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Roads shine, slick from the downpour, which means tires will have limited traction. Less than ideal conditions pose a threat to drivers. It takes a lot of skill to successfully navigate cars with limited visibility and grip on the road.
The pit crew scurries about with a nervous buzz as they prepare the spare parts needed for the cars. Extra pieces lay outside for any minor crashes, just in case the Bandini boys have a collision.
Santi and Noah discuss game plans with Sophie’s dad. I linger, getting in the way of random mechanics who kindly work around me, not asking me to move until I knock over a power drill. They escort me to the computer area where I can wreak less havoc. Sophie sidles up to me.
“My dad bet fifty bucks that Albrecht doesn’t make it past thirty laps. Want in?” Her green eyes shine, complementing her tan skin. She rocks French braids, a jean skirt, and another slogan T-shirt.
I chuckle. “Do you ever learn from bets?”
“No. That’s why I bet they wouldn’t make it past seventy laps.” She blows a pink bubble before popping it.
“There are only seventy-one laps.”
“Exactly. My dad raised a smart cookie.” She taps her temple, sporting a megawatt grin featuring her two dimples.
The drizzling rain let up, allowing drivers to compete, but not enough for the roads to dry on their own. Sophie’s dad announces how the race will start in twenty minutes. Noah and Santi meet with engineers near the entrance of the garage, reviewing driving strategies for these conditions, both men in my life working together. Once the crew gives the all-clear, Santi comes to our spot in the computer bay.
“It’s going to be fine. You worry too much lately. Just a little sprinkle, like a sun shower.” Santi pulls me in for a hug.
Wet ground mocks me. I give the rain a death stare like I can change Mother Nature’s mind.
“I wish they didn’t make you race in these conditions. It’s kind of dangerous. I think of Albrecht crashing every time.”
Santi chuckles. “They wouldn’t let us race if the risk was that bad. Nothing more than the usual kind, like crashing into barriers with minimal damage.”
“They prep for this. Plus, my dad will chat away with them, giving the best possible advice.” Sophie flicks a braid over her shoulder.
I give them a tight smile. “Be safe out there. I’ll have headphones to hear everything with the Bandini team.” I leave out the part where I’ll also tune into Noah’s radio.
“Atta girl. We’ll see you soon.” He taps my hat with his car number.
I wave at Noah over Santi’s shoulder, wishing I could hug him before he goes out there. Our secret is wearing on me and messing up my sleep cycles. Two races left until I can tell Santi everything, and I’m praying for the best reaction because he gets rattled easily.
Noah offers me a glorious smile before getting into his car.
“Damn girl, I don’t know how you ended up with that one. Sex on wheels.” Sophie winks at me except it comes off like a twitch.
I let out my first laugh of the day.
Nothing special happens during the beginning of the race. The grid has Liam in P1, with Noah, Jax, and my brother following behind. I don’t know how the other teams don’t get bored being on the back of the grid. But I guess they live their best lives anyway, happy to compete and do what they love every day. F1 calls them the “best of the rest.”
The racers take off, a few cars skidding and sliding across the wet pavement. Thankfully, both the McCoy and Bandini teams make it out of the
grid perfectly intact. Our boys drive down a narrow straight with Liam in the lead. Sophie smiles and claps her hands together when Noah fails to overtake him.
Bad news rings through the radio and television. Santi turns rapidly, and with the slick roads, he crashes during a tight turn. His car stalls next to a barrier wall with the left wheel dislodged and rolling away. He retires as a one-lap wonder.
My brother lets out his frustrations on camera. The radio buzzes with chatter as Sophie’s dad calms him down, soothing him like a parent would during a child’s tantrum. What a sucky job to work with hot-headed drivers.
“My dad deals with anger like a champ; no wonder he handled my teenage rage so well,” Sophie mumbles.
“He puts up with these two all season long so his patience must be endless.”
I try to imagine Sophie’s teen outbursts, resembling something along the lines of Tinkerbell stomping her foot.
My eyes remain glued on the television. “Santi’s going to be pissed for retiring early.”
Santi stands next to his car, the camera crew catching him smacking the red metal frame.
