Page 30 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

“And we’re not going to win if you keep driving like a maniac!”

The silence that follows is thick with animosity, punctuated by the roar of engines as other cars whip past Cole on the track.

This is a mistake. A colossal, career-ending, relationship-imploding mistake.

I slam my fist against the table, the flimsy metal wobbling precariously under the force of my frustration. We’re four hours into practice, and every run is one catastrophe after another. Cole has blown turns, missed apexes, and let’s not forget the near-miss with the wall that left my heart hammering in my chest and Cole spitting fire at me through the headset.

We are supposed to be a team. A united front. A force to be reckoned with.

Instead, we’re two volatile elements colliding, creating a storm of chaos and resentment that threatens to derail everything. The worst part? It isn’t just about the racing.

The memories of the other night, the tequila-fueled confessions, the feel of Cole’s hands on my skin, the lingering scent of his cologne in my nostrils… it all adds a layer of complexity, a dangerous undercurrent of unspoken emotions that makes it impossible to focus on the task at hand. And don’t get me started on the moment we shared at our old racetrack.

This is a job, Lola. A job. Remember the plan. Fake it till you make it. Cash the checks and get the hell out of Dodge before you end up with your heart scattered across the asphalt—again.

But even as I repeat the mantra, I can’t ignore the way my pulse quickens every time I hear Cole’s voice through the headset, the way my skin tingles at the memory of his touch, the way my gaze is drawn to him every time he roars past pit lane, his face a mask of concentration and his hands a blur of controlled power on the steering wheel.

“Lola, are you even listening?” Cole’s voice, laced with frustration, snaps me out of my spiral.

“Of course, I’m listening,” I retort, my voice sharper than intended. “What do you think I’m doing, knitting a damn scarf?”

“Sounds about right, given the pace we’re setting,” he mutters. “Look, we need to figure this out. I can’t drive like this, and you’re clearly not giving me the information I need.”

He’s right. We’re a hot freaking mess. Our communication is off, our timing is disastrous, and the tension between us is thicker than the Florida humidity.

This is your fault, Lola. You’re letting your emotions get in the way. You’re letting the past cloud your judgment. Ugh!

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the data scrolling across the laptop screen, ignoring the way my heart aches at the sound of Cole’s frustrated sighs.

“All right.” My voice is calmer now, more professional. “Let’s take it from the top. Same corner, same approach. This time, I’ll give you the braking point earlier, and you try to…”

But before I can finish the sentence, Cole cuts me off, his voice tight. “No. This isn’t working. We’re going about this all wrong.”

“What are you talking about?” I frown. “This is how it’s done, Cole. This is how you win races.”

“Not this race,” he says, his voice low and intense. “This isn’t just about lines and apexes, Lola. It’s about… trust. And right now, we have none.”

His words hit me with the power of a slap to the face, knocking the breath out of me. He’s right. We’re a tangled mess of history, resentment, and unspoken desires, and it’s bleeding into our work, poisoning our performance.

What do we do? How do we fix this?

For a moment, I’m lost, adrift in a sea of doubt and frustration. Then, a memory flickers, a lifeline from a time when things were simpler, when Cole and I spoke the same language and our passion for racing was all that mattered.

“Try it again, Cole,” I say, my voice quieter now, the sharp edge of frustration replaced by something softer, something almost… pleading.

“Lola…”

“Just trust me,” I repeat, my fingers hovering over the stereo controls. “One more run. Your way.”

He hesitates, then, with a sigh of resignation, says, “Fine. But if this doesn’t work…”

“It will,” I respond, more to myself than to him. Fake it till you make it, right?

As Cole roars back onto the track, the engine of the Viper a symphony of power and frustration, I hit play on the stereo, the familiar chords of Led Zeppelin filling the garage.

It was our song. Our anthem. A reminder of a time when we were young, reckless, and united by a shared dream.

The music washes over me, the drums a steady heartbeat, the guitar riffs a raw expression of emotion, the lyrics a reminder of a love that had once burned as bright as the sun.

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