Page 87 of Overtake
Focus, Petra.
“Four laps.” Bowie knows better than to overload me with information now. “Keep it clean.”
Right. Clean. As if that’s easy with a car that wants to fling its arse around like a crash-happy rally car and El Conejo charging through the field and everything else that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours and?—
“Focus, Pet. Your line through 15 was perfect. Do that again.”
“Stop reading my mind, Bowie. It’s freaky.”
He laughs.
Three laps to go and my arms burn from constant corrections. Every corner’s a new negotiation with physics and grip levels that keep changing.
“Nico swapped with Wyn for P3.” Bowie’s voice is even.
Makes sense. Team orders. Championship points matter more than pride, and WolfBett’s positioning Nico for a fifth Drivers’ Championship.
Two laps. The rear end’s properly loose now, tires blistered to hell. But we’re close. So bloody close.
“Gap to Reece stable at two point one.” Translation: You’ve got this.
Final lap. Just keep it pointing forward.
“Bring it home, TenP.”
The finish line appears like a mirage. The win has never felt more earned as I pass the waving chequered flag.
“Well done.” Bowie actually sounds impressed. “That was proper car control, Petra.”
I’m too busy breathing to respond. Too busy realizing we just proved everything they said we couldn’t do. “Bloody hell! We didit! Thank you for all the damned hard work last night. This is your win today.”
Bowie responds, “A group effort.”
Parc fermé explodes with celebration when I pull in. I climb from the cockpit to stand atop the car and do a groovy little victory dance that ends with finger guns, then I jump down and leap into waiting arms. Mechanics, engineers, Dad—everyone’s reaching for a piece of the victory. The rear end might’ve been trying to kill me for fifty-six laps, but we bloody well did it.
Reece appears through the chaos, hand raised for a high five. “Bloody brilliant job managing that beast!” He’s grinning like a fool as he takes off his helmet. “Though you might want to get the suspension fixed before Mexico.”
“Ha! No shit.” I pull off my gloves, helmet, and HANS device. My balaclava follows and I pull my ponytail out from where I always tuck it into the back of my suit. I wave at the fans, then secure my hair up off my neck.
The Honeys and Bunnies’ voices carry clear across the circuit: “Kiss her! Kiss him!”
I laugh and shake my head. They’re relentless.
Movement catches my eye as I open the bottle of water staged for me. Nico climbs from his car, already grinning. Our eyes meet across the mayhem, and the sexy wink he throws my way should be illegal. Heat floods my chest. The fans’ chanting of “Kiss her! Kiss him!” grows louder, but with cameras everywhere, acting on that impulse will wait.
The cool-down room isn’t a haven from scrutiny. Graham’s cameraman follows our every move as we grab more water and don our caps. The tension crackles between Nico and me, electric and obvious.
“That rear end looked proper nasty,” Reece comments, dropping into one of the chairs and eyeing us both. “Thoughnot as nasty as whatever’s happening here. Bit too close for my comfort, you two.”
“Like wrestling a greased pig.” I deliberately ignore his second comment. “Through every corner.”
“Impressive control.” Nico’s double meaning isn’t lost on me. “Though that puncture’s timing sucked.” He shakes his head, eyes never leaving mine.
“Yeah, but fastest laps on those mediums?” Reece whistles. “That charge through the field was something else.”
“Speaking of charges.” I’m trying to focus on anything but the way Nico’s race suit clings to his body. “Nice management of your brother out there.”
Reece shrugs, but his smile is smug as fuck. “Clean racing looks good on everyone.” A pause. “Other things, apparently, look good too.”
