Page 90 of The Fast Track

“There’s got to be punishment for attempted violence,” Sasha says to the FIA official.

“Did you hear what he said?” I demand.

Outside the ringed-off area, there’s a confused buzzing that grows louder. The official types rapidly on his phone. “Erm. Ah. Hold on, I’m texting race control.”

“What kind of an example are we setting by allowing such unsportsmanlike behavior to go unpunished?” Sasha drawls.

“He used a racial slur,” I snarl.

“That wasn’t a slur; it was a factual descriptive.”

I have to hold Cameron back again. Sasha crosses his arms, looking amused. Part of me wants to say “Screw it”and let Cameron at him. But the coolheaded, smart part of my brain is somehow keeping the cavewoman at bay. Letting Cameron wipe the smirk—and possibly a couple of teeth—off Sasha’s face with his fist would feel better than digging into a pint of Oreo ice cream after a hard workout, but the delight for both of us would be even shorter-lived if he gets disqualified.

The FIA official breathes easier when he receives a ping on his phone. “No race penalty for either party, though they will be reviewing for Super Licence infringements. So, er, I’m told you should all make your way to the cooldown room.” He takes a giant step back but hovers, like he doesn’t trust us not to throw hands on international TV when left unchaperoned.

Sasha gives me a furious glare, then stomps off in the direction of the podium, the vein in his neck bulging.

Cameron stares after Sasha, a look of disgust on his face. “What an arse.” He clenches and unclenches his jaw. “Sorry I didn’t get to punch him for you.”

“I’m sure Frank would rather keep the points,” I say, a small smile on my face. Cameron’s anger and indignation doesn’t make up for Sasha sashaying off consequence-free, but it does kindle a small spark of warmth in my chest.

“I can’t believe this is the kind of crap you have to put up with.” He looks down at me, brow furrowed.

“Thanks, Cameron.” As Roz would say, another one converted to the dark side.

There’s a ripple in the crowd. Dietrich, his arm aroundHannie, making his way into parc fermé to watch the ceremony with the team. He stops next to Roz and Lou Wilson. As if she knows where my mind is drifting, Roz looks right at me with a pointed stare.

My heart beats faster. It’s the end of the season. Who knows where we’ll both end up next year? There are a million trillion reasons why it won’t work. But there’s so many more reasons I want to try. I can’tnottry.

“Cameron,” I say.

He looks at me, eyebrow raised. Behind him, fans are flocking into the public viewing space for the ceremony.

I barge on before I lose my courage. “I really, really like you. Dietrich is an amazing mentor and a great friend, but that’s all he is. I-I’ve been battling my feelings for you all season, because who needs to fall for someone that can push them off—you know what I’m saying?” Cameron’s staring wordlessly, so I elaborate. “But I’m done with that. For good.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he says in a strained voice.

My heart sinks. Maybe bringing up testing wasn’t the brightest of ideas. This is truly the end, then, if you can call it an end when we didn’t have a chance to begin. Thank goodness the chance of us winding up on the same team next year is minuscule—it’ll at least save the awkwardness of dodging each other in the garage. The thought doesn’t comfort me as much as I wish it would.

“I’m sorry. I promise I won’t act weird or anything next year.”

He lowers his head and his shoulders tremble. At first, I think he’s crying. Which kind of makes sense, because he’s just won the Drivers’ Championship and it’s not a surprising reaction to cry, even if it’s kind of delayed.

A second later, I realize he’s shaking with laughter, tears of mirth seeping out of his eyes. “You,” he says, leaning in and pressing his forehead against mine, “really know how to pick your moments.”

Then he kisses me.

Acting on pure instinct, I stand on tiptoe and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He releases a delighted sigh against my lips, one hand dropping to the dip in my waist, the other moving to cradle the back of my head.

There’s a loud cough behind us. Frank, face redder than the time he caught us fighting during media boot camp seventy-two hours after he told us to figure out a way to get along. “Bloody hell.”

Behind him, the crowd is crickets silent. Someone—Pat, maybe?—lets out a whistle and claps. It spreads, growing in speed and volume, until everyone in parc fermé is cheering at the top of their lungs and the grandstands join in too. I can hear Roz shouting, “Get it, girl!”

“Sorry, Frank, couldn’t help it,” Cameron murmurs. His eyes are dazed, half lidded as he tilts away from me. I fight the urge to pull him back, even if Frank is two feet away.

“It’s not against the rules or anything, right?” The morning after we first kissed, I read the FIA rule book front to endthree times to check, but it never hurts to be extra careful.

“Thankfully not. Can’t deal with another interpersonal fire drill. Though whoever wrote it probably never thought to cover this.” He shakes his head, a wry grin on his face. “I reckon they’ll have to put in some clarifying language now that we’re going to have more girls in the sport.”