Before a race, I spend hours studying the track, making sure I’ve memorized all of the turns. A total of sixty-six laps made up of sixteen turns stand between me and the Spanish Grand Prix’s podium.
The race kicks off with a bang. An American team driver crashes his car into the barrier on the first turn, taking down two other drivers with him. What a shitshow as metal flies around and cars run into one another.
Liam holds first place for the first few laps. We play a game between the two of us, me trying to pull up to his side and him being aggressive on the turns. Sweat trickles down my neck as my skin warms from the heat of the engine. I take a couple sips of my drink to stay hydrated because nothing is worse than getting woozy as I drive around at top speeds.
I narrowly avoid clipping Liam’s tire at one of the sharper turns. He pulls away from the curve, flashing me a glove-clad middle finger. His rattled state makes me chuckle. The car continues hauling ass down the racetrack as I hit a main straight. An opportunity for overtaking presents itself when Liam lets down his defenses for a split second. I pass him at one of the turns. My foot presses on the accelerator, allowing my car to pick up speed and race down the straights, leaving Liam in my rearview mirror. Too bad, so sad.
Fans wave their Spanish flags and big face cutouts of Santiago in the air. They blur past me as I continue down the track.
Negative thoughts fill my head about the crap my dad said yesterday. I don’t want to be a teammate who steps on others, trying to one-up them every time, acting like my father. No one likes a piece of shit. The type who takes everything, not caring how it affects the other person. Santi’s had a rough go starting out this season. His rashness fucks me up, but he wants to win as much as anyone else.
Losing in Austin would suck. How disappointing—all those fans showing up, hoping you represent them well but falling short.
Fuck me, I hate thinking while racing.
After a pit stop, I make my way back up the race ranks from fourth to first again. I hold onto my first-place spot for another twenty-six laps.
“Noah, Santiago’s gaining speed behind you. He’s in second now. For the love of God, don’t crash into each other at a turn.” My radio relays the team principal’s message.
“Copy. What happened to Liam?” I growl at his words because I’m not crashing into anyone today.
“Don’t worry about that now. Santiago is behind you by about five seconds. Be careful not to let him overtake you.”
“Got it, thanks.”
My defensive position at the head of the pack takes minimal effort to keep. Blurring crowds welcome me as I pass the starting point again, a wave of red and gold colors flying by me, matching the Spanish flag the Alatorres had earlier. Their cheers get louder as Santiago passes them while he closes the gap behind me. A few seconds away from me now. If I were Santiago, I would do anything to win this race.
He tails me the whole time, waiting for me to slip up.
The image of Maya and her family coming all this way to see him succeed flies through my mind. Shit. I try to push away the thoughts, but the invasive images don’t let up, accompanied by sounds of Maya’s laughs and cheers. My hands grip the steering wheel as I think about the sacrifices his parents made for his career. Sacrifices Maya made living in his shadow. Never being one to steal the spotlight, preferring to dance around in the dark while her brother gets all the attention. Unfortunately for her, people like me thrive in the shadows.
Fuck. I never think this much during a race, like ever, because thinking makes me stupid. Thinking leads me to come up with my rash, selfless plan in the first place.
A fucking anomaly.
On the sixtieth lap, I let down my defenses more. I do it slowly, making sloppier turns, allowing more space for anyone to overtake me, while I still stay in control of my car. Messing up too quickly would draw negative attention to myself.
“Noah, is everything all right? Santiago’s gaining speed. He wants to overtake you. Make your turns tighter.”
“Copy. I think something’s off with the car, but I can’t figure it out. Do you see anything on the screens?” I sure as shit know there is nothing wrong, but I have to milk it to the point where I believe my own words. Fans can tune into my team radio via live television.
“Nothing over here. Can you describe what’s happening? We can figure it out for you.” My engineer sounds hopeful.
“Not really. I think there’s something wrong with the steering wheel. It feels loose.” The lie leaves my lips easily as I make another bad turn.