Page 46 of Speed Crush

Scott chuckles with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to work for anyone’s approval. He runs a hand through his perfect hair—the golden boy move that makes half the women in Cedar Falls swoon. "Wouldn't miss it. You want the disco ball for your classroom again?"

For a moment, the image makes me smile. Our middle school classroom tradition: hanging a mini disco ball that catches the afternoon light just right, giving our kids a reason to grin as they push through those final periods of the day.

I glance at him, eyebrows lifted. “What do you think?”

He chuckles. “Tradition it is.”

Noah doesn't speak.

But he leans back just a bit, arms folded, jaw locked like he's chewing on something that tastes bitter.

Before the air gets any weirder, Tara slides up, her customary clipboard tucked under her arm. “Look at this table. The Camp Dream Team,” she declares, sliding a basket of fries onto the table like it’s the MVP trophy. “Town’s already buzzing.”

“Oh no,” I say, reaching for a fry. “What did we do this time?”

“You mean besides saving lives?” she teases, flicking a glance at Noah. “Simulator’s already the new crown jewel and now, you are the local hero! Mayor’s already trying to decide naming the lobby or the snack bar after you.”

Levi raises his mug. “I vote snack bar.”

Noah grimaces. "Please don't."

Levi grins. “Too late. City’s cutting a promo reel from the camp footage. Looks like both of you officially made the nice list.”

“They meant it as a compliment,” Tara says. “Especially after you yelled at that influencer. Pretty sure half the parents would vote you into Cedar Falls city office right now.”

Noah glances at me with a small shake of his head like “make it stop.” But there’s a smile there too. Small. Real.

Before I can toss in a cute comment, Mrs. Whitmore, owner of Mane Street Bistro arrives with her usual flair, and the attention shifts.

She tops off our drinks, then gives my arm a warm squeeze. “Your usual, June bug.”

Then she turns to Noah with a twinkle in her eye. “Welcome, F1 Champ! It’s quite the honor having you here. In case no one told you—Mane Street Bistro is spelledM-A-N-E, notMain. We’re horse folks around here. And my shop serves hungry-as-a-horse portions and pun-filled menus, bless our hearts.”

Noah chuckles. “That explains the ‘stallion-sized soda’.”

She beams at him and then pats my shoulder. “Did you know, this young lady here—" she jerks her chin at me, "—pie-eating champ, three years running. Fastest fork in the county.”

"Ma’am!" I groan. "He doesn't need to know my childhoodachievements."

"Actually, I think I do," Noah says, leaning forward with interest.

"She's being modest," Mrs. Whitmore continues as if I hadn't spoken. "This one rebuilt my grandson's entire transmission when she was fifteen. Fifteen! Mack taught her well."

I feel my cheeks heat. "It was just a simple—"

"She's always been special," Mrs. Whitmore finishes, patting my hand before moving to the next table.

Noah watches this exchange with fascination. "June bug, huh?"

"Call me that again and die, Verelli."

I grab another fry, dunk it in ketchup like it's a distraction and not a defense mechanism.

“Noah’s officially corrupted the camp youth,” I mutter, like I’m ratting him out.

"The kids are obsessed with him, for sure!" Scott chimes in—and for once, not syncing with our best-friend wavelength. "I saw a seventh grader write 'Verelli 4Ever' in tire marker on her backpack."

"He's good with them," I admit, and it's not sarcastic this time. "Explained complex tech like it was nothing. Even made downforce sound sexy."

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