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He’s in love with Nevaeh. I get that. How could you not be? But it doesn’t give him the right to mess with me on the track. Formula One isn’t a high school game, and Nevaeh isn’t a trophy he can win.
Before I can stop myself, I’m moving toward where Lincoln is standing with his performance coach. I force a smile even though I’d rather punch this guy’s teeth out than be polite to him.
“Good race?” I say and extend my hand in a peace offering.
He eyes it like I’ve slattered the thing in poison, which I should have considering how big of an asshole he is. I wait another second before retracting it and shaking my head at his immaturity.
“Try not to take me out this time, yeah? Let’s both make it over the finish line without amateur mistakes ending our race, rookie,” I say and watch his eyes grow dark with anger.
“Get the fuck out of my face, Romana,” he practically growls, so I give him several nods, my expression as unimpressed as I feel.
“I know this is your first year driving among the big teams, so I’ll let you in on a little secret. If you want to stay on top, you have to earn it. Earn your seat. If you don’t, they’ll take it away as quickly as they gave it,” I say and step back when he moves toward me.
“Why are you still talking? You’re leading the championship, you got the girl. You don’t have to rub it in,” he says, pointing a finger at my chest as anger consumes him.
“The championship is far from decided,” I grind out, hating that I have to say this. “And Nevaeh isn’t mine, nor is she something to ‘get,’” I add. “Drive with your head, not your heart, and we’ll be good.”
It’s a bad idea to let your emotions control your actions when you’re racing. It’s also hard not to because when you’ve got so much adrenaline pumping through your veins, your emotions spill all over the place without a filter. Some drivers are better at keeping them locked down, like me. Others, Lincoln, haven’t quite figured out how to glue their mouths shut or keep their limbs from moving before thinking.
Don’t get me wrong, passion and emotion are important in F1 too, but there are moments for that and none of them occur when you’re racing down the track, driving three hundred kilometers per hour.
I walk away from Lincoln and to my car, hoping he’ll get a fucking grip on himself so we can start and end the race without an incident like last time.
The scent of hot asphalt fills my nose as I slide the balaclava over my head. Daniel is giving me an unsure look, but I give him a cocky smirk to ease his nerves. Lincoln won’t do anything stupid now. He won’t give me the satisfaction of being exactly who I’ve called him out to be: a rookie.
“Remember, the track is bumpy,” Daniel reminds me as I slip my helmet on.
“I know. My ass is still fucking sore from the last few days,” I joke when in reality, my entire body is sore. It feels like I have bruises all over.
“I know,” Daniel says with a comforting smile.
After making sure I’m in the car with my earpieces working and my gloves on, he leaves me to let my crew work on the car for the last two minutes before the formation lap.
My heart starts racing just like it always does. Burning rubber fills my nostrils, the scent dulled by my helmet, but I still smell it. I let it pump more adrenaline through me. I let it consume me.
When I was younger and found my love for racing, I never thought I’d become so addicted to this feeling. To how alive I’d feel. They have a name for people like me, like everyone on the grid. They call us adrenaline junkies. When your life is at risk every single time you step into the car but you crave the thrill, the excitement, and the weightlessness as you race, it’s hard to argue with that title.
Maybe that’s why being with Nevaeh is so addictive, too. Being with her feels like I’m risking my life in the same way I am when I’m racing. Tying myself to her feels strangely like tying myself to the car, becoming one with it for the goal of reaching a dream that seems impossible.
Winning a championship.
Growing old with someone who loves me and wants to start a family with me.
They’ve started feeling a lot more possible when I changed teams and met Nevaeh.
Velocità Rossa will get me that title.
Nevaeh… will she get me my other dream?
The way I feel about her, I fucking hope so.
“Focus,” Chloe says into my ear when I’ve slowed down during the formation lap a little and Lincoln almost drove into my ass because he wasn’t paying attention.
“It was on purpose, there’s a huge fucking bump there,” I reply, telling the truth. I may have gotten lost in my thoughts, but I know this track inside out. I’ve studied it, before and during the free practice.
“Mhmm,” my grumpy race engineer mumbles into the earpiece, and I almost chuckle.
“Have a good race to you, too,” I say, lining up on the grid and feeling my heart pump nervous energy through me, mixing uncomfortably with the adrenaline.
