Page 31

“Got knocked to second with a five-second penalty, actually. And second’s just the first loser, remember?”

I blinked. That was something I had said to her before, trying to egg her on. But it was also something I had repeated from my dad. Hearing it from her sounded so wrong, all sour and twisted. I didn’t like it.

“Didn’t look like you were having much fun out there,” she added, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer.

“I was fine,” I said automatically.

She stopped a few feet in front of me, tilting her head like she was trying to solve some hard math problem.

“You don’t look fine.”

I shrugged, looking past her to the bit of chaos outside: parents walking out their drivers, coaches and the audience filtering out.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” she said simply.

I huffed out a breath. “Why do you care?”

“Because,” she said, like it was obvious, “you’re my competition. If you start driving like shit, it makes me look bad.”

I let out a short, surprised laugh before I could stop it. There she was, a little spitfire. “Glad your priorities are in order, Andrews.”

“Always,” she grinned. The tension in my chest loosened a little at her flash of a smile. Her gaze flicked to my bag, then back at me.

“Is your dad in one of his moods?” she asked, more carefully now. I stiffened. We had been leaving each other letters for a while now, and a few letters ago, I had written that sometimes I wished I was born into another family, or that my mom had married someone else entirely. I had written that he had these moods that felt like lighting a match to a flare. It would pass, but it burned hot and angry for some time before it did. But I couldn’t talk about this here. Not out loud. Not with my dad just down the sidewalk smoking a cigarette.

“Drop it,” I said, lowering my voice.

She held up her hands. “Okay, dropped,” she confirmed. A beat passed, and she nudged her helmet toward me, bringing me back out of my head. “You still owe me a rematch anyway. That move you pulled last race? Totally illegal.”

“It was not illegal!” I shot back immediately.

“Emotionally, yes it was.”

I laughed at that one. “That is not a thing.”

“It is so,” she pressed with an easy smile. Maisey rocked back on her heels slightly, a mischievous look washing over her.

“Let’s sneak out later,” she said casually, as if it wasn’t the most insane thing to suggest. She had suggested it a few times before, even told me about her spot she went to sometimes at night.

“Can’t,” I said automatically, knowing it was a horrible idea to join her.

“You always say that.” She narrowed her eyes.

“Because it’s stupid.”

“Is not!”

“Is too.”

She shot me a glare, crossing her arms. “Boring. You are boring.”

“Yeah, not wanting to deal with an already pissed-off father when he finds out is so boring.”

“He won’t!” She rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who said he sleeps like the dead.” She was right, of course. Another letter confession she was calling me out on.

“I’ve got training,” I added. But I always had training, every morning, just like her.