Racer

“You know, when Racer Tate was announced in the beginning of the season I don’t think anyone expected him to ever see a single podium, much less appear on most every single podium since he began … This is one young driver with some serious talent we’re talking about here. HW Racing has never set up their cars as strongly as they do with him around. He seems to know exactly what he wants his car to do …”

I exhale as we all start going to do what we always do – I put my cap on, slide my ponytail through the hole in the back, and check that my dad has one too, and that he has a comfortable seat, all while my brothers and Racer focus on the cars.

I glance at them as they hover over Kelsey—who’s already on the table, looking sharp and bare for one last check-up.

My eyes caress Racer’s backside. From the top of his black hair, down his thick, strong neck, his wide shoulders, his narrow waist, all of that enveloped in that sexy black racing suit.

I watch the guys lower Kelsey to the ground, and Racer slide into the seat and behind the wheel, strapping down the safety harness and then gripping the wheel with his gloved hands as they start pulling him out to pits.

I cannot believe that we’re at the end of the season. I cannot believe how much more racing means to me now, when the man I love is the one driving our cars—representing our team. Chasing all of our dreams.

Our eyes meet and hold for the briefest, bestest second, before his visor comes down, and Racer is full on in racing mode.

Trembling with adrenaline, I head to take my spot next to my dad. He’s on his feet to get a better view, and I feel a prick of nerves as the cars shuffle out to the track.

Drake walks up and rehashes everything with Dad and me. “So if Clark doesn’t finish the race, we’ll win the championship if Tate at least comes in second. But if Clark finishes the race, then we need that first come hell or high water.”

I exhale and nod.

Dad nods as well, his expression stubbornly determined. “We’re not skimping on wheels, on anything he needs,” Dad tells Drake.

“No sir, we’re not,” Drake assures him, patting my dad’s back as we watch the cars in anticipation.

The engines flare to life.

The crowd gets restless, their excitement palpable in the air. I watch Racer’s car, bright red with blue and our sponsors’ logos, pull into the track, his shiny blue visor reflecting the sunlight off his helmet.

My pulse skyrockets in anticipation as my eyes stay on Kelsey. All that red on that car is pure absolute fire, home to the devil behind the wheel.

The Clarks are going to pull every stop to ensure the win, try every trick in the trade from pitting in for fresher tires to tweaking their downforce to saving fuel to more. Clark continues leading the championship, after all. I’m afraid there could be some rough driving—and my nerves are eating at me.

I take position and slide on the headset that Clay hands over. We all discussed how it should be, and though I insisted Clayton should be the one on the headset with Racer, both Clayton and Racer disagreed.

Racer wanted me here with him; and though I feel completely unprepared and am not as good at this as Clayton is, I caved in because I want to be here too.

“Let’s do this,” I whisper to him through the mic, and my stomach clutches as they circle several laps until finally, the green flag flashes in the wind.

And they’re off!

I keep my eyes on him. When he drives past, all I see is a flash of red and dust behind him. I check the stats and the times for the drivers, wanting to keep him as informed as possible. “P2 and holding steady,” I say.

He doesn’t reply—we’re too focused on winning here—but I almost notice his car kick up faster after P1.

The cars appear from around the curve. They zoom past the stretch, one next to the other. I glance at the stats and whisper, “0.06 after P1.”

“I’m outbraking him,” he mutters.

I hold my breath. To outbrake him is to brake after the other guy, so that you can pass him on a curve. It can go well, and it can go badly.

Racer outbrakes. There’s screeching, and they’re off, with—

“P1!” I say excitedly.

Clark is on his tail, and as both cars charge down the track, kicking up a storm, the cheers from the stands get louder and louder.

Racer

Sweat coats me under my racing suit and drips down my temples under my helmet. The heat is simmering in my body as I keep pushing for my best, still leading on P1 with my girl on the line.

I’m on eighth gear, go to second for turn 1, and exit turn 1 going up through the gears. When gear five fails, I know it’s not good.

“Shit,” I growl.

From fourth I have to push to sixth, but I lose engine torque, and Clark catches up.

Goddamn me. I’m going to fucking lose torque every time I move up the gears because I’m skipping a gear. I’m going to need to make up all the time I lose in every turn on the straightaway.

When you lose one gear, it’s fucking dangerous. The gearbox can fail. It’s hard on the gearbox and it can completely fail. I can’t head to pits, it takes hours to fix. I’m on lap 52 out of 70, I’m in P1, but Clark is close behind. Too close behind. And he’ll be getting the gift of catching up with me on every fucking turn.

I just hope the gearbox doesn’t break down completely and I end up in the wall.

I push through around the curve and speed like the devil down the straightaway with Clark on my ass, and when I take my next turn and lose gear three too, I know I’m fucked.

“Fuck fuck FUCK!” I yell.