Page 38 of Speed Crush

Marco chuckles in my ear. “Yeah, and he’s already asked for two tweaks. Throttle feedback feels a half-percent light, and the lateral force calibration could use a nudge.”

I nod, fingers flying over the console. “Copy that. I’ll shift the brake modulation and tighten the rear slip curve.”

Marco whistles. “You’re gonna make the next kid feel like they’re driving Spa in the rain.”

“Good,” I say. “Because if they’re going to dream about this—reallywantit—they should feel how unforgiving it actually is.”

Dante steps into the sim room, calm and controlled. He moves like a man built from a thousand hours of track strategy and finish-line pressure—silent, sharp, and exactly on time.

His gaze shifts toward the setup. "Think we’re ready for the demo run in front of the kids and press?"

I nod. "Let’s lock it up, if you and Marco are happy with the responsiveness now."

"Feels tight. Like it should. Marco dialed it in."

As we hang up on Marco, Dante and I both look at the sim machine—silent and waiting. There’s a weight to it now. Potential, just hanging in the air.

I lower my voice. "Hey, I meant what I said before. There’s a kid in this camp—Mikey Torres. Quiet, sharp hands. I want you to watch him on the kart track later. If he holds his line, I’ll put him on the sim myself."

Dante raises a brow. "Kart to sim’s a jump. Braking zones, G-force shifts, muscle memory—it’s not arcade level."

"Exactly," I say. "Let’s see if he can rise to it. If this place is going to mean something, let’s start with the kid who has no idea how close he is to being great."

Dante must still be between time zones when he asks, “How many hours before the media event?”

I glance at the clock. “Three hours. You’ve got time to crash at my loft if you want.”

His mouth ticks up. Barely. “Booked a suite downtown.”

“Don’t worry,” he adds smoothly. “I’ll be well rested.”

He scans the sim rig one more time, then shoots me a look.

“Try not to show off too much in front of the cameras,” he says. “Take it easy. No pressure at all.”

I smirk, fingers already flying across the console. “I only crash when I’m bored.”

But the truth is—I haven’t been bored since I met June.

Frustrated, confused, turned on beyond reason—sure.

But bored?

Not even close.

She’s thrown me into a tailspin I can’t seem to recover from.

Three hours later.

The conference room’s packed—every chair filled, standing room tight. Sleek lighting, branded banners, auto journalists shoulder to shoulder with locals and council members. But right now, they’re watching me race—except they don’t know it yet.

On screen, they’re watching a driver tear down an unfamiliar track—fast, precise, ruthless. Full sound. Vibration. The simulated cockpit rattles with every shift, every swerve, every near-miss. Smoke effects curl at the edges of the rig as if the tires are burning rubber, and the engine roars like it’s alive.

A few reporters are leaning in, murmuring. Someone asks if this is a broadcast, or a feed from a real lap. Another voice—half-curious, half-stunned—says, “Could this be Team Fagioli’s Noah Verelli? Where the hell is he racing from?”

Then the lap ends. The virtual finish flashes. The cockpit powers down.

And I walk out through the side door of the conference room, helmet under my arm, and my gear clinging to me with sweat and adrenaline.

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