Page 154 of Knot So Fast
Kieran sighs, but I can see him accepting the inevitable. "Fine. But if things go south, you let Lachlan lead and don't care about your position. Promise me."
"I promise," I say, and mostly mean it.
He leans down and kisses me quickly—a brief press of lips that's over before anyone can capture it on camera but carries enough emotion to make my migraine temporarily take a backseat. Then he's lowering my visor with careful hands, the world suddenly tinted by the special coating that reduces glare.
"Get her strapped in properly," he calls to the crew, his voice carrying that authority that makes people jump to comply. "And double-check everything. I mean everything."
The crew swarms around me with practiced efficiency, hands checking harnesses, connections, systems. Someone slides my steering wheel into place with a satisfying click. The drinks system tube is positioned perfectly. My gloves are already on, the grip tape fresh and tacky.
The familiar crackle of the radio fills my helmet as the system comes online.
"Sugar, you good?" Lachlan's voice is calm but I can hear the undercurrent of concern. Kieran must have already ratted me out.
"I'm good," I assure him, settling deeper into the molded seat. "Migraine and all, but I've raced through worse."
"You take meds earlier?"
"Yeah, about an hour ago. They just need to kick in." The medication is the strong stuff—the kind that would knock a normal person on their ass but barely takes the edge off when adrenaline is involved.
"You sure you're good?" he presses, and I can picture him in his car, probably gripping his steering wheel with the same concerned expression Kieran just had.
"Wolf, I swear on your championship trophies that I'm fine. Stop fussing before I tell everyone about your teddy bear collection."
"I don't have a—" he starts to protest, then huffs through the radio. "You're impossible."
"You love it," I tease, then add with deliberate sweetness, "Better get first or no dessert tonight."
His grumble comes through loud and clear, but I can hear Harrison and several mechanics laughing in the background. Everyone knows exactly what kind of "dessert" I'm referring to, and the innuendo is intentional. It's good to keep things light before a race—tension makes people make mistakes.
"Thirty seconds to pit lane open," Harrison announces, all business now.
I run through my pre-race routine—wiggling my fingers to ensure full movement in the gloves, checking my mirrors even though they were perfectly adjusted five minutes ago, testing the brake pedal travel, then the throttle response. Everything feels normal, optimal, ready.
The pit lane opens and we roll out in formation—Lachlan first from pole position, me starting from fifth after a mediocre qualifying session where the migraine first made its appearance. The installation lap is slow, deliberate, everyone weaving to get temperature into their tires while being careful not to cook them before the race even starts.
Montreal's Circuit Gilles Villeneuve is a beast of a track—long straights that murder your engines, chicanes that punish the slightest mistake, and the infamous Wall of Champions that's claimed more than its share of victims over the years. Thetrack surface is bumpy, rippled from winter freeze-thaw cycles, making the car skip and dance even at low speeds.
We form up on the grid, engines screaming as we wait for the lights. My migraine chooses this moment to pulse with particular viciousness, making me squeeze my eyes shut for a second. When I open them, the lights are beginning their sequence.
One red. Two red. Three. Four. Five.
The moment stretches like taffy, everything going quiet except for my heartbeat and the angry growl of twenty engines ready to unleash violence.
Lights out.
The start is chaos as always—twenty cars trying to funnel into a space meant for one, everyone fighting for position with millimeter precision and balls-out aggression. I get a decent launch, the rear tires hooking up better than expected, and I'm alongside the McLaren into turn one.
We're three-wide going into the first chicane, which is absolutely insane, but somehow we all make it through. I've gained a position, now fourth, with Dimitri's blood-red Ferrari filling my mirrors like a bad omen.
The first stint is all about tire management. The soft compounds we're starting on will give us speed but they'll fall off a cliff if pushed too hard too early. I settle into a rhythm—brake, turn, accelerate, repeat. The car feels good underneath me, responsive and balanced despite the bumpy surface trying to unsettle it at every opportunity.
"Gap to Dimitri is 1.2," Harrison informs me. "You're matching his pace."
The Russian is right on my gearbox, close enough that I can see his helmet moving as he looks for overtaking opportunities. Every straight he pulls alongside, every braking zone he divebombs, but I hold firm. Defense is an art form—knowingwhen to cover the inside, when to compromise your own line to force them to take the longer way around.
Lap after lap we dice, neither giving an inch. The Canadian crowd loves it—I can see the grandstands erupting every time we go through the stadium section locked in combat. This is what racing is supposed to be—two drivers pushing each other to the absolute limit of adhesion and bravery.
"Box, box, box," Harrison calls on lap 25. "Box this lap for new tires."
