Page 43 of Full Throttle

Cap raised an eyebrow. “I thought you already had a sponsorship deal. With that Swiss watch brand.”

Baz shrugged. “I’m always willing to trade up.”

Juliette shook her head. Cap had always attracted a slew of sponsors, ranging from men’s boxers to cologne. Amazing, really, that she’d never begrudged him for it. When they were children, competition had been its own language between them. Who could hold a handstand the longest? Who brought the better prize to show-and-tell day? Who could bike soonest, who could run farthest, who could fit the most carrots in their mouth?

It had driven their mother mad. I should have known you’d be like this, she’d said, throwing down a kitchen towel. It was the same in the womb. Always competing to see who could kick me hardest.

Yes.

There had always been potential for resentment. For envy. They were the same age, but Cap had always seemed two steps ahead, forever glancing over his shoulder as he cycled away. Some of that could be chalked up to gender, of course—there were simply fewer opportunities for women in the sport—but she couldn’t deny that some secret part of her feared that it was talent too. As if their genetics were an orange, and Cap had squeezed all the best juice out and left her with only rind.

But Cap was her twin. The flipside of her pillow. He’d picked her up from her first party, sneaking her in through the laundry room (although having Cap hold her hair back as she was sick in the wash basket was not a memory that she cherished). She’d squeezed Cap’s hand as his first dog, Ginger, was put down. Hell, when they were fourteen and she’d burst into tears reading a eulogy at their grandfather’s funeral, Cap had been the one to rise from his pew, squeezing her shoulder as he came to stand beside her. “Don’t worry,” he’d murmured, taking the speech. “I have it.”

And Cap did have her back. Always.

Now, he paused by a throng of fans. Several women thrust pens and baseball caps at him, and he signed each one, leaning in to smile for selfies. Baz nudged her shoulder.

“Nervous?”

Juliette considered. “A little.”

“I was bricking it before my first race,” Cap offered, glancing over his shoulder. “I threw up in a baseball cap.”

Baz gave him a look. “My baseball cap.”

Cap gestured with the pen. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like you were wearing it.”

“Excuse me!” a voice called.

A harried-looking mother waved. A young boy held her hand, licking a raspberry ice cream cone, and a girl perched on her hip. The child was three, or maybe five; she’d never been good with kids’ ages. Still, she recognized the girl’s top: a navy shirt with a stag’s golden horns. The Toro Significa logo.

The mother smiled. “I’m sorry to bother you, but my daughter’s a huge fan. Would you mind taking a picture?”

“Of course,” she said.

She smiled as the woman snapped a selfie. The young girl looked pleased but embarrassed; she was sucking on her sleeve, just as Cap had done as a child, and Juliette hid a smile.

“What’s your name?”

“Teagan.” The girl bounced on her toes. “But everyone calls me Tiggy.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Tiggy.”

The girl shook her hand gravely. “I’m going to be a race car driver just like you.”

“Oh, no,” Juliette said. “I bet you’ll be better.”

The boy made a little noise. “Don’t be stupid, Tiggy. You won’t be a race car driver.”

Her brother licked his ice cream with the same apathy that one might display when looking at wallpaper samples. Juliette straightened.

“Oh? And why’s that?”

The boy stared as if Juliette had failed to answer a basic math equation. “Because girls can’t drive cars.”

“Jack,” the mother said. “That’s enough.”

She shot Juliette an apologetic look, but she waved her off. “It’s all right.” She turned back to the boy. “I drive a race car, don’t I?”