Page 11 of Over the Limit

“Really, what?” he asks, shoulders square, arrogance in full effect.

“I don’t know what crawled up your arse, mate, but I’d make it go away if I were you.”

“This is where you mind your own business,” Rossi says.

“Then don’t ask me for advice.” I shrug.

He lifts a lone eyebrow, his stare challenging me for a beat before he actually speaks. “Stay away from my girl, Evans.”

“Wasn’t thinking about going near her.” And it’s the truth. I wasn’t.

“Huh.”

Our eyes meet and hold. Tension fills the space between us.

“I’d like to assume the two of you are discussing how to bring this team together rather than tear it apart, ya?”

The German accent fills the garage as we both look up to see our team principal, Johann Wagner, standing at its edge, his arms folded over his chest, and his eyebrows raised. He’s a no-nonsense man of few words, and one whose expressions usually say it all.

Right now, it’s saying he can sense something’s amiss, and that’s the last thing he wants or needs amid an already trying season.

“Correct,” Rossi and I say in unison.

“Just shooting the shit,” I say as I stand and grab my hat.

“Chatting the day away.” It’s impossible to miss Rossi’s sarcasm.

“Are we ready for the meeting?” I ask.

“We are,” Johann says as I skirt around Rossi and head toward where the entire team—my crew and Rossi’s crew—have congregated. It’s a sea of blue composed of people I trust implicitly.

“It’s race week, everybody,” Johann says to an enthusiastic cheer of everyone around us. “Testing was good but not great. Our power issue seems to persist, but we’re in the midst of making some more adjustments on the powertrain.”

The meeting runs on. Housekeeping items and goals for the upcoming race. Nothing that I haven’t already talked about with Johann or know about, but it’s important that I be here. That they see me here. That they know I care about every aspect of this team.

But just like the past few days, my mind wanders. To things it shouldn’t be thinking of. To someone it shouldn’t be wondering about.

It’s not like I looked her up on purpose.

Not like I scrolled through her social media to see what pictures I’d find. The majority of her posts are of trips she’s taken, friends she’s dining with, trips home to her family, or events she’s helped organize for her job. And maybe a few sporadic ones of her and Rossi—albeit from a long time ago, guessing by the race suit Rossi was wearing in them and the braces on her teeth.

Not like I looked them up. Strangely, given how long they’ve known each other, when it comes to Rossi’s pages, there’s barely any mention of Blair.

And none of this information is pertinent to the meeting going on all around me. The talk of team goals. Of pit stop target times. Of race day protocol.

None of it.

And neither is my glance out of the garage down pit row to where Blair is talking with another team of racers. Her curves. Her utter confidence. Her goddamn beauty.

Yeah, I’m definitely looking at her.

Damn. When’s the last time shit like that happened to me?

Um . . . never.

Team.

Teammate.