chapter 2

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This building, Amelia thought, looked like the sort of sterile facility where a doctor poked needles into your arm.

She sprinted through the corridor. Glass windows flooded the hall with light, illuminating low black couches and bubble-gum pink display cars. Someone — Trek's assistant, if Amelia had to guess — had hung a tasteful painting of mountains behind the reception desk. A sparse trophy display cabinet was shoved to one side.

She took a sharp left.

The murmur of voices grew louder. She could pick out Trek's loud, American twang followed by a softer Scottish voice. Someone muttered in Italian. Amelia pushed open the door, and then froze.

Twelve men stared back at her.

Amelia's heart sank. It was, as Connor would have phrased it, a Suit Brigade.™ Grey suits. Navy suits. Black suits. All the material was pressed and ironed, and every man had a colorful pocket square that likely matched his socks.

Not a single woman.

She'd been expecting it. But still.

"Amelia."

A young man rose. He was the only person dressed in casual clothing — a pair of jeans and a navy pullover — and he had dark, curly hair, and a crooked smile. His cheeks were flushed red. He looked like a cherub, Amelia thought; the sort that you saw at art galleries in the touristy parts of Italy.

Amelia smiled. "Cedro." Because it had to be him. "You're taller in person."

"And you're..." Her teammate paused, as if revising his statement. "You're exactly what I pictured."

"You're late," Trek said.

The Team Manager was sitting at the head of the table. He was dressed in a salmon-pink suit, and he was wearing the sort of round, tinted sunglasses that Instagram influencers wore to music festivals. He looked utterly ridiculous, Amelia thought, but it kind of worked.

"I'm sorry," she said. "My car—"

Trek held up a hand. "Cedro told us. We're just wrapping up."

"Oh."

An awkward silence fell. Trek rose from the table.

"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure." Trek shuffled some papers. "Thanks for joining us today. I trust you're coming to the opening race in Bahrain?"

A Scottish man with glasses shook his hand. "I'm looking forward to it. This year should be... interesting."

His gaze lingered on Amelia. A man in a navy suit snorted.

"Don't be so negative, Hamish," Navy Suit said. "I love an experiment." He rubbed his hands together. "It'll be fascinating to see whether women have the same reflexes as men in the car. Biologically speaking, of course."

Several men guffawed. Amelia forced herself to smile. Biologically speaking, she thought, you're a bit of an arsehole. But they were arseholes that paid her salary. So she shook several hands, doing her best not to choke on the thick cloud of cologne.

"I look forward to getting to know all of you," she said.

Preferably at a distance. With a can of "Kill-The-Sexism" spray in hand. She watched as the Suit Brigade™ spilled out of the room, clapping each other on the backs and speaking about some upcoming event at a country club in Sussex. Cedro shot her a wry look, as if to say, can you believe this shit? He shook his head as he left.

She made to follow when Trek spoke.

"Amelia? A word, please?"

She hesitated.

Trek stood in front of the window, backlit against the watery March light. Condensation gathered along the top of the glass, like foam floating on a latte. Trek touched his sunglasses: a brief, unconscious movement.

"Look," Trek said, "you know that I like you, which is why I'm going to be straight with you." He turned to face her. "You need to win this season."

"Win," Amelia repeated.

"Yes."

"Trek." Her throat felt tight. "Alpine is a midfield team."

Trek's face was calm. "Cedro won last year."

"That's because—"

Because Cedro was a preternaturally talented driver. Because Matthew Carr — Ferrari's golden boy — pulled out of the race. Because the track conditions were perfect for the Alpine car. But Amelia bit her tongue, pressing down until it hurt. Only losers make excuses. It was something her father always said to her.

She had to be calm. She was calm.

"What if I don't win?" Amelia asked.

Trek's gaze darted to an empty seat. "Did you see the man sat near the back? The Scottish one in the glasses?"

"Yeah."

"That's Hamish McCormack." Trek crossed his arms. "He owns half of the whisky distilleries in the Highlands, and he's our biggest sponsor. He has a son named Angus that's in F2 at the moment."

Amelia nodded. "I know who he is."

She'd raced against Angus just last year. He wasn't bad, but he took the corners too wide and he was hesitant to overtake. Angus had also put a popsicle down her top at a pool party, which had ended with Amelia shoving him into the water while Connor gleefully sang "Scottish Bridge Is Falling Down."

No.

She wasn't Angus's biggest fan. For obvious reasons.

"Right." Trek tapped a finger against his arm. "Well, Hamish wants his son to race for us. He's threatening to pull the funding if we don't find him a seat."

"I see."

Trek gave her a meaningful look. "Cedro won the Championship last year. The only way I can hold Hamish off — the only way I can argue your case — is if you win it, too." He raised an eyebrow. "Do we understand each other?"

Amelia held his gaze.

"Perfectly," she said.

"What was that about?" Cedro asked.

He was waiting outside the meeting room, hands shoved in his pockets. A wristwatch peeked out. Not a fancy Rolex, Amelia noted, or a Cartier, but a standard Apple Watch. She thought of Cedro obsessively tracking his daily step count, and the idea made her smile.

