Page 37 of Overtake
For the next twenty minutes, we work purely on technique. No cameras, no PR, and no politics. We’re just teaching young drivers how to handle the scary moments and work with their karts instead of fighting them. Nico demonstrates left-hand turns while I show the right-handers. And in all the focus on instruction, my irritation with him fades.
It’s not until we’re wrapping up that I realize we’ve been working in perfect sync, anticipating each other’s demonstrations and building on each other’s explanations. Like we’ve been teaching together for years instead of two hours.
Bollocks.
The kids gather their gear and file out with their parents and instructors, chattering about racing lines and oversteer. Thomas now wears his crash like a badge of honor, but Lena lingers, clutching her helmet.
“Miss Hayter? Would you sign my helmet?” She thrusts a Sharpie forward. “Please?”
“I would be honored.” I do, adding a small message about being tenacious. Her grin could power the circuit’s floodlights.
“You too, Mr. Belmonte?” She turns to Nico, suddenly shy again.
“Absolutamente.” He signs next to my message, writing something in Spanish that makes her laugh. How did he even know the girl spoke Spanish?
Graham’s crew starts packing up, and thank fucking God for that. I’m tired of the cameras and boom mic constantly hovering like flies.
“That went better than expected.” Nico sheds his gloves. “Despite the cameras.”
“Mm.” I check my phone. Three messages from Bowie about the data we still need to review. “Some of those kids have real potential.”
“I agree.” He hesitates. “Want to grab dinner? We could discuss tomorrow’s session, maybe review some?—”
“Nico.” I deliberately don’t useBunny Boy. “We’re not teammates.”
His expression changes in a way I’ve rarely seen. There’s real frustration for a split second before his professional mask drops into place. “Of course.Buenas noches.”
While he walks away, I lie to myself that I’m not noticing how the circuit lighting catches his profile or how his shoulders carry the same tension I’m feeling.
We’renotteammates. We’re not actually friends. Not anymore. I left the idea offriendsbehind in F3. But I hate having to say no, when I really want to say yes. I like Nico. I’ve always liked him, respected him, and valued his opinions. But now I don’t know what to make of everything he says and does because we’re rivals, the points spread is narrow, and he’s a world champion. I could discuss these doubts with him, but would I believe his answers?
Sighing, I hoist my bag, definitelynotthinking about Nico Belmonte’s arse.
Which I absolutely didnotsneak another peek at before the door closed between us.
CHAPTER TEN
UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX | FRIDAY | FREE PRACTICE AND SPRINT QUALIFYING
“We’re not teammates.”
Her words from last night echo in Nico’s head until a wobble through turn 15 snaps his attention back to the present.
Mierda. Concéntrate, idiota.
This is practice, not time to replay conversations that shouldn’t matter.
“Hayter, one-thirty-two point three,” Roxana reports through his radio. “Purple sectors 1 and 2.”
“The rear feels loose through 13,” Nico replies. The car is fighting him in all the corners, especially at high speeds.
“Alright. Box this lap.”
Ahead, Petra’s car dances through the corner sequence that’s been trouble for him all morning. Her line is impossibly smooth.
“El Conejo?” Roxana prompts. “Box confirm?”
“Confirmed. Boxing.”Focus on your own fucking car, Belmonte.
