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“Liam, any damage?” Chris’s voice sounds off in my earpiece.
“Let me pull over and check it out.” My voice drips with sarcasm.
“I don’t know what lit a fire under your ass but keep it up. You may redeem your Sochi shittiness.” Chris mutes himself.
“Fucking better.” Labored breaths escape my mouth. People underestimate the physical exhaustion that comes with driving these cars, with racers sweating worse than a husband filing for a divorce without a prenup.
The crowd screams over the howls of the car engines. By lap fifty-two, I have a podium finish in the bag. The thought of winning the bet makes me grin behind my helmet.
I raise a fist in the air as my car crosses the finish line. Looks like I secured a date with the hottest girl in Bandini and landed myself on the podium—two wins worth chugging champagne.
I take the stage with Santiago and Noah. Maya and Sophie hang out in the VIP area off to the side of the stage, watching us from afar. Podium ceremonies include a few of my favorite things: winners, exploding champagne bottles, and fans. Music booms from the stage speakers, drowning out screams from the crowd.
A few F1 attendants pass us massive bottles of champagne. Noah, Santi, and I shake the bottles before the resounding pop fills the air. We spray the crowds and each other with the contents before we chug any remaining liquid.
From across the event, I point the tip of my bottle at Sophie. My jaw hurts from smiling so damn much. Screw ramifications. Abstinence deserves a small reward, and I’m ready to claim my prize.
