Page 94 of Speed Crush

Two days later, we are at the Centennial Airport. Noah's taking a private jet to Singapore for the opening race prep. I’ve still got two more months of lesson plans and hormonal preteens to wrangle.

But something’s different this time.

This goodbye doesn’t feel like the others. It’s not heavy. It’s not hollow.

He kisses me once. Then again. And then once more, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me before boarding.

“You’ll come soon,” he says.

“Yes. Sooner than you think,” I tease, brushing my fingers down the front of his jacket. “I can't wait to see you under the lights—sweaty and smug, tearing up that Singapore night track with a podium finish!”

“That's the plan, love. So, see you at Spring break then?”

I nod. “I’ll be there at the finish line.”

He smiles, slings his bag over his shoulder, and gives me one last wink before walking toward the plane.

I wave and stand, watching the plane taxi toward the runway until it disappears beyond the hangars, swallowed by sky and distance.

And I don’t cry.

Because this time, I’m not staying behind.

This time, I’ll be catching up.

Chapter 17

Breaking Ground

Noah

Lap61.Finallap.Singapore night race.

I downshift into Turn 18 and take it tight, close enough to kiss the wall. The car skims clean, and I’m already prepping for the corner after.

My hands are steady, heart a hammer in my chest. Sweat’s running down my back, sticking my fireproofs to my spine. I’m soaked and locked in—and loving every breathless second of it.

My engineer’s voice crackles in my ear, calm but urgent. “Gap to first: one-point-eight. Tire temp holding. Fuel’s clean. Eyes up, Verelli—bring her home.”

I blink once. Breathe. Then shift again.

Turn 19 punches toward me and I take it fast, a brushstroke of control and chaos.

This circuit is brutal—hot, slick, and unforgiving—but I eat it alive. The Marina Bay lights blur past in a silver-yellow haze, but I don't blink. Not now. Not this close.

She’s watching.

June.

I can feel her near the pit wall. Even through layers of carbon fiber and chaos, I feel her like a pull in my chest. My Songbird, under the lights. Mouth probably parted in concentration. Eyes locked on my car like she knows every heartbeat that’s going into these corners.

She said she couldn’t wait to see me tear it up under the lights. So I am. For her.

I’m still chasing every inch, pedal to the floor, hunting the ghost of first place like it still might crack under pressure.

But tonight? It’s not just about the top step on the podium. It’s about proving I’m that guy—fast, ruthless, relentless. And earning the right to climb that barrier, pull June into my arms, and kiss her like I already won.

Turn 21. Clean. Downshift. Straight. Brake.

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