Page 89 of The Fast Track

Two.

One.

Lizzie and I cross the finish line, Cameron nine-tenths of a second behind us. The entire Orbital pit crew hangs over the fence, waving a giant sign:

P1: Kwong

P2: Evans

Team champions

In parc fermé, Sasha makes his feelings known by getting out of his car and kicking his front left tire so hard, I can hear the dullthudover our cheering teammates.

I climb out of Lizzie’s cockpit, my heart still pumping.

Sasha stalks over. “What the hell was that?”

“Helping out a teammate and nabbing the team champion-ship.” I remove my helmet and pull off my balaclava, shaking out my drenched hair. I normally do this well away from people, but Sasha deserves to get smelly postrace sweat sprinkled all over him.

“A teammate? Or your boyfriend?” He narrows his eyes.

My stomach squeezes unpleasantly. “It’s called strategy. Ever heard of it?”

Sasha’s response comes faster than I expect. One second he’s pushing past me with his shoulder, and the next I’m doubled over, my bad eye spasming.

I hiss in pain. Physically elbowing my taped-up eye islower than I thought even Sasha capable of. If I weren’t crumpled on the tarmac in agony, I’d run up behind and shove him, disqualification rules and all.

Which is what Cameron promptly does.

He darts out of nowhere—I hadn’t seen him pull up—and pushes Sasha hard. Sasha stumbles, tripping over Lizzie’s front wing in a long-limbed, flailing heap. There’s a collective gasp from the bystanders—mainly Orbital and Triton team members and a handful of reporters.

“Did you see that?” Sasha yells at the nearest FIA official.

The official, the same youngish-looking guy who had a front-row seat to my Spa disaster, gapes at Sasha. “Erm. Uh. Let me check.”

“Sod off, Devin.” Cameron takes a menacing step toward him. “You practically stabbed her in the eye with your elbow.”

“You still pushed me, didn’t you?” Sasha gestures at the FIA official. “That ought to be a race disqualification.”

I gasp. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Not when it was with good cause.

Cameron pleads his case. “He could’ve seriously hurt her.”

The official hems and haws, scratching the back of his neck and looking like he wished he were anywhere but here.

Ignoring the blinding pain in my eye, I scurry over to join the fray. “Cameron’s right. I already had an injury and Sasha elbowed me on purpose.”

“That was an accident,” Sasha protests, turning to the FIA official with a toothy smile. “I only meant to get pasther. I misjudged the distance, that’s all. We are so dehydrated after these races.”

The FIA official nods in sympathy.

Oh hell no. Sasha is not talking his way out of this.

“Since when did dehydration alter your vision? You clearly mistook my eye for someplace to rest your elbow.”

“You can hardly blame me for missing it. It was slittier than usual.”

Cameron lunges with a guttural growl. I throw myself in front of him and grab his arm, bodily preventing him from throwing a punch. I’ve faced off with Sasha enough to know his game by now. A physical altercation is exactly what he’s gunning for, hoping one—or both—of us will be disqualified and he can glide into the championship slot.