The vibration of the engine pulses through me like a second heartbeat; it's low, constant, and intimate. Every tremor travels up my spine, steadying my breathing until there's nothing left but speed and focus.
The world narrows to the track.
Time stops behaving normally. Hours collapse into minutes, and when my vision sharpens again, the final straightaway is suddenly there.
And just beyond it—the finish line.
I'm seconds from making history. The first female driver to win the Indigo Series Championship Grand Prix.
My hands are locked on the wheel. My pulse roars louder than the engine. I close my eyes, ready to let momentum carry me across the checkered line waiting ahead.
Suddenly, a sharp ringing cuts through the sound of the engine.
***
I flinch. My eyes snap open to find my cell phone buzzing on the conference table beside me, the screen lighting up with an unfamiliar number.
It's a spam call. I must have fallen asleep in the team meeting room while waiting for everyone else to show up for afternoon practice.
As if on queue, I hear footsteps echo from the hallway outside. I rub my face and stifle a yawn, embarrassed even though no one's around to see it. I push back my chair and stand, grabbing my phone as I head for the door. The locker room will be quieter—at least for a few more minutes.
I slip into my usual practice uniform, then slam my locker shut, when out of the corner of my eye, I see my teammate, Virgil, opening his.
Of course.
So much for a peaceful morning.
I move quickly toward the exit, keeping my head down. If I don't make eye contact, maybe I can get out unnoticed. My hand is already on the door when his voice cuts across the room.
"What's the matter, Liv-kins? Not going to greet your favorite teammate?"
I freeze, then slowly turn just enough to glance over my shoulder.
"Virgil."
"Aw, don't be like that," he says, leaning back against his locker like we're in some kind of sitcom. "We've been on the same team for over a season now. We're practically friends."
"Friends?" I let out a short laugh. "You've got to be kidding."
This from the guy who takes every opportunity to undermine me the second someone shows even mild interest in sponsoring me.
"C'mon, take a seat," he says, gesturing like we're about to have coffee. "What'd you do this weekend?"
I actually blink at him.
I don't know what game he's trying to play, and I'm not interested in figuring it out. I step fully toward him now, crossing my arms.
"Gee, Virgil, I'd really love to tell you about my weekend..." I tilt my chin toward the clock behind him. "But I've got practice in five minutes."
"No problem," he says easily. "We can chat later."
"Right. Thanks. I'll catch—"
"You know, Liv," he interrupts, pushing off the locker, "you should be proud of yourself."
"What do you mean?" I ask with a hint of suspicion in my voice.
He shrugs, casually before explaining, "everyone knows racing Prisma cars is a male-dominated field. Most female drivers don't make it past development."
He pauses for a second.
"And that probably includes you."
For a second, I just stare at him.
"Excuse me?"
"You've been on this junior team twice as long as I have," I continue, my voice tightening despite myself. "And your stats are barely better than mine."
I step closer.
"I'm just as likely as you—or any other guy here—to be recruited by an Emerald Series team. Or Indigo for that matter."
He snorts. "I'm going to miss that sense of humor. It's a shame this might be our last practice together."
My stomach drops. Where is this going?
"What are you talking about?"
"Wes told me NRGYZR is looking for a mid-season replacement."
My mind scrambles to catch up. "Wes. Your manager?"
"That's the one." He says it like it's obvious. "Apparently one of their backup drivers had a serious accident at the Emerald Series Grand Prix in Barcelona this morning."
"What?" The irritation drains out of me. "That's awful. Who?"
He shrugs. "Didn't ask."
Of course he didn't. "And what makes you think they're picking you?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Wes is well-connected. Keeps tabs on everything." He smiles, pleased with himself. "NRGYZR narrowed it down to three candidates. I'm one of them."
There it is. I hate that something twists in my chest.
I pull my phone out, pretending I'm just checking the time. Nothing from Willie. No missed calls. No texts. No "big news."
I slide the phone back into my pocket before he can see any hint of disappointment on my face. Virgil can afford a manager like Wes—one with connections. When your dad bankrolls half your career, doors open.
If I had sponsorship money like that... maybe I'd have options too. Maybe I'd already be fielding calls from Emerald teams. But even as the thought settles, something steadier pushes back.
Willie's been my manager since the start. Before the podiums. Before the attention. Before any of this felt possible.
And that has to count for something.
Right?
I look at Virgil, ready to say something else. But he's already back on his phone. Shaking my head, I push through the locker room door before he can decide to re-engage.
When I arrive, the driving lab smells faintly of rubber and overheated electronics.
I slide into the simulator, adjusting the seat automatically even though it's already calibrated to my measurements. The steering wheel, the pedals, the dash — it's all an exact replica of my Orange Series Prisma car.
Around me, the crew settles into their stations. Monitors flicker to life. Data streams across screens: throttle input, brake pressure, steering angle, reaction time. Every movement I make is about to be dissected.
Perfect.
For the next two hours, I push through simulated rain, low-grip corners, sudden traction loss.
Hydroplaning. Recovery drills. Emergency braking.
"Excellent control through that puddle, Liv," one of the engineers says through the headset. "Great correction."
I nod, even though he can't see me through my helmet.
