Page 102 of Spin Control

He frowns as he picks up one of the energy gels on my desk. “Apple cinnamon? Really?”

“I’m an all-American boy.”

“Barely,” Stas says, tossing the gel back down. “That country is lucky you haven’t renounced your citizenship and become Monégasque.”

“Right back at you.” I say flatly. “Anyway. How are you feeling?”

Stas is undoubtedly the best driver of our generation. A lot of people thought his success at Orion was from being a decent driver in an outstanding car. So when he went to Martine and proved that he could win a world championship in a mediocre car, his talent became legendary. But we’ve developed this car without him this season. Though the times Stas put up in the free practice sessions are solid, he hasn’t been at the top of the table this weekend.

“Don’t worry about me, Wes,” he says. “I’m here to make sure you win.”

That hits me square in the chest. “What?”

Stas smiles. “You’re going to be world champion, my friend.”

My stomach flips. I’ve tried not to think about the championship standings much this year, focusing instead on getting the team through the scandal by taking it one race at a time. But now that the dust has settled and there are only seven races left in the season, the time has come for me to focus on the points. Every time I’ve gotten close to winning in the past, I’ve ended up in second place—right behind Stas. So the fact that he’s just said I’m going to be world champion is something that’s hard to accept.

“I’m here to support you, Wes. I’m your second seat,” he says. “And we’re also going to make sure Martine wins the Constructors’.”

I suck in a breath. Then, I start doing the mental math.

This season has been wild. Aside from our team drama, the usual top three teams have faced surprising setbacks. Orion has continued to have issues with their rookie driver and Thad received a grid penalty in the Netherlands, then was hit with a post-race disqualification in Azerbaijan when his car came in underweight. Sterling started out strong, but their car performance has gone downhill and none of the upgrades they’ve introduced have helped. And while Fiorelli’s car is good, the drivers have had rotten luck—at least one of them has either crashed or retired in nearly every race.

Considering we’ve received points in every race but one this season, the team is in a very good position right now. It won’t be easy to win, though.

“We both need to be on the podium every race,” I say.

Stas nods.

It’s going to be hard as hell. The Orion car is better than ours—quicker, more aerodynamic, able to maximize downforce more effectively. But when Stas and I work together, we’re damn near unstoppable.

“Okay then,” I say, softly. “Let’s go win.”

On Sunday, after 62 grueling laps in cars that reach well over 120 degrees even at night, Stas and I do exactly that.

Once I’ve entered parc fermé, I run directly to Elizabeth. I barely slow down before we’re in each other’s arms, and I use the momentum to pick her up as I hug her close.

“There are five different broadcast cameras and who knows how many phones on us right now.”

I laugh as I gently set her back on her feet. “You’re going to have to get used to it, Jacobs.”

“I know,” she says, moving to her toes to press a kiss to my helmet. “I’m only doing it because I love you.”

We’ve said it countless times now, but my heart still pounds like it’s the first time.

“I love you, too. So fucking much.”

“Go weigh in,” she says. “I need you to take your helmet off so I can kiss you properly.”

“I can carry the damn thing,” I say, ripping it off my head.

She smiles, then follows through, kissing me fiercely before playfully shoving me away from her and toward where Stas is waiting. “Go be a winner. We’ll celebrate later.”

Though the heat and promise in her voice makes me want to rack up a whole slew of fines so that we can get behind closed doors as quickly as possible, I force myself to turn and find my team. After giving massive hugs to everyone, Stas and I make our way to the cool-down room, and then up to the podium.

“One down,” Stas says, stepping onto the spot for the second-place finisher.

I smile wide from the first-place step, holding up a magnum of Champagne. “Six to go.”