Page 64 of Racing Hearts
Chapter Thirty
Georgia
On the Monaco Grand Prix Sunday, my arrival at the paddock was truly madness. Fans flooded the streets, pressed up against barricades, shouting, cheering, and waving flags in every direction.
“Wow, Monaco really does show up for a race, huh?” Luca laughed. To be fair, I was shocked at the number of Valkyrie flags waving in the wind. Surrounded by a countless sea of blue, I was touched by the strong turnout for both me and Valkyrie.
“Morning, G!” Mel greeted. “Ready for the race? I know we’re starting second today, but I have a good feeling about this.”
A feeling I didn’t remotely share.
Starting second in Monaco felt more like a death sentence.
I hopped into the cockpit of my car, settling into the tight space as I checked my water and radio. After yesterday’s tense qualifying session, Henri just managed to squeak out pole, leaving me starting second. Overtaking was damn near impossible on this track, and the fact that the only person who intimately knew this track as well as I did was starting in P1 made my heart sink into my stomach.
Mel leaned over the halo, grinning down at me. “Let’s show these boys how Monaco is won.”
This was the tenth time I’d sat in my car this season, but there was something different about this moment. It was almost dreamlike, as if I were watching it all unfold from outside of my body.
As the formation lap ticked down and I pulled into my grid slot, my eyes locked on the lights above. My pulse quickened, each light igniting in sequence until they all vanished.
I launched off the line, holding tight behind Henri as we darted into the first corner. The buildings blurred around us as we weaved through the tight twists and hairpins of our childhood city. He had the edge, but I stayed close. Henri might have started this race pole, but unlike my brother, I had something special: a woman-run team with a point to prove. Monaco wasn’t about raw speed. It was about strategy. Pit stops. Timing. Precision.
Half the race flew by, and Henri was still leading. My only real chance was in the pits. If I could nail my stop, I might leapfrog him.
But when I dove in for fresh tires, the left rear stuck.
Three seconds went by. An eternity.
“Fuck. What happened?” I snapped into the radio.
The response came, frustratingly calm. “Just keep driving. We’ll make up the time.”
Just keep driving? What else was I going to do?
“We’ll need a fucking miracle,” I bit back. Mel proceeded to respond to me, but I ignored her.
Lap after lap ticked by. Fifty. Fifty-one. Hope started to dwindle.
And then, on lap fifty-two, Henri dove into the pits for softs. But Hermes flubbed the stop. A fumbled tire gun.
Henri came out behind me in P2.
Suddenly, I was leading.
Narrowing my focus, I cruised through the next several laps with unnerving precision, driving within millimeters of the barriers. This was my race to lose and nomanwas going to take it from me.
Eight laps to go. Then six. Then two.
The car hissed as I turned into my last lap.
“Mel. Noise. Why?”
“Debris stuck in the floor,” Mel confirmed.
“Fuck. What do I do?”
There was a pause. “Remember when we went to that stupid fair in Paris?”
