Page 66 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

Lap after lap, I push the limits of man and machine, dancing on the edge of control. The Albert Park circuit becomes a blur of asphalt and adrenaline, each corner a battle, each straight a test of nerve.

“Halfway point, Cole,” Lola’s voice crackles in my ear. “P1, but Verstappen’s closing. Two seconds back.”

I grunt an acknowledgment, too focused to form words. Sweat stings my eyes as I brake hard into turn three, feeling the back end wiggle dangerously, the tires losing their grip on the warming asphalt.

“Easy on the throttle,” Lola cautions, her voice calm but firm. “Track temp’s dropping. Rain in five.”

As if on cue, I feel the first few drops hit my visor. Shit. This is about to get interesting.

Suddenly, the car lurches. A violent shudder runs through the chassis, the steering wheel fighting against my grip.

“Lola,” I growl, wrestling the car through turn five, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Something’s wrong.”

“Telemetry’s showing a drop in hydraulic pressure.” Her voice is tense, professional, but I hear the underlying worry, the fear that mirrors my own. “Left rear. Can you keep it on the track?”

The car fishtails as I hit a slick patch, my heart leaping into my throat. For a terrifying moment, I’m a passenger, the world spinning in a blur of gray sky and advertising hoardings.

“Cole!” Lola’s shout cuts through the roar of engines and the screech of tires.

I fight the wheel, muscles straining as I bring the car back under control. Barely.

“I’m good,” I pant, adrenaline surging through me, masking the tremor in my hands. “But not for long. This bitch is trying to kill me.”

“Box now,” Lola commands, her voice sharp, urgent. “We need to?—”

Her words cut off as the car lurches again. This time, I can’t save it. The left rear locks up, sending me spinning across the track. Gravel sprays as I hit the runoff area, the world a sickening kaleidoscope of motion.

I brace for impact, waiting for the crunch of carbon fiber against unforgiving barriers, but it never comes. The car slides to a stop mere inches from the wall, the engine sputtering into silence.

For a moment, all I can hear is my own ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart.

“Cole!” Lola’s voice is frantic in my ear. “Cole, talk to me! Are you okay?”

I take a shaky breath, my hands trembling on the wheel. “Yeah,” I manage, my voice hoarse with adrenaline. “Yeah, I’m okay. Car’s done, though.”

As the marshals approach, flags waving, I can’t help but laugh. A bitter, hollow sound.

So much for flying, huh?

But as I climb out of the wreckage, I catch sight of Lola in the pits, her face filled with relief so palpable it makes my chest feeltight. It’s a sensation that has nothing to do with the near-death experience I just endured.

As I trudge back to the pits, the roar of the remaining cars a constant reminder of what could have been, I brace myself for the fallout. The team will be pissed. Sponsors will be asking questions. And Chad? He’ll be gloating, no doubt.

But all of that fades when I see Lola waiting for me, her face a storm of emotions.

“What the hell happened?” she hisses, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the garage, her grip surprisingly strong. “You could have been killed!”

I blink, thrown off by her intensity and the raw fear in her voice.

“Hey,” I say softly, reaching for her, needing to touch her, to chase away the shadows I see in her eyes. “I’m okay. It’s just a DNF. We’ll come back stronger next race.”

She whirls on me, her emerald eyes flashing with an anger that’s more terrifying than any crash. “This isn’t about race standings, Cole. This is about?—”

She cuts herself off, turning away, her shoulders slumping. But not before I catch the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes.

Fuck.

Lola takes a shaky breath, composing herself. Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifting. When she turns back around to face me, her professional mask is firmly back in place. But I can see the cracks now, the vulnerability shimmering beneath the surface.

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