Page 83 of Speed Crush

I stiffen. My jaw tightens before I can stop it. There’s something about the way he says it—like she doesn’t have the right to speak up. Like she’s stepping into a conversation she doesn’t belong in.

And I want to grab him by the collar and say, "That woman grew up elbow-deep in custom builds in her dad’s shop. She’s logged more hands-on hours with tricky systems than most rookies in here. Shut up and listen."

But June doesn’t flinch. "Check the throttle return spring. If it’s binding even slightly, it’ll cause drag on reapplication. It might be mechanical."

There’s a pause. One of the lead mechanics, Raf, steps in. Peers over the assembly, then crouches down and runs a quick check—fingers brushing the hot housing, eyes narrowing with focus. He flicks the connection gently, watches the response on the monitor, and nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s got a catch. Didn’t feel it until just now. She’s right.”

June blushes, a little cautious at Raf’s acknowledgement but not uncertain. “I’m no expert on hybrid systems like these,” she says, her voice steady, “but I grew up working in my dad’s custom auto shop. I’ve seen custom builds where throttle lag came from shifted spring tension—not obvious until you dig in deep. It reminded me of that. So I thought it was worth a check, just in case.”

No one laughs. No one brushes her off. Raf gives her a nod of real respect.

Zach mutters, “Noted,” and starts unbolting the housing.

June glances up, catching my eye across the garage. Just a flick of her gaze, but it hits me straight in the chest. I give her a small nod—steady, proud. She presses her lips together, then smiles. Not big. But enough. Like she’s saying, I saw you watching. And thanks for believing in me.

Later, after debriefing my second set of performance runs with the race engineers, I notice the team starting to swarm around the MGU-K diagnostics for my car.

A red flag flashes on the screen, and the tension is sharp in the garage.

Something’s wrong, so I stay within earshot, close enough to track the conversation and offer input if they ask. This part belongs to the engineers. I stay quiet and let them do what they do best.

One of the systems engineers mutters, "Voltage spikes again. We’ve already replaced the inverter twice—but I’m starting to think it’s not the inverter. The voltage profile suggests a deeper fault—maybe harness degradation or an oscillation frequency mismatch."

Zach also hovers nearby, eyes fixed on the telemetry, trying to make sense of it.

Raf rubs his temple. “We don’t have time for another teardown—not if we’re short on spares and new test components might not get here before this window closes. And the telemetry data stream’s too noisy. These spikes aren’t correlating cleanly with load distribution.”

June steps forward, calm and precise. “Mind if I take a look?”

She slides on gloves, crouches low beside the ERS bay near the MGU-K wiring harness, and peels back the insulation with steady fingers. The telemetry monitors pulse blue across the wall, the low whir of servers filling the space around her. The acrid scent of hot electrics clings faintly in the air. Her brow furrows.

“This connection seems improperly insulated. It’s vibrating under stress—causing signal interference. That might be why your voltage readings are inconsistent.”

Raf steps in beside her but doesn’t touch anything right away. Zach shifts beside him, eyes flicking to the new data overlay while Raf pulls up the diagnostic stream, studying the telemetry June flagged.

A minute passes. He cross-checks the voltage logs, then taps into the signal timing overlay. His expression shifts.

“She’s right,” he mutters finally. “Telemetry confirms the spike pattern lines up with vibration intervals. It’s that connection. Good catch, Ms. Kennedy.”

I can’t stop watching her. The way she crouches, focused and unfazed, sleeves pushed up and jaw tight—it does something to me. And when she tugs off her gloves with one quick flick and turns to smile at Raf, I swear my pulse spikes like we just hit DRS.

But she doesn’t gloat. Just says, “I would suggest reinsulating the joint with non-conductive Kevlar tape—durable under heat, good at damping vibration—and recalibrate the ERS recovery curve by point-two. That should stabilize output under dynamic load.”

From behind the engineers, Dante’s voice suddenly rings out—startling enough that a few heads turn. “Document the fix and escalate to systems compliance.”

He takes a slow step forward and glances over at me—just a flick of his eyes, unreadable to anyone else, but I catch it. The kind of look that says he’s surprised. Impressed. And maybe even a little bit stunned she pulled it off like that, in front of his entire team.

I don’t miss the way the others nod. The way they actually look at June now—not as my girlfriend, but as someone who belongs here. Who just schooled them all in the middle of a live test run.

It hits me hard. That fierce rush of pride crashing into something deeper. She's not just impressive—she’s the kind of woman who walks into a high-stakes F1 garage and earns respect without grandstanding.

Just her brain, her calm, and her sleeves rolled up. I want to walk over, tuck her under my arm, and kiss her like a man who knows what he's got. But this is her moment.

Raf gives her a look that’s half admiration, half awe. “Hell of a call.”

June beams, cheeks flushed. “Honestly? That felt amazing. I actually helped.”

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