Page 79 of The Fast Track

“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Thanks for answering.”

“And?”

“I’m really, really sorry,” I say, getting ready to launch intoa word-for-word of the heartfelt apology I already texted. How I royally messed everything up, how I didn’t mean to get him splashed all over the tabloids, how he was right—soright—about my dumb mistake.

Dietrich cuts me off with a sigh. “I think I understand. It’s very foolish, but I can understand.”

Relief washes over me.

“So. What else? You didn’t ring me just to apologize, I assume.”

“I need your help getting into the OTC.”

“You want to come back.” Dietrich states it like a fact, not a question. I can hear a small smile in his voice.

“How do you know?”

“From everything I know about you. It’s what you would do.”

I grin in spite of myself. He’s not wrong. “What do you think my chances are?”

“Did you watch Zandvoort?”

“Nope.” I’ve been staying away from F1 and all things related to minimize the pain. I turned off my ESPN alerts, deleted the F1 TV app, asked Mom not to play the F3 broadcast on our TV yesterday even though she was dying of curiosity.

“Your reserve was terrible,” Dietrich says. “Zero points, when Orbital had the fastest setup. If he drives the next race, Triton will certainly walk away with the team championship.”

“Really?” I knew Georgios wasn’t the most dexterousdriver, but I didn’t know he was at shit-the-bed-so-badly-an-F1-driver-notices levels of incompetence.

“With how he has performed, I think they’d rather have a points haul with a public image complication.”

Hope bubbles up within me. Maybe it’s not as much of a Hail Mary as I thought. “So… can you come get me? I’m in the lobby.”

“This moment?”

“Frank’s been ignoring my calls. It’s the only way I could think of to make him talk to me.”

“I’m in the engineering lab. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I hang up, a small ray of optimism twirling in my chest. Maybe if Dietrich has forgiven me, Frank will also find it in his heart to let me off and convince the higher-ups at Orbital to give me another shot.

“Kwong?”

I whirl around.

Cameron looks gorgeous as always, even in a casual team hoodie and jeans. “What are you doing here?”

It’s not the friendliest greeting, but it also isn’t overtly hostile. I’ll take what I can get. “I’m trying to see Frank.” Because I know what he’s thinking, I say it. “I’ve come crawling back.”

“Good luck with that.” He starts for the turnstiles.

I weigh my pride and my desperation and opt for the latter. Not like I’ll have much of the former left after I’m done begging Frank anyway.

“Cameron, wait!”

Carolina looks up from her phone, grim curiosity all over her face.

“What?” He turns around, and we’re nose-to-nose again, just like old times.