Page 11 of Speed Crush

Not with someone who doesn’t stay.

Not with someone who leaves with only streaks of rubber and smoke to show.

But my body?

My body’s still standing in that garage.

And she wants another lap.

Chapter 3

Main Street Defense

Noah

It’sbeentwodayssince I kissed a girl in the Mega Max garage bay and got shoved off like a bad idea.

Now it’s 9 a.m., and I’m standing in front of a custom-built podium styled like a winner’s circle, waving to a crowd of small-town locals, and national cameras. This Grand Opening isn’t just the town's’ biggest event—it’s their shot at giving this quaint, quiet town a permanent place in the racing world.

Cedar Falls, population adorable, has apparently adopted me.

I see many folks wearing Verelli merchandise—caps, shirts, even a couple of custom jerseys. Mrs. Henderson—a sharp-eyed senior with a cane that looks like it could double as a weapon—already offered to find me a nice local girl.

Even Mayor Roy Lewis gave me a mug that says I Brake for Pie.

This is the opposite of Monaco, and weirdly, I don’t hate it.

Levi claps me on the back. “Try not to let all this adoration go to your head, Romeo.”

I smirk. “Too late.”

He launches into full tour-guide mode. “Alright, come meet some of the folks who helped make all this happen. First, my parents..."

I get a surprisingly tight hug from Levi’s dad, Robert Johansen. “So glad you agreed to come, son,” Robert beams. “Big day for Cedar Falls. We’ve all put a lot into this place.”

I smile warmly at him. Then I give Levi's mom a peck on the cheek. Nancy, pretending to be stern, appraises me like she’s still in her courtroom days. “Try not to break anything.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Next is Mayor Roy, still grinning like I’m the second coming of Mario Andretti.

Then Levi introduce me to Amy Bello, the physical therapist with a megawatt smile and a voice that could melt steel.

“Noah Verelli,” she purrs, drawing out every syllable like it’s chocolate. “You’re way better looking in person. That jawline should come with a warning label.”

I laugh. “And you come with a license to flirt?”

“I come with a doctorate in human anatomy,” she says, stepping closer, eyes gleaming. “So technically, I’m professionally qualified to admire you. Thoroughly.”

Levi coughs beside me. Loudly.

Amy doesn’t flinch. “We should get coffee sometime. Purely for orthopedic research.”

Then, I feel Dante Fagioli—owner of Fagioli Motorsports and my team principal—step between us. Charcoal suit, sharp jaw, salt-and-pepper hair, and a glare that could stop a traffic. I know that look—he’s in his protective mode. He steps in whenever an enthusiastic fan gets a little too familiar with one of his drivers. Before flirty turns into gossip, and gossip turns into headlines. He shuts them down fast. Clean. No distractions.

“Noah,” he says, voice low, commanding. “You need to go over the media run-of-show.”

Amy straightens, caught off guard but not backing down.

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