My lips tip. “Fine, then let’s make a bet. You have nothing to lose if you win.”
It appears that I found Sophie’s weakness, with the look on her face at the word bet telling me she likes to win almost as much as I do. She licks her lips at the notion of getting the upper hand on me.
Un-fucking-likely.
“You go on a date with me if I place on the Russian GP’s podium.” I have a complete crash and burn past with the track, but the one thing I love more than a race is a challenge.
I don’t think things out because I don’t care. At least not when I have an innocent interest in spending more time with her. It’s not a big deal.
She shrugs. “Since you never make it on that podium to begin with, I’ll agree.”
“There you go again making me wonder if you’ve been keeping tabs on me over the past couple of years.”
“More like my dad sends me pictures of the Bandini racers winning every time. Last time I checked, I don’t remember a certain blonde German ever placing in Sochi. But of course, your ego is insufferable.” She fights a smile.
“If you want pictures of me on podiums, all you have to do is ask.”
She waves me away. “One date. No more than that.”
“Give me the list.”
“Can’t we just have a verbal agreement? Why ruin the perfectly typed paper?”
“You’re going on a date with a bad boy, whether it’s me or someone else, so you might as well add it.” Okay, I’m bluffing because her date is definitely going to be with me.
She pulls out the list from her clutch. “I hate that you need to write on it.”
I grunt as I grab the sharpie from her hand and solidify our deal. My handwriting contrasts against the practical font she picked out, marking the bottom of the page.
I smirk at the symbolic evidence of my corruption. It doesn’t take a genius to know Sophie’s history in the bedroom, or lack thereof, is the reason she started this crazy list in the first place. Her life has been plagued with shitty sex and shittier fake orgasms.
I make it my duty to do right by Sophie in the name of orgasms and perfectionists everywhere. The list she holds in her small hand hints at her rebelliousness, and I want to draw it out. Fuck, this racing season will be a hell of a lot more fun with her around.
The next day, I attend all my pre-race meetings with the utmost enthusiasm. I have a bounce in my step, my previous annoyance with the team disregarded as I get ready to take on the Sochi circuit like the Champ I can be. My bet with Sophie pushes me to succeed.
After our agreement, I spent hours reviewing tapes of my practice rounds and team notes of ways to improve. An embarrassing fact I’ll keep to myself.
My car lands a P3 spot after my impressive qualifier on Saturday. I act like a brand-new man in the pit, no longer nervous about impressing the team, choosing to check in with engineers about my demands with the car. There’s no time for my self-conscious shit when I have an end goal in mind.
Unfortunately for the other teams, the better the car, the better you race. McCoy has one of the fastest cars in the whole organization, which means I’m set for success.
On Sunday, I’m pumped and ready to perform my best. I thrum my gloved fingers against the steering wheel of my car as mechanics push me toward the grid, the crowds cheering as they set me up. Energy hums around me while mountain views greet me.
Crew members assist the rest of the racers throughout the grid, creating a crisscross pattern of twenty multicolored cars. Mechanics scatter once they get the all-clear.
Lights illuminate above us before they cut off. The engine roars as my foot presses against the throttle, my gloved hands clicking corresponding buttons on my steering wheel to change gears. My car surges down the runway and hits the first straight in a rush. A buzz runs through my body, unlike any high, adrenaline coursing through me as my heart beats against my chest. It’s a feeling I want to chase for the rest of my life.
The car runs smoothly against the curves of the track. I tend to be a slick asshole on the road, pushing myself to the limit for a win, both physically and mentally.
Jax stays ahead of me by a few seconds. I push my car forward, my front wing inching toward Jax’s rear wing. We turn in a synchronized move before I use the loss of speed to my advantage. My car zooms past his before I cut in front of him, the dirty air messing with his speed, pushing him into third place.
I keep alert as I hold on to my newly secured second-place position. A podium finish never sounded as good as it does today, especially with a bet on the line.