Today, Matthew thought grimly, was going to be a disaster.

"Stay at the front," Alek was saying. "That way you'll avoid the spray." He rubbed his eyes. "And for god's sake, don't hit one another. Don't even touch one another. You'll spin right off the track."

Lucas bounced a tennis ball. "Don't look at me. Carr's the one who—"

"Enough, Walsh," Alek snapped. "I don't have the patience. Not today."

"But—"

"Enough."

Matthew tipped his head back, mostly to hide his smile. Rain lashed his face. The Silverstone crowd was a sunless sea of black ponchos and umbrellas, looking rather uncomfortably like mourners at a funeral. Most of the drivers were trickling toward their cars, and Matthew spotted Cedro in his Alpine helmet, his posture stiff and alert.

Matthew didn't blame him.

There was rain, and then there was this. Even Noah's Ark couldn't have survived this shit. He'd be lucky if he made it out alive today.

Matthew held out a hand. "It's picking up."

Alek's frown deepened. "I'm amazed they haven't called it off."

"I'm not," Lucas muttered, "All the race officials are idiots."

Matthew bobbed on his toes, squinting through the gloom. Screw it. He could blindfold himself and see equally well. Eyes open, eyes closed — it was all the same at this point. The visibility was terrible.

Someone signaled to them. Alek sighed.

"Alright, lads," he said. "Get to the cars. You know what to do."

"Play dodgems?" Matthew asked innocently.

Alek's eyes narrowed further. "No funny business today, Carr. I mean it."

Matthew winked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Lucas continued to bounce the tennis ball as they made their way to their cars — P1 and P2, respectively — and Matthew resisted the urge to snatch it from him. He was behaving today. Behaving. He sighed, turning for his car.

"Wait." Lucas seized his shoulder. "Is she here today?"

Matthew shrugged him off. "Who? The Queen?"

"Hilarious," Lucas said flatly.

Irritation prickled his skin. "No, you know what's hilarious, Walsh? Watching you pant after my girlfriend. First the yacht party, then the afternoon tea, and now today..." Matthew took a step forward, lowering his voice. "But here's the thing: I'm getting sick of your shit. Try to kiss Isla again, and I'll knock your teeth out."

"You're a rebound," Lucas said coolly. "You know that, right?"

Matthew patted his shoulder. "Dental work is expensive. Remember that."

Matthew turned, feeling immensely proud of himself. There. That hadn't been so hard, had it? He'd managed to ignore Saint Lucas. He'd risen above his jibes. He—

"She hated you," Lucas called, and Matthew froze. "After Monaco, she used to have nightmares. Horrible ones. Most of the time, you'd be in them. She'd wake up crying and I'd have to make her tea before she could sleep again. You did that to her." There was vicious satisfaction in his voice. "Bet she hasn't told you all that, has she?"

"Fuck you, Walsh," Matthew growled.

"Speaking of fucking," Lucas said, his voice taunting, "does it bother you that I used to fuck her? Because I enjoyed it. Immensely."

Matthew stiffened.

A retort sprang to his tongue — no, because I took your ex-girlfriend at the aquarium last week; I'm surprised you couldn't hear her screaming — but Matthew swallowed it down. Saint Lucas wasn't worth it.

Still.

Matthew clapped Lucas on the shoulder. Just a little too hard.

"Enjoy your race," Matthew said cheerfully.

He hopped into his car. Adrenaline sang in his veins, a delicious, golden thing, and he was no longer sure whether it was the rain or the confrontation. Someone said something to him — an engineer, or Alek, or both — but Matthew was no longer listening. His body was molding to the car, twisting into the same entity.

He'd never felt more ready.

He was going to win this god damn race.

Five red lights flickered on. A hush fell over the track. All the drivers waited, alert.

The lights went out.

Matthew shot forward. Hot blood pumped through his veins, and he could feel the tyres beneath him, hear the snarl of the engine. The track was soaked. Every twitch of the car was magnified. Only a madman would race in these conditions.

It was fortunate, Matthew reflected, that he'd never been entirely sane.

Matthew pressed harder on the gas. Lucas's taillights glowed in front of him, twin burning cigarette stumps. He couldn't see if there was anybody behind him, and he couldn't afford to lose Lucas. Everything was blinding spray and chaos.

One lap. Three laps. Ten.

He lost count at twenty.

A quick box, then back out on the track. Lucas had boxed at the same time, but he came out ahead. Matthew was still in second place.

Just like always.

His car jerked. Matthew swore viciously, twisting his steering wheel. The car corrected, and Matthew blew out a breath. Thank God for all that reflex training Alek made them do. He'd never complain about seeing a tennis ball again.

