Page 85 of The Fast Track

A trolley carrying wooden crates emblazoned with McLaren logos comes at us and we separate, rejoining each other’s sides again after it passes.

“So… does that… mean… you’re gonna… be… a thing?”

I bark out a bitter laugh. “?‘Smoothed over’ as in he’s not going to drive into me on Turn 1. We didn’t get a chance to talk about the other… stuff. It’s probably for the better. Dating a teammate is just too messy.” Even if it breaks my heart.

We round the corner, swinging around the red Marino F1 motor home.

“Wait…” Roz stops, heaving and slumping over her knees. “I just want to say… you don’t… have to give up… your love life… for racing.”

“I already tried that. Look where it got me.”

“Dietrich… can date… whomever… he wants…”

“The rules are different for him. You know that.”

“Yeah, but… doesn’t mean… you shouldn’t… try… are we all… supposed… to just… lie down?” Roz gasps. “Actually… I might do that… right now.”

I grab her hand, preventing her from collapsing. “Oh no you don’t. Save the debate for when you can breathe.” It also conveniently prevents me from having to revisit hopes and desires I know are a bad idea.

Half leaning on me, she starts hobbling, then braves a jog again.

“Come on, you got this!” I run half a step in front of her.

The row of F3 pop-up garages appear in the distance, brightly colored tent flaps fluttering in the breeze.

“Final push!” I turn my head and call back to Roz, who’s now trailing me by more than a few feet, cheeks pink with exertion.

Her eyes widen. “Watch out!”

I whirl around. Mateo Bianchi, Scuderia Marino’s CEO.Canal+journalist. And, mere inches in front of me, two cameramen wheeling a twenty-foot steel tower directly into my path.

I try to tack, but the camera tower is too wide and my hand-eye reflexes, as it turns out, are a lot quicker than my actual physical body’s.

A piercing pain, a flash of white, and the entire left side of my face goes numb.

“Bloody hell.” Frank jumps when I step into the Orbital F3 garage.

Thirteen heads swivel in my direction. Roz leads me in by the right elbow while my left hand holds a bag of ice—hastily provided by Marino catering—to my eye.

I don’t know what’s more humiliating, limping late into the middle of the team prerace pep talk with the mother of all bruises or literally running into the middle of a MateoBianchi interview. All on my first weekend back.

“Our breakfast strategy session went long.” Roz gives a weak smile. “And we were running to get here…”

“Are you okay? Someone call the medic.” Cameron pushes his way to my side and turns my cheek gently toward him. I shift my ice bag and peek at him through my puffy left eye.

I melt a little at the concern in his voice, my skin tingly where his fingertips brush my face. “I’m fine. It was just a camera tower.”

“Holy cow,” Pat says. “That’s a hell of a shiner.”

“Can you still race?” Georgios asks, a hopeful tone creeping into his voice.

I clench my fists. I am not going to be sidelined for the last race of the season—my last shot to redeem myself—because of a little swelling. Especially not after what Liam Granville wrote.

“Perfectly fine,” I declare, and rip the ice bag away to make a point.

Everyone flinches.

“What, you guys have never seen a little bruising before?” I bluster.