From across the lab, Coach's voice carries over the noise. "I'm really happy with the progress you and Virgil have made these last few weeks."
Virgil answers immediately. "Thanks, Coach!"
I didn't even realize he was in earshot.
Coach steps closer to my console. "Let's run the Madrid corner sequence. Work the braking zones."
The track renders onto the screen; it's a section of last year's Orange Series Grand Prix circuit in Madrid.
"The other drivers are hitting thirty seconds flat," Coach continues. "Watch your lines. Let's see where you land."
At the bottom of the screen, I see it. Virgil's personal best of 28.03 seconds.
I don't need to turn around to know he's behind me, but I feel him there anyway.
"Don't worry, Liv," he says casually. "I'd be happy to give you some pointers."
I grind my molars together.
Nope.
"Eyes on the screen," I mutter to myself. "Last run."
The starting lights flash red across the top of the monitor. I hover my foot over the accelerator, waiting for the sequence to drop.
And then—a vibration against the dashboard.
I glance down.
It's Willie.
I close my eyes briefly.
Not now.
Coach is leaning over one of the engineers, deep in conversation about sector splits. No one's noticed that my phone keeps buzzing.
I lean forward and mute my phone just in time.
The last starting light flashes green.
I hit the accelerator without hesitation. The tires bite into the virtual asphalt, and the simulator surges forward beneath me. My body and focus locks into place.
The first turns come easily. Soon after muscle memory takes over, each input clean and deliberate.
Brake. Turn in. Release.
The car does exactly what I ask it to.
Then, on the final corner, I feel a slight wobble.
Fuck.
Okay. Smooth on the exit. Gentle through the apex. Keep it steady.
I make a small correction, precise and controlled. Ease off just enough. Back on the power at the right moment, and the line holds.
The finish marker flashes past, and I lift my foot from the pedal.
The room is quiet.
I pull off my helmet and look up at the main display, my pulse still ticking in my ears.
28.03 seconds.
It's a personal best.
For a second, I just stare. Oh my god. I tied him.
I turn around.
Virgil's standing off to the side, jaw tight, and his arms crossed.
Coach breaks the silence.
"That was incredible, Liv. Personal best, and you tied Virgil."
"Thanks, Coach," I say, still a little breathless.
The satisfaction settles in slowly. I'm about to say something else to Coach when my phone buzzes again. I grab it off the dashboard this time.
Willie, again.
Willie: Just tried calling. Let me know when you're free
I type back quickly.
Liv: Sorry I missed it. Wrapping up now. I'll call after.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Willie: Don't worry about it. Just wanted to let you know NRGYZR has an opening on their roster.
Before I can type up a response, a ringtone cuts through the room. This time it's Virgil's phone. He doesn't even pretend to step away.
"Oh, hey, Wes!" he answers loudly.
He turns slightly, angling his body so his voice carries. "Yeah, yeah, I heard about Barcelona. Crazy. So what's the timeline looking like?"
Subtle as ever.
A few of the engineers glance up from their screens. He laughs at something Wes says, nodding like the deal's already done.
My phone vibrates again in my hand. It's another text from Willie.
Willie: I went to high school with one of the engineers on the NRGYZR team.
Staring at the screen, the little typing indicator blinks steadily under Willie's name. I fire off the message before he can finish typing, sparing him the effort of a full reply.
Liv: Thanks Willie, but sounds like has NRGYZR decided already.
The little typing indicator under Willie's name disappears. A flat weight settles in my chest. I slip my phone into my pocket and try to shake it off.
Across the room, Virgil is still on his call. Now Wes is on speaker. "Just finished lunch with a couple of the guys at NRGYZR," Wes's voice comes through. "It's a done deal. They're planning to post an announcement as soon as they're back in the office."
Without missing a beat, Virgil calls out to the room.
"Hey!!"
Everyone pauses. He singles out an engineer with a sharp look, like names are unnecessary.
"You. Pull up the NRGYZR site."
The engineer nods, fingers flying.
"Oh, and put it on the leaderboard," Virgil adds, pointing at the giant monitor showing everyone's lap times. The NRGYZR site slides into full view.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Another text from Willie, probably, but I don't have the energy to deal with it right now—not with Virgil grinning like a jackass, rubbing his soon-to-be promotion in my face.
"Hey, Liv," Virgil says, still loud enough for everyone to hear, "you should consider retiring. Find a guy to take you in, you know, before you start looking too old. I'd say you only have one to two years... tops."
Wes laughs over the speaker, loud and obnoxious. I grit my teeth. He really needs to learn when to shut up.
I step toward Virgil, ready to slap that shit-eating grin off his face when the monitor draws everyone's attention: the press release section of the NRGYZR website.
Naturally, Virgil reads it aloud, as if we all needed the performance. My eyes scan the screen, following every word:
"ANNOUNCEMENT: Following recent evaluations, NRGYZR has elected to adjust its driver lineup for the remainder of the Emerald Series season...
NRGYZR confirms a mid-season change to its team roster.
Effective immediately, the seat will be filled by..."
His voice trails off, and silence falls like a blanket over the room. I read the last words myself.
"Me?!"