Page 84 of The Fast Track

“That driver decisions shouldn’t be made on the basis of a gossip rag with a long history of questionable factuality?” Roz glares at him.

He frowns. “That article was everywhere. What sort of team can stand that kind of press?”

“You mean, what kind of team wants to be spotlit byMotor Sport?” Roz whips her phone out and waves our Liam Granville article triumphantly in Sasha’s face.

His eyes scan the page. “So that’s how you pulled it off. Feminine wiles again. What won’t these companies do in the name of wokeness?”

The expression switches on a bulb in my brain.

“Sasha.” I narrow my eyes. “Were you the source?”

He turns a shade paler. “And?” He licks his bottom lip. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m sure Triton would love to know their driver has a briefing relationship with the tabloids,” Roz hisses.

“It’s not against the rules, is it, now?”

“You were worried you couldn’t beat me on-track, so you resorted to lies.” Anger snowballs inside me, but so does a bizarre gleam of pride. “For someone who thinks women don’t belong in racing, you sure are scared of getting beaten by one.”

“I’m not scared of you.” His eyes bulge. “I was beingstrategic. Those PR-loving Orbital idiots would’ve loved to find any excuse to give you the F2 seat. I saw a chance to take the shine off your novelty, so I took it.”

“Real classy.” Roz glares daggers at him. “You’re such a gentleman.”

“Why should I be a gentleman when you aren’t ladies?” He gives a slimy smile—the kind where you feel like you need to immediately rinse off in a high-pressure shower—then turns and goes.

“I could so kill him right now.” Roz stares hard at his retreating back. “With my bare hands. Or this fork.”

“Please don’t. I need you to engineer my race, not rot in jail.”

“How’re you so calm about this? That wanker admitted to being the source for the hit piece. We have to get him back—maybe one of those girls from the after-party has something on him.” She pulls out her phone.

I’m not sure how to explain it. In a way, Sasha trying to take me down is the best compliment he could give. It means he sees me, he recognizes my talent, and it freaks him out. I’m tough competition, even if he can’t bring himself to admit it.

I hold my hand over Roz’s phone. “Just a sec on the revenge planning.”

She gives me anare you for real?look.

“Let’s go out there and beat him today. That’ll hurt him more than anything we can cook up with Savannah and Chloe.”

Roz chews her mouthful of omelet, then washes it down with a sip of orange juice. “Fine. But I’m going Cersei Lannister on his arse as soon as offseason starts.”

My Reminder app dings. Fifteen minutes to Feature Race.

“Oh no,” I groan. “We’re late.”

The F3 garages are all the way on the other side of the paddock, and—Texas being Texas—this is by far the largest of all our races this season.

Roz curses. We sprint for the hotel exit, pounding down the balcony staircase. I thank my lucky stars I’m at least wearing closed-toe shoes, unlike the last time I went sprinting.

“Frank is going to kill me!” I shriek, swerving around a catering staff carrying a tray of steaming brisket. “He said I had to be on perfect behavior and now I’m already late! I bet Cameron and Pat have been there for ages.”

“We can still… make it,” Roz huffs. Mechanics and engineers have to be strong enough to jack up the car and carry two twenty-five-pound tires by themselves, but cardio doesn’t exactly fit into their training regimen. “Speaking of… how are things… with Cameron?”

“You know?” I nearly barrel into a grid kid and his father.

“We can’t… stop.” Roz jerks me along. “You have… the worst… poker face… even… without…The Weekly Fail.”

I try to focus on our paddock speedrun instead of worrying about who else may have picked up on me and Cameron. I’mclearly a lot less skilled at sneaking around than I think I am. “He was pretty pissed, but we smoothed it over. I think.”