Page 73 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

“Ready when you are, boss lady,” he replies, a hint of that cocky grin I know so well audible in his voice.

I draw a deep breath, steeling myself for the onslaught of data, the split-second decisions, the calculated risks that define my role in this high-stakes race.

“Five… four… three… two… one… Lights out!”

And then, the world explodes.

My monitors come alive with a torrent of data—lap times, tire pressures, fuel consumption—a constant stream of information that I process, analyze, and translate into strategic commands.

“Good start, Cole! P3 going into turn one. Hold your line. Don’t let Verstappen push you wide.”

I watch the track map intently, my fingers flying across the keyboard, adjusting fuel mixtures, calculating optimal pit stop windows, anticipating every move our rivals might make. The tension in the garage is palpable, the crew huddled around their monitors, their faces reflecting the intensity of the battle unfolding before us.

“Hamilton’s on a charge, Cole. He’s closing in on P2. We need to build a gap.”

“Got it, Lola,” he replies, his voice tight with concentration. “I’m pushing her as hard as I can.”

The first twenty laps are a blur of adrenaline and calculations, a high-stakes chess match played out at 200 miles per hour. Cole fights for every inch of asphalt, every tenth of a second, his skill and determination a force to be reckoned with.

But it’s more than just strategy, more than just data that guides us. It’s the connection we’ve forged, the unspoken understanding that flows between us, a bond forged in the heat of competition and fueled by a passion that burns hotter than any engine.

And as I listen to his engine roar and his voice crackle through the headset, I can’t help but remember the feel of his hands on my skin, the taste of his lips, the fierce hunger in his eyes.

“Lap thirty, Cole,” I announce, my voice steady despite the knot of anxiety twisting in my gut. “Pit window opens in five. We’re going for a two-stop strategy. Get ready to come in.”

“Copy that, Lola.” His voice is calm, focused, but I hear the strain beneath the surface, the relentless pressure of pushing the car to its limits.

“And Cole?” I add, my voice softening, a hint of the worry I can’t quite suppress creeping in. “Be careful out there. Chad’s been driving like a man possessed.”

A beat of silence, and then his voice comes back, laced with wry amusement. “Always am, boss lady. Especially when you’re watching.”

My cheeks heat at his words, a reminder of the intimacy we shared just before the race, the memory a dangerous distraction in this high-pressure environment. I push it aside, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand.

“Pitting this lap, Lola,” Cole confirms moments later.

“Box, box, box!” I relay the command to the crew, my voice sharp, urgent. The team springs into action, a well-oiled machine honed to perfection. Tires screech as Cole enters the pit lane, the Viper a blur of black and silver as it slides to a stop in front of our box.

The crew swarms the car, a dance of precision and speed, changing tires, and refueling. It’s a masterpiece of clangingmetal and shouted instructions right before he merges back into the race. My eyes dart across the monitors, taking in every variable, every tenth of a second lost or gained.

“Great stop, guys! We’re back out in P2. Verstappen’s still leading, but you’re closing the gap, Cole.”

“He won’t hold it for long,” Cole’s voice crackles back, a fierce determination in his tone. “This championship is coming home with us, Lola.”

But as the race enters its final stages, the tension ratchets up, the stakes higher than ever. Verstappen is pushing hard, refusing to yield the lead, and Chad, true to his word, is driving like a madman, a reckless, desperate force determined to sabotage our victory.

“Watch out for Chad, Cole. He’s right on your tail, and he’s not playing fair.” My voice is tight with worry, my gut clenching as I watch the two cars battle for position on the track map, their icons mere millimeters apart.

My warning comes a second too late.

A collective gasp ripples through the garage as Chad, in a move that can only be described as reckless and dangerous, dives inside Cole on a tight corner, his car clipping the Viper’s rear end. The black and silver car spins, a terrifying combination of metal and smoke, before slamming into the barrier with a sickening crunch that echoes through my headset, through my very bones.

Silence descends on the garage, a suffocating blanket of dread.

Then, my headset explodes with the frantic shouts of the marshals, the panicked voices of the commentators, the urgent pleas from my own crew. But all I can hear is the deafening silence from Cole, the absence of his voice a gaping hole in the chaos.

“Cole!” My voice cracks, my carefully constructed composure shattering. “Cole, report! Are you okay?”

The silence stretches, an eternity of agonizing seconds. Then, a voice, not Cole’s, crackles through my headset.

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