Page 25 of Crash Course Omega
He’ll punch me again if he finds out my thoughts, but I don’t trust him further than I could throw him.
Maddock has the same flavor of obsessed as Carl, and it rattled me the first time I saw how far he’s willing to go to get that top spot on the podium.
Panic is the thing that really gets me going. Because memories start ruffling me again. Of laughing and joking with Carl, promising each other a good race, swearing we’d never quit until we won a championship. And then standing there as the fire surged and the ambulance carried him away.
People think I’m a careful driver, but I’m just shitting my pants all the time—figuratively speaking—because I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.
I would have quit if it wasn’t for that damn promise I made Carl.
I just have to pray the dumb man isn’t going to try to kill himself like he did on the hairpin last weekend.
My nerves flying, my heart in my throat, I keep my eyes on the track. But Maddock’s green and white car stands out like a bucking stallion as he races away.
“Fuck me, Jaxx, I think he’s going to do it,” my engineer says.
Our laps are only 1.40 seconds. Give it thirty seconds and I’ll know.
I grit my teeth like I’m chewing leather as I push myself up to 250kmph. The burnt caramel Cuba Libre car is flat out for speed, but our machines are better.
If I can finish P3, it will move the Grace team up to first in the Constructor’s rankings.
I have to focus on my own results. And not the fear pumping through me that’s telling me to chase after Maddock like our lives depend on.
Maddock has been driving eons longer than me; he knows for sure what he’s doing.
That’s what I keep telling myself as my engine screams and my teeth rattle as I chase after P3 like the devil.
“He’s nearly there, Jaxx. Just hold the fuck on. Keep it steady, okay?”
The second he gets over that line, I can relax.
But he vanishes from my sight as he swings into the last ninety-degree turn of the track, and another stab of fear hits me.
It’s like I need to keep my eyes on him, or he’ll crash.
In the blur of madness where my excitement and panic fuse, I speed past the Cuba Libre to awkwardly brake and get myself around the corner.
The second my car turns, I scan the track like a sonar, searching for my partner's tail.
The instant I see him on four wheels, keeping steady, I choke out a breath.
“Jaxx! Jesus Christ! Can you see him!?”
“I got him! I’ve got it!” I shout back.
Maddock’s there, pulling out onto the track, moments from overtaking, and I want to be up there with him. I don’t care about who’s in front or behind me; I want to be there with my teammate when he gets his first win of his F1 career.
The checkered flag is waving and rippling in the distance, and shouts are already echoing like a choir around the track as thousands of fans yell his name.
P2 is right ahead of me, but I don’t need it. My gaze is fixed on Maddock as he soars past the flags in first, and shouts burst in my ears as the comms team cheers.
I shout along with them, thrusting my hand above the halo to shake my fist in the air as the flags whip by.
I want to hug him already, but we have to do a last lap to cool down the cars, like calming our wild horses before stabling them. Then we can safely pull into the grid area where the winners line up and run over to the team to celebrate.
Everyone burns through the track, celebrating with the crowd as we bring down the speed, and soften the engines. And we stay in our positions the whole time.
I want to get ahead of the P2 just so I can drive next to him and holler at him so he’ll glare at me.
