Amelia Cartwell stared at the burning heap of rubber and wondered how her life had fallen apart quite so rapidly.

She crouched down, inspecting the tire. Minor degradation near the top. Puncture to the left side. And — if Amelia was completely honest with herself — the truck that it was attached to was a pile of shit. A lovable pile of shit, in her opinion, but a pile of shit nonetheless.

As if it had heard her, the Vixen let out a high-pitched whining noise. Amelia patted the side of the lime-green truck.

"Sorry," she muttered.

The whining noise stopped.

She rose, wiping her hands on her jeans. Her phone buzzed: three missed texts from her Alpine teammate, Cedro. The first one was sent thirty-two minutes ago.

Just arrived. Meet you outside?

Ten minutes later.

Okay. I'm going inside.

Just now.

Where the hell are you? Trek's getting tetchy. I'm talking "shouted-at-an-intern-to-find-doughnuts" tetchy.

Amelia sighed. Trek was their Team Manager, and he had the patience of a CEO stuck in a Starbucks queue at 8:59 am. He also wore sunglasses indoors, ate powdered peanut butter with a spoon, and thought that Top Gun was the greatest film of all time. Nobody knew if Trek was his first name or his surname, and Amelia had never been brave enough to ask.

Coming, she wrote back. Flat tire.

A ding.

Unflatten it, Cedro had written. And quickly.

She pocketed her phone, shielding her eyes against the March sunshine. Rural Oxfordshire was a blanket of green fields, broken only by the occasional stone house and winding road. It would take ages for a tow truck to arrive. Even worse, the tow truck driver might recognize her, Amelia thought grimly; the BBC had plastered her face all over the Internet with headlines like, First Female F1 Driver Makes History.

A lovely sentiment.

But it meant that if the tow truck driver sold her out to the tabloids, then she was in for one hell of a media storm. She could see the headlines now: Female F1 Driver Can't Change Her Own Tire, and The Irony is Killing Us.

Amelia hopped into the driver's seat, trying to ignore the way the flannel interior smelled faintly of burning rubber. She'd normally ring her father for a lift. Or even one of her three brothers. But they were all out of town on a spa holiday, which left only one option.

Amelia took out her phone. Punched in a number.

He picked up on the first ring.

"Hello?"

Amelia closed her eyes. "How quickly can you be in Oxfordshire with a spare tire and jumper cables?"

Connor pulled up twenty-seven minutes later.

He was dressed in a black hoodie and jean jacket, a baseball cap slung low over his forehead. Silky dark hair peeked out of it. He was carrying a tire under one arm and a one-litre carton of orange juice in the other. Then again, Amelia thought wryly, Connor Yip wasn't ever without a carton of juice.

He set down the tire, leaning against the truck. He was wearing a look that Amelia privately referred to as Connor's smug "buying-the-salad-in-a-McDonalds" look, and a wave of defensiveness went through her.

"Don't say it," Amelia warned.

Connor smirked. "I—"

"Don't."

"But I—"

She clapped her hand over his mouth. "Don't you dare."

"I told you so," Connor said, his voice muffled. "It's not kind to keep her alive." He ducked out of her grip, patting the side of the Vixen. "She's on her last legs."

Amelia pulled a face. "Please, Connor. She can hear you."

Connor shook his head, rummaging in the back of her truck. He produced a jack, crouching down beside the deflated tire. "For the love of God, Ammie, take one of the free, fancy Alpine cars that Trek offered you." He removed the tire. "Take all of them. Do it for my sanity. You're aging me."

She leaned against the door. "I think you'd look very dignified with grey hair."

"Tell that to Logan."

Amelia crossed her arms. She'd met Connor's boyfriend five times over the last few months, and he'd bought their drinks. Every time. "Logan would love you even if you were covered in spots and could only converse in limerick."

"Well," Connor said, "let's not take the risk."

He turned back to the tire. Amelia tilted her head.

"You're putting that tire on incorrectly," she said. "In case you didn't notice."

Connor gave her a look. "You know I race cars professionally, right?"

"I'm just saying." Amelia shrugged. "I wouldn't want you on my pit crew."

Connor straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I think the words you're searching for are thank-you, Connor, you dreamboat of a man."

Amelia pulled a face. "I don't think the phrase dreamboat of a man has ever crossed my mind. In any context." She crossed to Connor's green Land Rover, pulling out a pair of jumper cables. "Do you think Trek will kill me for showing up an hour late to preseason testing?"

"Oh, no," Connor said. "He won't care."

"Really?"

"No," Connor said immediately. "I was being sarcastic." He watched as she hooked the jumper cables to their cars. "Trek's going to carve off your left arm, sew a watch into it, and then glue it back on."

Amelia hopped into his driver's seat. "How disturbingly graphic."

"I try."

Amelia turned the key, and the engine roared to life. Connor's car smelled of childhood: country roads, strawberry bubblegum, and orange juice. How many places had they driven this car? To Brighton beach, after Amelia's first heartbreak. To their first F2 race, when Connor had been so nervous that he'd been sick in a flowerpot. To Harry Potter studios. To a random pub near the water.

She patted the steering wheel. It was no Vixen, but it was a damn good car.

"Ammie?" Connor called.

She stuck her head out the door. He gave her a thumbs-up.

"All done," he said.

Amelia switched off the engine, hopping out of the car. Connor took a slug of orange juice, wiping his mouth. Then he patted her head.

"Give them hell, Ace."

Amelia took his orange juice. Took a sip. "Wish me luck with Trek."

"If I don't hear from you by tonight," Connor said, accepting the carton, "I'll assume you've been brutally murdered."

She sighed. "Thanks, Con. You always know just what to say."

A/N: Hello lovely readers,

WELCOME TO CROSS THE LINE! I'm so excited to finally be sharing it with you — I'll be uploading a new chapter every Tuesday, so watch this space :)

Question of the Day: who's your favourite driver this season?! I'm still a Max fan at heart, but I'm loving that K Mags is back!

Affectionately,

J.K.