sort through exit logistics.” Then he scoots around me and scrambles out of the office.

My momentary triumph from Frank running off with his tail between his legs fades away as quickly as his escape. None of this changes the fact that I’m still fired.

That I’m no longer an F3 driver. And no longer on the path to my dreams.

Roz is waiting for me outside.

“Did you see the article?”

I close my eyes and nod once. I don’t trust myself to tell her about what’s transpired without breaking down sobbing.

“They’re awful,” she hisses. “What were the names of those girls Pat invited to the after-party? I bet one of ’em’s the leaker. It’s the randos. It’s always the randos.”

It’s hard to imagine Chloe or Savannah being the leaker. They’ve been nothing but kind since we met. A part of me can’t help being annoyed with Roz for putting the thought in my head, especially when Lou’s bodyguard literally confiscated their phones in front of her.

“What are we going to do?” Roz wails. “This is such a disaster! Uncle Lou is furious. I told him it wasn’t our fault; the tabloids are always taking things out of context and spinning them in the worst light. But he won’t return my voice messages.”

My head hurts thinking about the discussion with Mom I’ll have waiting for me when I get back to the hotel. I’d rather have a repeat of the cooldown-room drama.

“Omigod, d’you think we should callThe Weekly Mail? Demand a retraction?”