Page 57 of Tipping Point

Ahead of them are only Jasper de Vries and Ollie Blythe from Velocity.

Matteo and Rheese are really at it and they’re taking up the whole fucking track with their back and forth, side to side.

We’ll approach the complex soon, a series of technical high-speed corners. It would have to be there.

Matteo fucks up. In his effort to keep Rheese at bay, he’s entering the corner at a compromised angle, slightly off the optimal line. With their jostling, they could fuck up my car if we touch for as much as a millisecond. I adjust my own entry angle and opt for a wide. I’m still too fast, but they aren’t focused on me.

As we come out of the corner, they’re still next to each other, tyres huffing up smoke and sparks, and I slingshot out from behind them, using their combined slipstream as the car lurches forward.

I miss them by millimeters. Three cars wide on the straight and I can see the crowd is going nuts.

There isn’t enough room for three cars with the upcoming turn.

Now it’s a game of chicken.

They’re playing chicken with a dead man. I do not give a fuck. I hate myself. I am a piece of human garbage. Because all this week I’ve been thinking that I could ask her out. I could make her believe I’m coming round. That I’d entertain more than just a casual fling.

She’ll give in to me if she thinks I’m doing it her way.

That would make me a lying motherfucker.

Erik’s panicked voice is shouting out over comms, and I don’t care, I can’t fucking deal with this shit anymore.

We are going to crash.

Rheese pulls up first because he’s a pussy, but it gives room for Matteo to follow suit and I gear down for the corner and fly out ahead of them, the car clinging to the road and leaving behind a cloud of smoke.

“P four! P Four!” Erik is shouting. I can hear he’s out of breath.

Lorenzo puts up a fight, but he isn’t willing to risk his car or his life, so he relents after we white knuckle a dangerous turn and he has to hit the gravel to get out of my way.

I pass Jasper de Vries on pure luck. He fucked up his car in a tussle with another driver early in the race and his suspension is shot, so he’s swerving all over the place. At high speed. Crazy motherfucker.

Ollie, far ahead, crosses the finish line.

I follow a couple of seconds after.

I place second.

I can’t hear what Erik is shouting. It’s just a pure bellow of exultation.

I don’t get out of the car; I’m dragged from it. The whole Delta Victor crew has stormed the car and most of them are crying. Jack’s face is red, and he can’t get a word out. Opts for grabbing a fistful of my clothes under my chin and shaking me like a rag doll. Erik grabs me round the neck from behind, practically strangling me. I’m sandwiched between him and Jack and a ton of crew members are raining down congratulatory slaps on me. It’s physical and overwhelming and it takes me right the fuck back to when I could do this.

You did it today.

They drag and shove me over to the steps and I climb them up, incredulity seeping through me.

A fucking podium finish.

My head is absolutely quiet. The silence rings out in waves from my core. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Ollie is on the podium, standing in the middle. Like me, his suit is open to the waist and the top half hangs behind him. He is grinning ear to ear and slaps me on the shoulder when I walk past him to step up to second place.

A girl in a very short miniskirt and an Annual Grande Prima shirt steps up to hand me a silver trophy.

The crowd goes absolutely wild below us. Jack’s and Erik’s bellows are all I can hear. They still aren’t forming words.

The crew have their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders in a line and are jumping up and down in tandem.

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