Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

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.

By the time he makes his way back to his room, he looks calm. I get up from the small couch and give him a hug. His sweaty body plasters to mine as my lungs get a deep inhale of oil, sweat, and rubber. Kind of gross. I pretend to gag as I wrap my arms around him, my head barely reaching his shoulders.

“You tried hard. Fourth place is good, and you’ll be on the podium next time.”

He returns my hug. “I’m disappointed I didn’t try to cut around more. I played it too safe because I was scared of messing up the car.”

“You can’t race with a fearful mindset. You never have before, and you shouldn’t start now, not when you’re racing against the best. Think of it as another car with plenty of parts to fix anything.”

Despite today’s cautious performance, Santi has a rep of being ruthless on the track.

“You’re right, I’ll bring my best next time. Screw it.” He pulls away from me.

Santi beats himself up whenever he doesn’t place on the podium. I believe he can succeed next time out on the course, especially with plenty of races for him to improve his standing for the World Championship.

“I’m going to have to show up at the after-party to congratulate Noah. It’s what sponsors would want, and I don’t want to look like a sore loser.” He sticks his tongue out at me. “Top five isn’t that bad for the first one. I’ll bounce back.” A telling smile crosses his face. Santi cares about losing, but he won’t let it get in the way of his professionalism. What an adult.

Yay for team spirit.

“Then we better get going. Let’s go wish Noah a job well done.” I give him a mischievous grin.

Noah may put on a whole arrogant show, but he backs it up with his racing. His performance makes it obvious why fans love him.

I sense the excitement from the rowdy crowd once Santi and I walk up to the podium event. Groups of them gather around, bouncing along to the music streaming from the speakers on the stage, waving around face poster cutouts of Liam and Noah. I can’t imagine being so famous that people actually pay for big blown-up pictures of your face. Watching my own face staring back at me would make me die of embarrassment, right there on the stage floor.

Santi and I hang out in a VIP area off to the side, enjoying the show from a less sweaty and chaotic distance. My preferable choice. We have a full visual of the winners’ podium, including the perfect view of Noah spraying his champagne on Liam. I sigh at the display. Santi looks over at me and raises his brow. I cover up my laugh with a cough, embarrassment tinging my cheeks.

In F1, champagne is the messier equivalent of confetti launchers at other sporting events. Drivers shake bottles and splatter the contents everywhere. The crowd roars as champagne splashes on them, opening their mouths to capture droplets. Who needs Girls Gone Wild when you have F1 podiums?

Santi drops his disappointed mood, replacing his frown with a smile as all of them celebrate on stage. He even cheers when they announce all of the winners.

We find Noah, Liam, and the other winner outside of the press building after a post-race conference to say congratulations to them. I choose to give a thumbs up while saying hi, barely suppressing a groan at how awkward I look. Smooth, Maya. Killing it.

Noah lets out a gruff snicker at my attempt, along with Liam barking out a laugh, adding to my embarrassment. Can’t fault myself when I have no idea how to greet them.

I stand around awkwardly. Santi offers Noah and Liam a typical guy handshake and slap on the back move. Noah’s eyes heat up at the sight of me, swirling with deeper shades of blue than usual as they trail down my body. He flatters me. Either he sucks at subtlety, or he doesn’t care if I notice.