Page 80 of The Fast Track

Heat creeps up my neck. “I just… I want to apologize. For Spa, for everything. It’s like what I texted you, I didn’t mean to—”

“Be a selfish twat?” he says acidly. “Break my heart?”

“I broke your heart?” Even though I know there’s not a chance in the depths of hell we can be anything after all this, it still makes me morbidly happy to know part of him still cares.

He flushes. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just a turn of phrase.”

I swallow. “Well, I’m still sorry I didn’t follow team orders. I was too desperate for my first win—”

“I don’t need a replay, thanks.” He turns away.

“You’ve been there before, though, haven’t you?” I reach out and grab his arm. He doesn’t swat me away like I dreaded he would. “So desperate to prove yourself that you forget about everything else.”

He considers me, working his jaw. “Remember who you’re talking to? My entire racing life has been built on desperately proving myself.” He lets out a long sigh. “That was a shitty move, don’t get me wrong. But fine. I probably would have broken team orders too if it were me.”

I’m making progress, little by little. I gird myself for the harder, scarier part. “And also, what you said aboutThe Weekly Mail—”

“I was mainly mad about the race,” Cameron interrupts, not quite meeting my eyes. “You were already the front-runner for the F2 seat. I knew any shot I had went out the door with Spa.”

“The reason I wanted to hide you, us, wasn’t because—”

“Kwong,” he interrupts again. “I get it. It’s Dietrich Lange, for fuck’s sake. He can do things for you that I’ll never be able to.”

“No, but I—”

“It’s fine. We don’t ever have to talk about that.” He sticks out his hand, like he expects me to shake it and we can go on our merry way.

I know this is the wisest course. To go back to being teammates and pretend nothing ever happened between us. But I can’t forget the look on his face that’s haunted me since Spa. It’s important he knows that, in my eyes, he’s worthy. That I don’t care that he can’t boost my profile or open any doors, because what matters isn’t where you start, but where you go.

“It’s not like that at all,” I say.

“Then what is it like?”

My face warms under his stare. Blood rushes to my ears as I try to come up with the right words.

“Hello. Welcome back.” Dietrich chooses that moment to materialize behind the entrance turnstile. I’m glad he’s smiling at me again, blue eyes sparkling, but this is the literal worst possible timing.

“Like I said, no hard feelings.” Cameron grabs my hand and shakes it briskly, as polite and impersonal as if I were any old billionaire in the paddock hospitality suite. “I’ll see you around.” He gives Dietrich a curt nod, then passes the turnstile and strides into the bowels of the building without another look back.

“You have made up with Cameron?” Dietrich asks, swiping his badge to buzz me in. This is technically against the rules, but Carolina doesn’t say anything, because—of course—it’s Dietrich.

“Kind of.” I shrug weakly.

“Don’t worry, it will be okay. Everyone gets into scraps with their teammate. It will take a little bit of time, but he will forgive you in the end.”

I chuckle morosely. Now’s not the time to bring Dietrich up to speed on this particular mess.

He walks with me through the white stone halls until we get to the team principal offices. Frank’s is next to Otto Warner’s, with floor-to-ceiling frosted windows and a sign with his name printed on the door. His blurry shape moves inside.

“Good luck,” Dietrich says, clapping me on the shoulder.

I steel myself, then turn the knob.

Frank’s sitting at his desk, his chair tilted back as he watches a replay of yesterday’s race.

“Justine?” He hits pause.

“Hi.” I take two steps into the room.