Page 5 of Speed Crush

Yeah.

This break might not be so bad after all.

Later that night, restless and wired from too much nostalgia and eggplant, I drive back out. Snow’s lighter now—just flurries spinning under the streetlamps.

Cedar Falls is quiet. The kind of stillness that makes a man’s mind wander.

From the distance, Mega Max is glowing—massive and modern with lights like it’s alive.

The glass-paneled exterior catches the snowflakes like a prism, and through the walls, I can see the faint outlines of ramps and rails, curves, and climbs.

Four tracks. Multiple levels. Like someone took a video game and dropped it into real life.

They must’ve left the lights on in the garage after prep for the Grand Opening.

As I park my rental in front of the behemoth building, I can't help but marvel at its sheer size and modern design.

It’s not just a go-kart facility. It’s going to be a cathedral for speed junkies.

And even after everything I’ve seen on the F1 circuit... this makes my palms itch in the best way.

I tell myself I’m just checking in—getting a feel for the place. But really, I just need to move.

Burn off the twitch in my chest. Find something solid to grip.

I step into the side bay. The heat’s on low, humming through the ducts.

The smell hits first—fresh rubber, warm plastic, and that faint electric charge you only get from high-torque motors and new track polish. Oh, how I missed the new track smell.

I round the corner past a stack of tires—and stop.

There’s sound and movement in the far garage where I see a number of parked karts.

Moaning.

Low. Rhythmic. Obvious. The kind of sound that says they’re not just breaking in the track—they’re christening it.

So, there’s at least one adventurous couple in sweet little Cedar Falls. Good for them.

I was still chuckling when I see her.

She’s crouched behind a kart about thirty feet from me. Hoodie pulled tight, frozen in place like she’s walked in on something she really didn’t mean to see.

And from the way she’s clutching that rag like it might save her soul, she looks like she’s hoping she can teleport out of there.

At first, I think she’s a kid—tiny frame, doesn’t look to be barely up to my shoulder, hidden in the shadows, distracted by the "live" action going on.

Then she shifts, and the hoodie stretches over a silhouette built to tempt. Soft hips. A full chest. Woman, not girl.

Legs tucked neatly beneath her, hips curved. A thick braid slipping forward over one shoulder.

Small frame or not—there’s no mistaking the shape beneath the fabric. And absolutely no chance I’m ignoring it.

I can’t see her face yet. At least, not until she moves again. Just enough for the overhead light to catch her profile.

A flash of cheek, the bow of her full lips, the edge of something delicate, stubborn, and stunning.

And suddenly I want more. Not just a better look—I want to know what she sounds like when she says my name.

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