"Lap thirty-two," Alek said, his voice crackling in his ear. "Twenty laps to go."

"Alek?" Matthew asked, teeth gritted.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for your balls," he said.

There was a pause. "I think the radio must be going faulty."

Tyres squealed. The crowd groaned. More tyres squealing. A smash. Matthew gripped the steering wheel, his heart pounding. Two or three cars — more? — must have just spun off the track, but he couldn't risk taking his eyes off the road. Not that he could see much through the rain, anyway.

"Alek?" he asked.

More crackling. "Yes?"

"Who was that?"

"Sullivan, Buchanan, Turner." Alek paused. "And Wood."

Matthew closed his eyes briefly. Noah. God damn it. The poor bloke was already having a tough season; any more incidents like this, and Mercedes would kick him off the team. He took a tight corner, narrowly avoiding a wet patch.

"Are they okay?" Matthew asked tightly.

"All fine," Alek said. "No safety car. Track looks clear of debris."

Matthew gnashed his teeth together, his grip tightening on the wheel.

Forty laps. Forty-five. Fifty.

"Two laps," Alek said, his voice crackling. "Two laps to go."

Ahead of him, Lucas sped up.

Matthew did the same.

They were close now, so close that their cars almost touched. A surge of emotion filled him, and Matthew thought of that stupid aquatic zebra drawing, the one that his parents had replaced on the fridge with Benedict's watercolour Italian sunset. He remembered that burning shame. That desire to do better.

He felt that again now.

Matthew was no longer just racing Lucas; he was racing Benedict and his parents and Charlie Worthington, who had laughed when Matthew lost the second-year spelling bee with the word ignominy. He was racing anyone that had ever made him feel second best. Who had made him feel less than.

No more, Matthew thought determinedly. No more.

He pushed the car harder.

Lucas glanced at him. They were wheel-to-wheel, now. Neck-and-neck. Two red cars, hurtling towards the finish line. The cars and the track were the same; it all came down to who the better driver was.

Oddly, Matthew thought of Isla.

She would be up in the stands somewhere. Or maybe in the paddock with Alek, anxiously watching through a screen. Matthew thought of the way Isla's hair smelled of citrus and honey, how she loved churros and bad reality television. He thought of the sound she made when she laughed, as if he'd surprised her into it.

He half-closed his eyes.

The car was an extension of his body. A fifth limb. There was a blur of colours, the squeal of tyres, and then the crowd erupted.

Matthew opened his eyes.

He'd passed the finish line.

His radio crackled. "That's P1, Matthew. P1." Alek paused, and when he spoke, his voice sounded thick. "Bloody well done, mate."

Emotion swelled in his chest. "I won?"

"You won."

Matthew made a sound. He was shouting, possibly. The wind ripped by him, and he pumped a fist, his whoops lost in the mist. He'd won. He'd fucking won.

He stopped the car.

The roar was deafening. Matthew yanked off his helmet, his heart pounding in his chest. Everything came in flashes. Cameras. The commentator's voice. Engineers slapping him on the back. And then a blur of red, streaking towards him through the rain.

"Matthew!"

Isla.

She was dressed in a ridiculous yellow poncho, her auburn hair soaked to the roots. Mascara ran down her face. Mud splashed up Isla's legs as she ran, and she was smiling so hard it looked like her face might break.

She looked perfect.

"You won!" Isla jumped on him. "You won, you won!"

Matthew's heart swelled. "Red?"

"Yeah?"

He grinned. "I really want to kiss you."

"Do you?" Isla arched an eyebrow, but her eyes were glittering. "Prove it to me."

Matthew didn't need any more encouragement.

She tasted of black tea and honey, rainwater and England. Isla kissed him back with reckless abandon, her legs squeezing his waist, her hands buried in his hair. This was different from their other kisses in public, Matthew thought dazedly; this one felt more intimate. Private. It was as if invisible hands had yanked curtains around them.

Matthew pulled her closer. His heart was pounding so wildly in his chest that he thought Isla might feel it, might hear the words that it was whispering to her: I want you, I want you, I want you.

When they broke away, Isla's face was flushed.

"Matthew..." She licked her lips. "Listen, I want to say that I—"

"Carr!"

They turned. Cedro and Noah were sprinting towards them, wearing identical grins. Noah had somehow retrieved his signature baseball cap, and he was whirling it above his head like some sort of bizarre miniature lasso.

"Bloody brilliant, mate!" Noah crowed. "Exceptional driving!"

Matthew bit back a groan. Reluctantly, he set down Isla. Noah and Cedro were only the welcoming committee; there would be cameras to smile for. Reporters to charm. Their private moment, it seemed, was over.

For now.

He held out a hand to Isla. "Ready?"

She smiled up at him. "Always."