Page 65 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

As I suit up, I can’t shake the feeling that this race is about more than just points. It’s a statement. To Chad, to the team, to Lola…

Hell, maybe even to myself.

The crew starts wheeling my car towards the pit lane. It’s showtime.

I turn to Lola one last time. “Hey.”

She looks up from her tablet, her eyes questioning. “What?”

I wink, a surge of adrenaline coursing through me. “Watch me fly.”

Her lips curve into a reluctant smile, a flicker of warmth in her gaze. “Just bring it home in one piece.”

As I walk away, helmet under my arm, I hear her mutter, “And yourself, too.”

The roar of engines fills my ears as I settle into the cockpit. The familiar confines of my car wrap around me like a second skin. This is where I belong. Where everything makes sense.

“Radio check, Cole,” Lola’s voice crackles in my ear, crisp and professional, a soothing balm to the chaos of the track.

“Loud and clear, boss lady,” I reply, a grin spreading across my face.

“Focus, hotshot,” she warns, but I catch the hint of amusement in her tone, a reminder of the woman beneath the headset. “Remember, we’re expecting rain in the second half. Be ready to switch to wets.”

I rev the engine, feeling the raw power thrumming through the chassis, the vibration echoing the anticipation building in my chest. “Copy that. Any sign of Chad?”

A pause and then her voice comes back, cool and steady. “He’s two spots behind you on the grid. Don’t let him get in your head.”

“Not a chance,” I growl, gripping the steering wheel tighter, a surge of competitive fire coursing through me. This fucking guy has caused enough chaos in our lives, I’m not about to give him anything else.

The formation lap begins, a slow procession around the track, the calm before the storm. I use the time to get a feel for the car, for the track conditions. Everything feels good. Damn good.

As we line up on the starting grid, I catch a glimpse of Chad’s car in my mirror. His helmet gleams in the sun, a predator waiting to pounce. But I’m not prey. Not today.

“Thirty seconds,” Lola’s voice is calm, steady, an anchor in the storm of adrenaline and anticipation that threatens to consume me.

I take a deep breath, visualizing the first turn, the rush of speed, the battle ahead. The lights begin to illuminate, counting down the seconds to ignition. One red. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The world narrows to a pinpoint of focus.

Lights out.

And then, we race.

I slam the throttle, catapulting off the line. The roar of engines surrounds me as twenty cars jockey for position into the first turn, a stunning masterpiece of speed and aggression.

“Great start, Cole!” Lola’s voice is electric with excitement, a surge of adrenaline in my ear. “P2 into turn one. Watch your left. Verstappen’s trying to sneak inside.”

I hug the inside line, feeling the car dance on the edge of the grip, the tires screaming in protest. This is living. This is flying. This is what I was born to do.

As we scream down the back straight, I catch sight of Chad’s car, doggedly pursuing, a blur of blue and chrome in my rearview mirror. But I have the line. I have the speed.

And I have Lola in my ear, guiding me home.

“You’ve got this, Cole,” she says, her voice steady and sure, a beacon in the chaos of the race. “Show them what you’ve got.”

I grin behind my visor, pushing the car harder, the engine roaring its approval. Chad, the team politics, even my feelings for Lola, all fade away as I lose myself in the rhythm of the race.

Right now, there’s only the track, the car, and the burning desire to win.

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