Page 58 of Overtake
“Petra?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to focus. “Sprint prep. Yes.”Drink more shake, idiot.
Jacintha’s not buying any of this, but thankfully she lets it slide. “Two and a half hours until lights out. Try to keep your head in the game?”
“Always.” But I touch my cheek where his fingers brushed my skin. Bloody hell indeed.
Ahead of us, Rodrigo carves through the paddock chaos like a guardian angel. I don’t even know where he came from.
Cin hooks her arm through mine and tugs me along. “Driver’s room. Stretching. Warm up. Now.”
I hold up the protein shake. “I need to finish this.”
“You need to focus.” She steers me away from the paddock chaos and into the small Nitro business unit. “Everything else can wait.” She’s right. Cin’s always right. We reach my driver room, normally a sanctuary of pre-race calm. “Stop it. I can hear you thinking from here.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re spinning, Petra.” She plucks the shake from my hand. “Your brain is chewing to bits whatever happened in that fitness center. And what’s wrong with your cheek?”
Caught.Fuck me.“What? Nothing. Just a little itch.” I scrub at my skin, trying to erase the feel of Nico’s fingers and the memory of his breath against my face.
“Rash?”
“No. I don’t think so. Just itchy. It’s nothing, Cin.”
What itisis so damn stupid that Nico touching my face has scrambled my brain and fucked my focus like this. But I still feel the ghost of his fingers there, warm and deliberate, and my skin tingles like it’s trying to hold on to that moment.
Bloody hell, get it together. It was just his fingers on your face. It’s not like the man hasn’t touched you before. Honestly. You’re being an idiot, Petra.
“Breathe.” She guides me through stretches I’ve been doing pre-race for as long as I can remember. “Find your center. Everything else is noise you need to tune out.”
The familiar routine starts working its magic. My head clears, my breathing deepens, and my muscles and joints feel more limber.
“Good. Now show me those world-class reflexes.” Cin directs me to a reaction light board and sets up a session.
Lights flash, the pattern varies. I move automatically, hitting each one, peripheral vision and reaction time honed after a lifetime of practice.
“Better.” She adjusts the sequence and speed, challenging me to keep up. After a few rounds, my mind and body are finally working in concert. Cin packs the board away while I finish the shake, then settle on the massage table.
“Now close your eyes, Tonka. Find that quiet place in the center of your belly. Let’s walk the track.”
I sink into our visualization routine, the one we’ve perfected since karting. It’s not the rigid meditation many coaches use, but something that works for my brain.
“First corner,” she murmurs. “Feel the grip. Find your line.”
But I keep drifting to a different kind of grip—Nico’s fingers on my cheek, the way his pupils went huge when he looked atme, and how my body had responded to him like his touch had flipped a switch and turned on a new part of my nervous system.
Shit-shit-shit! Stop it. Right. Fucking. Now. Focus on the damned race.
My cousin continues, “Now the braking point. Feel the car shift beneath you, Petra.”
I home in on her voice and everything else fades. Kelley’s drama, FIA politics, Nico’s touch—all of it dissolves into pure racing focus as Cin walks me through every corner, every line, every acceleration and deceleration point.
This is what matters.
This is what I know.
This is what I am.
