Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

We finish up answering questions and I leave the stage. I don’t want to be there for another minute more. I’m mentally done with today.

Nothing tops the buzz of a race day. Everyone deals with their pressure differently, tensions escalating as we approach Prix time. Anticipation of events keeps everyone up and running. Sundays are my favorite day of the week because who needs a church when I have a front-row seat to heaven.

Every racer does quick rounds to appease fans and sponsors, including meet-and-greets, parades, and interviews—the usual crowd-pleasing and ass-kissing. Following that, I do my typical engine checks and attend a pre-race stage event with an end goal of alone time in my Bandini suite.

This sport exhausts the best of us. I love it, but it wears a person down through the years.

The small Bandini suites can’t compare to the motorhomes the team builds during the European leg of the tour. The plain room gets us by, with enough essentials to appease the racers, including a couch and a mini fridge stocked with waters.

Music is my preferred method of easing nerves before races. I have a playlist and everything for each day of racing since I tend to be a creature of habit who prefers solitude. Unlike other drivers, I leave the celebrating for after a race when I actually win. No one likes a guy who parties prematurely and doesn’t even end up on the podium. We leave that for the sucky teams.

Maya’s laugh seeps through the thin walls. Santiago acts differently from other Bandini guys, not minding Maya hanging around with him while he preps for the race. Small quarters don’t allow for much privacy around here. I try my best to not listen, but I find the task difficult with our shared wall, telling myself whatever I overhear isn’t my fault.

Maya’s voice carries into my room. “Remember when you had your first kart race? You almost threw up inside your helmet, your nerves shot after that kid nearly crashed into you.”

I like the sound of Maya’s soft laugh.

“It was intense. Never underestimate an adrenaline rush because they’re no joke. I think it took an hour for my heart to slow down and the nausea to go away. How do you even remember that? You were like six at most.”

“Mom showed me a video of that race. They were reminiscing the day you signed the Bandini contract, including showing me tons of videos of you in your kart. They’re so proud of you.” Maya’s voice sounds sentimental.

My parents never filmed my races, let alone watched them with a wave of nostalgia.

“You know they’re proud of you, too, right? With starting up your own vlog and supporting me.”

Maya sighs. “Yeah, but you’re the success story, and they sacrificed everything for you. The vlog is starting out, and things like that take time. Let’s see what happens because I don’t want to disappoint myself or anyone else. It’s hard to get a decent following.”

“I’ll share something you post to help you gain followers. Plus, you’re around a bunch of famous people—word will get out eventually. Just watch.”

Curiosity pushes me to see what she vlogs about. I pick up my phone and google her, quickly finding and bookmarking her channel for later when I have time to check it out.

I also go ahead and request to follow her on Instagram since she set her account to private. Fuck it, why not. I’m curious, nothing more.

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.