Page 64 of Double Apex

Reece demanded to know the next morning why Cosmin never replied, and he claimed he’d been in a game of pub trivia with friends in Milton Keynes until it was too late for a text. He bristled with convincing indignation when he told her he could supply any number of people who would vouch for his presence in the pub.

I advised him to go no-holds-barred shameless flirt all weekend with every ovary-bearing human to throw Reece off our trail.

Out of necessity, Formula Fuckboy is back.

On Thursday, Cosmin told a reporter she looked “delicious.” After Friday practice, he told Francesca—the baker who works in Emerald’s dining room—that her muffins were the best he’d ever put in his mouth, with a rakish wink that made her blush. After Saturday quali, a fan asked Cos to autograph her hand, and he suggested her thigh.

Classic.

The day of the grand prix, the weather is pleasant but overcast at sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Due to an unavoidable gearbox replacement on Cosmin’s car, he’s got a five-place grid penalty and has gone from starting in third to eighth.

Jakob’s in fifth, so Cos is behind him. He was surprisingly sanguine about that fact when I saw him earlier in the garage. The thing that chafes him is João Valle in seventh.

I’m sitting on the pit wall—all seven of us hunched over the monitors with our headsets—and my stomach feels flat against my spine with anxious anticipation as we watch the red lights over the grid flick on in sequence, then fall dark to signal the start.

I never speak to Cosmin in the initial moments of a race while he navigates the chaos of the field, the cars spreading out and finding their early placement.

“Very clean,” Lars murmurs in approval through our channel, scrutinizing the pack as it breaks away.

Seconds later, I see the same thing he does on the monitor—catastrophe striking so quickly I’m only intaking a breath to speak when all hell breaks loose on track.

As Valle blatantly crowds out Cosmin approaching Abbey corner, their wheels make contact. I gasp, the instinctive knowledge hitting me thatthis one is going to be bad. A stuttering cry escapes me.

Cosmin’s car spins and flips, sliding upside down before careening into the gravel and executing another three-sixty-degree barrel roll, launching over the tyre barrier, and coming to rest wedged between it and the catch fencing.

I’m on my feet instantly.

“Cosmin?” My fingers pinch the mouthpiece of my headset hard. “Cosmin, report.”

Silence.

I look over at Klaus, whose lips are compressed into a line.

“Cosmin.Report, please,” I try again, attempting to keep my tone pragmatic.

My gaze is riveted to the monitor where cable-camera footage offers a clearer angle. There’s no way Cosmin can exit the car, and I’m scanning for signs of impending fire. It feels like I’ve spent a lifetime waiting to hear his reply, though it’s been only seconds.

The FIA medical car is already on track, speeding to evaluate the situation. João Valle continued unscathed, and a vicious part of me wishes for that inept moron’s car to vaporize. How fuckingdarehe keep driving?

“Cos? Babe, I need you to answer me. Please? Oh, God…”

Shit. Did I actually say that into the radio, or just in my head?

Moments later, the race is red-flagged.

I don’t realize my face is running tears until Klaus turnsmy shoulders away from a nearby cameraman, who’s so close he might as well be X-raying my teeth. Klaus waves the man off with a scowl.

What the hell am I doing? “Race Engineer Crying” will be the next viral F1 meme for sure, with amusing things photoshopped onto the monitor—I know how this shit works. I wish I could care, but all I want is to hear Cosmin’s voice.

“Klaus,” I falter.

“He’s protected by the halo and roll hoop—you know this, Schatzi,” he tells me sternly. “Pull yourself together.”

“Why isn’t he answering?” My voice is strangled with panic.

“Likely because he is unconscious.”

“Or—”

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