Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(16)

Their voices drop too low for me to catch the rest of their conversation. I find it difficult to imagine a childhood like Maya’s since I’m an only child with no competition for my parents’ limited attention. Hit the parent jackpot. They never married, avoiding a financial train wreck, messy divorce, and custody agreement neither of them wanted.

I put my headphones on and tune out the rest of their conversation. Eavesdropping distracted me enough, pulling me away from my usual mental clearing before races.

Not soon after, Santiago and I prepare for our cars. We zip up our matching race suits and grab our helmets. I touch the scarlet red paint, my hand running across the signature glossy coat of Bandini cars, the warm engine running beneath my fingertips. Ready to go. Even after all these years with the team, I still do this same pre-race ritual. My favorite lullaby is the rumbling sound of the car.

I lie down in my seat and strap myself into the cockpit, the clicking of the belt further securing me. One of the techs hands me my gloves and steering wheel as I take a few deep breaths to ease my nerves.

The crew and I roll up to the front of the group, situating me in the P1 spot while testing my radio connection. I grin to myself beneath my helmet. Pole position will always be the most ideal spot in the whole Prix, and pride fills me that I claimed it. Have to start the year with a boom.

My heart pounds in my chest, the rhythm similar to the shaking of the engine. The team slips off my tire warmers before they rush off the pavement.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five red lights shut off. My foot pushes on the accelerator and my car speeds down the runway, hitting a neck-breaking pace as tires rub against the pavement. Commotion buzzes through my earpiece. Team members speak to me, telling me how Liam stays behind me, with Jax overtaking Santiago at the front.

Fuck, I love this feeling. Nerves fire off in my body as adrenaline seeps into my blood, the sound of tires screeching across the pavement competing with the whooshing in my ears. Bodily sensations breathe new life into me. The engine hums as I push the car to its max capacity, testing the limits of the new race car model. My lungs tighten in my chest as I approach the first turn. I tap into my reflexes, becoming one with the car.

The beautifully executed turn happens in a blink. I tune out most of the radio chatter that sounds off through my helmet, concentrating on breathing in and out to relax my heart rate.

I continue to hold down my position as the race leader while we twist and turn down the track. If the team didn’t keep me updated, I’d lose count of the laps. My car rips through the road like nothing. Liam tries to overtake me at one of the turns but fails, his car falling back behind mine, sucking up the dirty air. The team principal shares who else may threaten my lead.

The race is touch and go between Liam and me for a while. A similar season start—both of us vying for the top-place spot. We have a competitive relationship on the track, knowing each other’s moves since we were kids in karts. Both of our teams strategize with us for ways to beat each other.

Santiago isn’t even a blip on my radar, seeing as the team hasn’t spoken a single word about him.

I take a quick pit stop halfway through the race to get new tires. My car stops in the pit lane, allowing the mechanics to take over with their drills and machines. Process takes one point eight seconds. I thank the team via radio for their quick turnover time. A speedy pit crew are the unsung heroes of F1, the ones who make the magic happen once I box in the garage area.

I talk back and forth with a race engineer during my drive, communicating competitors’ positions and specs. He wants to check in on how the car feels for the first race. The team shares strategies and I follow along for the most part, but some calls I make on my own because they don’t pay me millions to follow every command. They trust me behind the wheel.

I continue to hold the front-runner position for most of the fifty-seven laps. Liam overtakes me a couple times, but I beat him back into second place with ballsy turns. He flips me off after I threaten to hit him during one curve. With one lap left, Liam will come out in second place, and Santiago will end up in fourth.

The sweet sound of engines roaring fills my ears. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly as I make the last turn toward the finish line. I push down on the peddle a few seconds early, allowing me to surge past the waving checkered flag before Liam. Fans scream as they announce I won the Prix.

“Fuck yes, guys, what a big win! Thank you, everyone. Amazing first race. Let’s fucking go!” My foot lifts off the throttle.

The radio buzzes with cheers.

I throw my fist in the air, proud of a race well done. Suck it, Santiago.





7





Maya


My heart speeds up as Noah passes the finish line. Santi follows soon after, his car a red blur as he completes a cool-down lap. His performance on the track will frustrate him despite driving well. He still gets points for the Constructors’ Championship, but in the end, against these other guys, it’s not good enough. That’s the life of high stakes and large salaries. Plus, the pressure of a big racing team and a pricey contract are on my brother’s mind.

I meet Santi near the pit area. He smiles at the team when he gets out of the car, shaking hands and thanking the pit crew—an image of good sportsmanship. His jaw twitches while he signs fans’ gear at a crowd barrier. Not wanting to get in the way, I decide to meet him in his suite instead of waiting outside. Better for him to relax first.