Amelia shrugged. "Just a slap on the wrist for being late."

"Ah."

They fell into step. Cedro was a good six inches taller than her, but Amelia kept pace easily; the benefit, she thought, of growing up with two older brothers. He paused at a vending machine in the lobby, rummaging in his pockets.

Amelia nodded at the trophy display cabinet. "Which one is yours?"

Cedro didn't look up. "Top left."

"It's so shiny. And flat."

"Right?" Cedro grinned as he popped a coin into the machine. "Noah says that I should steal it and use it as a frisbee."

Amelia frowned. "Noah Wood?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't realize you were close," she said.

Cedro crouched down. "It's hard to make friends in this sport. But I've watched Noah drive his car into the wall instead of hitting me. And I know that Matthew would do the same. We look out for each other." Cedro rose, two bottles of Fanta clutched in his hand, and he held one out to her. "I'm sorry about Trek. He can be a bit..."

Amelia stared at the Fanta. "Wankery?"

Cedro's mouth turned up. "I was going to say oblivious."

Amelia accepted the bottle of juice. "Thanks." She unscrewed the lid. "Is Trek always like that?"

"Unfortunately," Cedro said. "If it makes you feel any better, Trek once got drunk at a party and told me that he was impressed I could drive — and this is quoting directly — considering where I came from."

She whistled. "Wow."

"Yeah." Cedro took a long sip. "I was the team charity case for years."

"What changed?"

Cedro shrugged. "I won a Championship." He capped the Fanta, digging in his pocket for car keys. "What are you up to this evening? Tiff and I are getting drinks at the pub if you want to join."

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "Tiff?"

"My girlfriend," Cedro said.

Amelia bit back a smile. There was something in Cedro's expression, she thought, that was unbearably sweet; he spoke about Tiff the way that most people spoke about finding a £50 note under a couch cushion or seeing a shooting star.

"Thanks," she said, "but I should get home. Dad's making lasagne."

Cedro smiled. "Lucky you."

They stepped into the brisk March air. Amelia turned for the car park, squinting against the bright glare—

"Amelia!"

Something flashed.

For a brief, terrifying moment, she thought that she'd been struck by lightning. Silver danced in front of her eyes. She couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. There was a dull roar, and then sticky elbows were pushing against her, digging into her back and ribcage. Someone grabbed her arm, and it took her a moment to realize that it was Cedro. He frog-marched her through the crowd, shoving past eager cameras.

Cameras, Amelia thought numbly. Paparazzi.

She should have guessed.

Cedro swore in Italian. "I forgot they'd be here. Quick." He produced a baseball cap, shoving it on his head. "Hats on."

Amelia blinked. "Do you just carry that around?"

"You'll get used to it."

"But—"

"Amelia!" a voice called. "How does it feel to be on Alpine?"

Someone jostled her. Amelia bit down on her tongue, trying to steady her breathing. Cedro's grip on her wrist tightened.

"Stay with me," he murmured. "Power in numbers."

He guided her towards the car park. More silver flashes exploded, followed by a roar of voices. Amelia thought of the screech of burning tires on pavement, the disorienting feeling of spinning off a track.

"Cedro!" a voice called. "What do you think of the people calling you a one-hit wonder?"

Cedro's jaw tightened, but he didn't slow down. Amelia stumbled over a patch of gravel, but she forced herself to get up. To move on.

Another voice. "What does Tiff think of Amelia, Cedro? Is your girlfriend jealous that you'll be sharing a hotel room with a hot female driver?"

The words were a slap.

Amelia spun around. Fury burned in her chest, a white-hot flame, and she opened her mouth to say something — anything when Cedro shook his head.

"Ignore them," Cedro muttered. "Talking to them only makes it worse."

She tried to shake him off. "Did you hear what they just—?"

"Cartwell." His grip tightened on her arm. "Ignore them."

Her mouth tasted of acid. She kept her gaze trained on the ground as they surged forward, a boat tossed between waves. She wanted to kick out. She wanted to scream. Elbows and knees bumped into her, a sea of sharp limbs.

"Amelia!" This voice was louder than the rest. "Who did you have to sleep with to get a spot on the team?"

Something in her broke.

"Fuck you," she snapped.

The frenzy grew louder. Camera shutters clicked. A terrible ringing noise began in her ears, and Amelia bit down on her lip so hard that she tasted blood.

She thought of the time that Charles Bletchley told her that girls couldn't play with action figures; the posh banker that took her on a date in Soho last year, who had spent an hour explaining car racing to her; last week in Argos, when a man tried to sell her a pink drill for double the price.

A savage, burning anger filled her.

She'd prove them wrong. All of them.

I have to win, Amelia thought. No matter what.

A/N: Hello lovely readers,

First of all, I'm SO sorry that this chapter is late! I have a friend visiting from Canada, so we spent yesterday wandering around Bath and Stonehenge and I — like an idiot — completely forgot that it was a Tuesday (sidenote: has anyone been to Bath? Such a pretty city!).

Question of the Day: what's your favourite sports romance book, either on or off Wattpad? I'm shamelessly looking for recommendations ;)

Affectionately,

J.K.



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