“How close is Raj?” It’s my best race yet. I’m hanging on to tenth placc—P10 in F1 terms—with seven laps to go. I don’t want to pit unless I absolutely have to.
“Four seconds behind.”
Too close. If I pit, I risk losing my slim lead over him and putting myself out of points position. And I want that point, dammit. My first in F1. Beating the asshat who spilled the beans about Ben being my new race engineer would just be icing on the cake.
“Do we know if SC Racing is stopping or not?”
“We believe they’re staying out to the end.”
“Then let me stay out, too. I don’t have enough of a cushion to pit. I can finish this without boxing.”
“Negative,” Ben answers quickly. “Your tires are too hot. They’re breaking down. We need you in the pits next lap to change them.”
“Can’t we cool them down? I can take it a little easier on the straightaways. Do some lifting and coasting and still hold off Raj.” Or if they really want me to box, maybe they can spray the tires with water. That will be a hell of a lot faster than changing them.
“Negative,” Ben answers again, this time even faster. “Remember what you said about following my orders on the track? Get your ass in the damn pit. Now.”
“Copy.” I’m still not happy about it, but I don’t bother trying to argue with him any further. If it costs me the fucking point, he’ll hear it from me, though. He may be the race engineer, but it’s my ass in the driver’s seat.
And, apparently, it’s headed for the damn pit.
I swing the car into pit lane the next time around the track, like the obedient driver my bossy race engineer wants me to be. And no, I will not think of other, more creative—read: sexy—ways he could boss me around off the track. I’m focused on finishing this race with some points under my belt. Not fucking my race engineer.
“Watch the white line,” Ben warns as I pull out of the pit a few seconds later, his voice with a bit less bite now. “You’ll come out close to Yanni.”
“Where’s Gabe?
“Two seconds behind. You’re still P10.”
Damn. I knew we’d lose time on that pit stop.
“What pace do I need?” I ask.
“One minute 14.3 seconds. Singh four seconds in front, lap time one minute 15.7 seconds.”
“Come on,” I mutter to myself. “Push, dammit.”
We round the Masters corner, about to enter the final five laps. Five laps to my first point in an F1 Grand Prix. Points if I can somehow manage to overtake Yanni for P9.
Then I see something that sends cold shivers of dread shooting down my spine.
“Fire,” I spit into my headset. “The back of Yanni’s car is on fire.”
Fire is a racing driver’s biggest fear. Sure, the sport’s made massive strides in fire safety, from equipment to crew training to fuel cell construction to the flame-retardant gear we’re required to wear whenever we’re in the car, even in practice sessions. But we’re still riding time bombs just waiting for the right spark to ignite.
“Copy,” Ben answers calmly, with not a hint of the alarm I’m feeling, although I’m sure he must feel it, too. “Hugh is on it. He’s pulling him over.”
Hugh Bishop is Yanni’s race engineer. I feel marginally less anxious knowing he’s aware and in control of the situation.
“Focus on your race, Grady” Ben continues in the same soothing tone. “There’s a yellow flag out, and we’ve got a virtual safety car.”
“Copy.”
I check my mirrors and see some of the other drivers catching up to me, weaving back and forth across the track to keep their tires warm. With a safety car, we’re not allowed to overtake. But as soon as Yanni’s car is off the track and we’re given the all-clear, it’s going to be a tight race to the finish.
We complete two laps under the safety car and I’m starting to think we’re going to finish the race that way, which would net me a cool two points—plus a hefty amount of prize money for Team LaRue—for crossing the line in P9, when Ben’s voice comes over the headset.
“Safety car is ending, Grady. Get ready to race.”
