Page 43 of The Fast Track

Dietrich: The reporter who was supposed to interview me fell sick

Dietrich: Would you like to meet and do some race review?

Okay, I type back, partly relieved, partly disappointed the emergency brake has been pulled on whatever messy situation I was about to trip my way into.

“All good?” Cameron asks, his face as red as if we just finished a round of HIIT.

“All good.” I train my focus on Dietrich’s profile picture, trying my best to tame the unruly swarm of butterflies invading my stomach.

This is the boy I should want. The generational talent who’s going to help me level up. The guy Mom squeals over. The idol I’ve revered since I’ve known what a crush was.

Not my competitor. Not the guy who muddles the picture on-track. Not even if he’s turned out nicer than I thought possible, not even if I can tell him things I’ve never shared with anyone.

Dietrich: Meet at The Avenue in 15

13.

The Avenue sits right pastthe entrance of the OTC lobby. It’s a broad hallway with two-story high ceilings where theOrbital: A Historyexhibit is displayed. All of the team’s most iconic past cars are showcased, alongside biographies and photos of instrumental drivers and team principals. The first time I walked by I ended up ten minutes late to simulators because I got so caught up looking.

Dietrich’s standing between the ORB-17 and ORB-18, two of Orbital’s earliest cars. He has his back to me, his neck cricked to the side to hold a phone against his shoulder. The person he’s talking to is yelling, loudly enough that I can hear an agitated voice coming out of the speaker all the way across the hall.

“You can’t make comments publicly like—” Dietrich runs a hand through his hair, shoulders tensing as whoever he’s talking to interrupts.

I try to make my steps as loud as I can so Dietrich knows I’m here, but The Avenue’s flooring is noise absorbent, designed toenhance the awe-inducing effects of the exhibition. I’m five feet away, in plain sight if he would only turn around, when he hurls his phone. It soars and hits the highest pane of the floor-to-ceiling steel-enforced windows. The sound cracks like a gunshot over an empty range.

I jump at the noise and trip over something long and low to the ground behind me. I try to regain my footing by grabbing the closest standing object, but it’s a wobbly exhibit sign that tips over with me and lands squarely on my nose.

Before I have time to check for bodily damage, Dietrich’s concerned face hovers over mine. “Are you okay?”

I nod. At this point, my pride hurts more than any of my actual body parts.

“How many fingers?” Dietrich waves his hand back and forth in front of me so rapidly I would have trouble counting even without a fall.

“I’m fine.” I push myself up and press my nose gingerly. It’s hot to the touch and tender but doesn’t seem bruised. “The noise startled me, that’s all.” I gesture toward the remnants of Dietrich’s phone, scattered along the far side of the floor.

His face falls. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were here, otherwise I would have…” He trails off.

Making a guy talk about himself is a surefire way of getting him to like you, according to Roz and the dating advice TikToks she sends me, but this does not feel like the move of the moment. Dietrich looks like he’d rather compete on an eat-goat-brains-for-money game show than elaborate onwhat caused him to throw his phone like he’s Shohei Ohtani’s long-lost twin. I dive for the first random tangent I can take us down.

“Did you know Robert Peel triggered the Bedchamber Crisis?”

“What?” Dietrich stares.

“A British prime minister in the 1800s; he asked Queen Victoria to change her ladies-in-waiting. She refused, and he declined to lead.” I rattle off the answer Cameron gave from his Quizlet. “It’s a pretty major historical event. I love history. How about you?”

“I… er… have watched some interesting documentaries before. Are you sure you’re feeling okay? I can take you to the medical center.”

“I’m all good, see?” I do a couple of shuffle steps from the new dance Roz and I learned last night. “All facilities intact.”

“If you say so… Should we go to the B level? I was thinking we could review your race tapes.”

I nod, glad my improvised distraction worked. I may have made myself appear weird beyond measure to Dietrich, but at least now he only looks confused instead of sad.

I follow him down a corridor to a concrete stairwell that turns into a dimly lit hall. Doors branch off, each leading to an A/V room. Some are so small they only fit a couch and TV, while others are large enough you can comfortably seat an entire F1 design team.

“Wow.” I poke my head into a room with floor-to-ceiling digital whiteboards. “I had no idea this existed.”

“Me neither. My father found it. He took me down here after my first Orbital race to review.” Dietrich’s eyes are hard in the glow of the faint lights, and I know exactly who he was in such a heated conversation with earlier.