Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

“Try not to crash into my boyfriend this time,” I mumble into his chest.

“I was planning on knocking Liam out. Seemed like a safer bet because that guy can’t hold a grudge to save his life.”

Our bodies shake from laughing. We break apart, and Santi hops into his car, waving at me as the crew pulls him away.

I hang out in pit row, preferring to be close instead of lost somewhere in the crowd. Earlier, Noah reserved Grandstand VIP tickets for my parents so they could experience a Prix like real fans. My heart swelled at the look of appreciation my parents offered him, both of them unaware of how much it means to Noah to have someone rooting for his team. Noah, a man denied of love and affection, craves my family’s acceptance more than anything.

Race cars zipping down the track do little to calm me. Noah’s car speeds by, a red blur with an engine reverberating off the walls. McCoy cars follow behind, creating a vortex of sound and dirty air.

Noah deserves the World Championship, and honestly, I want him to win, hoping it can help us overcome these worries.

Sorry, Santi. I’m loyal to my boyfriend, too.

A few cars crash throughout the laps. One of the drivers from Albrecht can’t catch a break this season, leaving behind a crumpled mess of a car after turn three.

Cars lap around the track. Sports announcers talk about Noah’s swift recovery after his tragic loss in Brazil, his racing a testament to his will to win. My heart taps against my chest, unrelenting during the first few laps. No hiccups yet. I take my first steady breaths once Noah makes it through his first ten laps with no issues.

Round and round cars go, careening through the track. Racers complete laps in less than two minutes. The Prix rankings are close, with Bandini seconds away from McCoy, Santi trailing behind Noah with Liam in the lead. Noah’s engine roars as he pulls in for a pit stop to get new tires. His last one for this season. He takes off again, spitting himself back out onto the track, eating up any time lost.

Noah completes his forty-fourth lap, only eleven circuits left between him and the winter break. His car hangs behind Liam, putting him in second place. He can’t win the World Championship if he keeps the runner-up position.

His car jerks, the movement unfamiliar. Like he hesitates. Noah’s reputation for overtaking cars is missing, his usual swagger on the racetrack not coming out.

“Maya, I need you to get over here.” Sophie’s dad waves me over.

I don’t hide my surprise when he hands me the headset that communicates with Noah.

He presses the mute button, taking a deep inhale while rubbing his temple. His intense green eyes bore into mine.

“Noah wants to talk to you. The nerves got to him, and he thinks you can calm him down. Help him out. His place in the Championship rests on you working with him. If he doesn’t get over this, he may never come back to race because fears like this can ruin a career.”

Okay, no pressure. Understatement of the year. But I don’t have a second to linger on it. I grab the headphones, situate the microphone, and unmute myself.

“Hi, this is Maya. Do you copy?” I try to imitate team radio videos that Noah and I have watched online.

Noah’s chuckle sounds through the headphones. “Hi, this is Noah. I copy.”

“Well, I’m going to be shit at this job. But hold on. There’s a red car behind you moving pretty fast. There’s one car in front of you also going exceptionally fast. About three clicks away.”

“You’re nailing it. Keep it up. Not sure what three clicks means but…”

I laugh into the mic. Can’t wait for sports announcers to listen in and comment on our conversation.

Wanting privacy from the crew, I walk up to the railing that overlooks pit row. A television hanging above offers an overhead view of the track. Cars squeal in the distance. Useless lights blink all over the computer screen, offering me nothing but confusion.

“Hmm, there’s an amazing driver with the number twenty-eight on his car. But he won’t overtake the driver in front of him. What’s going on?”

Noah makes it past another lap. He holds back, not acting aggressive enough to win the whole thing.

“Tell me more about this great driver. I don’t know if I see him out here.” His voice strains.

My heart dips at the thought of him panicking in the middle of a race. “They say Noah Slade’s basically the best. Likes to break records, on the racetrack and in the bedroom. You gotta be careful with him.”

He lets out a hoarse laugh.

“This is going to be a terrible team radio video. I’ll end up on YouTube, perdóname Mami y Papi. Ignore this.”

Noah speeds up after turning. Good.