Page 73 of Overtake
“Dad—”
“Get some sleep.” He steps back. “Tomorrow’s going to be challenging enough without adding exhaustion to it.”
“That’s it? You’re just leaving it there?”
His smile is slight. “You’re a champion, Petra. You don’t need me to tell you what to think.” He starts to step back, then pauses. “Though for what it’s worth? Anyone brave enough to take on Graham Pritchard without concern about the Bettertons is a fine fellow in my book. Bonus points for being brave enough to take on my daughter.”
Then he’s gone.
I close the door and lean against it.
Why not?
Dad’s question sits in my chest like unburned fuel.
I push off the door and grab my gear bag, hauling it onto the bed. Cin packed it after qualifying, like she always does. Everything clean and ready for tomorrow because Jacintha’s been doing this for a decade and she’s never once got it wrong.
I unpack it anyway.
Helmet cleaned and dried, visor attached, tear-offs layered exactly how I like. Balaclava rolled tight as a scroll beside it. Earpieces cleaned and looped neatly. Gloves folded together, socks rolled and tucked into my right racing shoe. I pull the worry stone from the left shoe, the smooth zoisite cool in my palm, and set it aside.
Everything’s perfect. Of course it is.
I repack it all. Same order. Careful not to get fingerprints on the tear-offs. Most drivers let their team handle their helmets, but I’m superstitious about mine. I have to have my race helmet prepped and with my kit every night before I get into the car. Cin knows this and the team accommodates me. Just like they do other drivers and their quirks. We all have rituals. This is one of mine, like the worry stone in my boot. I know this routine so wellI could do it blind. Every piece has its place because every detail matters.
Control what I can control.
Except Ican’tcontrol the fact that my lips still taste like Nico Belmonte.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my thumb over the worry stone, and stare at the repacked bag.
“Why not?”
Because of the teams. Obviously. Because of championship implications and conflict of interest questions and every headline that’ll frame me as the woman driver who got distracted. Or worse, the one who needed a male champion in order to stay relevant.
“Shit.”
This is my shot at history, the goal I’ve spent my whole life aiming for, and I can’t afford to lose control and fuck it up.
But Nico Belmonte is not a controllable variable.
Christ. I press my fingers to my mouth, and it all rushes back. The heat of him. How he’d looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. How my body had responded before my brain could throw up its usual defenses.
Still… why now? Why this weekend, when we’re both fighting for podiums and the championship’s heating up and?—
“Stop.”
I’m doing it again. Catastrophizing. Questioning motives and looking for the trap.
But when has Nico ever played head games? Never. He doesn’t need to. He’s a four-time world champion who drives like physics is just a suggestion. If he wanted to mess with my head, he’d do it on track where it counts.
So if he’s sincere...
The worry stone grows warm in my fist. I used to think if I just controlled every detail—every piece of kit in exactly theright place, every variable accounted for, every risk calculated—I could protect myself from being blindsided by people who say they care but really just want to use me for their own benefit.
Yet standing in the dark with Nico tonight, letting him kiss me, knowing I wanted him—none of that was calculated.
Or safe.
