Crashing Into You

The carbon-fiber cockpit of a Formula 1 car doesn’t grant you space to breathe. It traps you. It seals you inside a three-hundred-kilometer-per-hour coffin wrapped in Kevlar, high-octane race fuel, and heat so dense it turns the air inside your helmet into liquid fire.

I gripped the custom-molded steering wheel, my gloved thumbs digging hard into the suede grips until the fabric stretched taut across my knuckles. My heart hammered against my ribs—a frantic, irregular rhythm reading loud and clear on the telemetry monitor mounted inside the Apex Racing pit garage.

152 BPM.

"Tachometer reading stable, Maya," the voice of my chief engineer, Frank, crackled through my helmet radio. "Track temp is forty-two degrees. Sun’s coming out over the circuit. Bring the tires up to temperature on your out-lap. Don't push the rear end until turn four."

"Copy, Frank," I said, my voice flat, masking the adrenaline roaring in my ears.

Through the tinted visor of my helmet, I looked down at my left hand. Underneath the fireproof Nomex fabric lay a raised, jagged scar stretching from my forearm down to my wrist—a constant, throbbing reminder of the night my career had flipped upside down. Two years of reconstructive surgeries. Two years of agonizing physical therapy. Two years of watching the men on this grid talk about me in hushed, dismissive tones, treating me like a tragic footnote in motorsport history.

The girl who almost died trying to play with the big boys.

Now, I was back. The first woman on the modern Grand Prix grid.

I hit the ignition toggle. The twin-turbocharged V6 engine behind my skull screamed to life with a bone-rattling roar that vibrated through my teeth and shook the concrete floor beneath the chassis. Mechanics scrambled, tire warmers were ripped away, and the pit crew backed off, giving me the clear signal.

I dropped the clutch paddle, tapped the throttle, and shot out of the garage into the glaring sun of the pit lane.

The car was a wild beast under my hands, twitching over every seam in the tarmac. I wove the chassis left and right, scrubbing the fresh slick tires against the pavement to build heat. My eyes locked onto the apexes ahead. For three laps, I was fluent. I hit every braking point with razor precision, feeling the brutal 5G loads pulling at my neck as I swept through the high-speed curves.

For three laps, I wasn't the victim of a crash. I was just fast.

Then, a digital pit board flashed from the wall as I roared past the main straight.

[P2 — +0.412s BEHIND CAR 01]

Car 01.

My chest tightened instantly. Four-time World Champion. The gold standard of Apex Racing. The man whose silver machine was currently sitting at the top of the timing screens.

Julian Thorne.

"Good lap, Maya, but you're losing four-tenths in Sector Two," Frank’s voice returned over the radio, but before I could reply, another voice cut across the channel—cold, heavy, and commanding.

"She’s braking three meters too early into Turn Seven because she's afraid of the outer curb," Julian’s deep baritone sliced through the static, sending a chill straight down my spine. "Tell her to carry the speed through the apex, or she’s wasting fuel."

I slammed my thumb down onto the radio button on my wheel. "I don't need line advice from the driver's lounge, Julian. Keep your eyes on your own telemetry."

"My telemetry is already four-tenths faster than yours, Maya," Julian replied, his voice terrifyingly calm. "And until you fix your entry speed, you’re holding up the garage."

"Bring it in, Maya. Pit lane is open," Frank interrupted quickly, sensing the rising temperature between us.

I ground my teeth together, pulling into the pit lane and coasting down to the pit box. The moment the car stopped, the air jacks lifted the chassis, and the engine died into a deafening silence.

I popped the steering wheel off, set it on the nose cone, and hauled myself out of the cockpit. The humid air hit my face as I pulled off my helmet and balaclava, shaking out my sweat-soaked hair.

Standing right at the edge of the pit garage, leaning casually against the tool stack with his arms folded across his chest, was Julian Thorne.

He was wearing his black Apex Racing fire suit pulled down to his waist, revealing a dark compression shirt that clung to the broad span of his shoulders and chest. His dark hair was messy from his own helmet, and his sharp, icy-blue eyes locked onto mine the second I stepped out of the car.

He was six-foot-two of pure muscle, arrogance, and ruthless talent. And he was the exact reason my life had fractured two years ago.

"You're turning in too late," Julian said as I grabbed a towel and a bottle of water, stepping past him toward the cooler air of the telemetry suite. He didn't move an inch, forcing me to brush against his arm as I walked by. The heat radiating off him made my skin prickle. "You're fighting the steering wheel because you don't trust the front-end downforce."

I stopped in my tracks and turned around, standing toe-to-toe with him. "I don't remember asking for a coach, Julian."

"You didn't," a loud, booming voice interrupted.

Victor Sterling, the Chairman of the Board for Apex Racing, walked into the telemetry room. He was dressed in a pristine navy suit, his expression cold and calculating as he looked down his nose at me.

"Mr. Sterling," I said, holding my chin high despite the sweat dripping down my neck.

"Impressive laps for a driver who’s been out of a seat for twenty-four months, Miss Vance," Sterling said, though there was zero warmth in his eyes. "But impressive isn't going to satisfy our sponsors. Or our board."

Sterling stepped forward, tapping his pen against a digital tablet displaying the team’s financial projections.

"Let’s be entirely clear about why you’re in this seat," Sterling continued, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "The board was against signing a female driver. They think it’s a publicity stunt that will cost us points in the Constructors' Championship. You have ten races, Maya. Ten races to score consistent points and land on the podium at least once. If you fall short, we terminate your contract mid-season, and Damon Cross takes your car."

Damon Cross. The star driver for our bitter rivals, Veloce Motors, and a man who had been hounding me for months with subtle offers.

"Ten races?" I scoffed, my blood boiling. "Julian had an entire season of grace when he was a rookie!"

"Julian didn't have a ruined wrist and a history of destroying multi-million-dollar chassis," Sterling countered coldly. "Which brings me to our new arrangement."

Sterling turned to look at Julian. Julian’s expression remained an unreadable mask of ice, his jaw clamped tight.

"Starting today," Sterling announced, "Julian isn't just your teammate. The board has approved his request to oversee your race strategy, training regime, and track telemetry. He will sign off on your setup before every single session. You answer to him on technical compliance."

My stomach plummeted. "What? No! Absolutely not! I'm not letting him manage my career!"

"It wasn't a question, Miss Vance," Sterling said, stepping closer to me. "Julian made it a condition of his own contract extension. If you don't like the terms, you can step out of the car right now."