Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Nash bounds up the tiered podium, that grin of his making every camera flash. Several American flags whip in the stands as fans scream his name. He takes his place, accepts his trophy, and hoists it up with both hands in victory.
Then his gaze comes to mine and we both smile, because they always save the best for last.
The announcer’s voice rolls like a drumbeat. “And your winner… first place at Silvercrest—Francesca Accardi!”
The crowd detonates. If I thought they were loud for me, the sound explodes outward like an atomic bomb. True, she’s Italian not English, and it’s also true that as a driver for the Titans she doesn’t race for an English team. But what sets her apart is the fact that she’s the first female driver in Formula International history to take the top spot on the podium.
She bursts into the light, her damp hair hidden under the same ballcap we were all given. Her cheeks are flushed and the smile on her face looks like pure sunlight after an eclipse. She’s wearing the same black Carlos patch stitched into her suit and my eyes sting slightly. I don’t hold it back though, because watching her accept that first place trophy on a track that caused her such anguish that she almost quit a year ago, might be the best moment of my entire life.
It’s been almost a year to the day since she walked away from all of this, hollowed out by grief of losing Carlos. She said she was done with racing, but I couldn’t let that happen. I stayed after her, planting seeds of hope that she would return to the track. There was therapy. Lots of it. Endless support from everyone who meant anything to her. Brienne Norcross and the entire Titans team wrapped around her like family. Harley Patrick, despite being the team principal for competitor Crown Velocity, was there cheering her on every step of the way. And of course, I was at her side through it all. The first time she climbed back into a race car, I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel anything more joyful in my life.
In this moment, I’m proven wrong. Francesca clawed her way back to the grid, piece by piece, race by race. She’s had top ten finishes and two other podium spotlights. Proof to the world she wasn’t just a story, and they couldn’t write her off as a tragedy. She has the fucking talent to be here.
But today… first place over an incredibly tough field, in incredibly tough, wet conditions, on the very track that took her closest friend from her. As I watch her walk by me with a wink, I can hardly breathe for the enormity of it all.
She mounts the top step and accepts her trophy. Her face tilts skyward as if she’s staring up at Carlos. My chest aches with pride so fierce it hurts.
The anthems play. Flags rise. My eyes never leave her.
When the music fades, the crowd roars again, and she raises her trophy high, unshed tears shining. I know exactly what’s going through her head—an acceptance of all the emotions that that make this moment what it is. The grief, the fight, the fear—and the triumph that she never thought she’d feel again.
One more beaming smile and then we devolve into the chaos of champagne. Nash, Francesca and I each grab one of the oversized bottles and we let Francesca pop hers first. She aims it straight at Nash, soaking him head to toe, and he retaliates with a laugh. Then they both turn it on me—Titans Racing versus Crown Velocity—and after a face full of the stuff, I have to wipe the stinging bubbles from eyes. Francesca gives me a moment of respite, shaking her bottle and once again, points it my way. I take another straight shot to the face but catch her off guard as I lunge at her. She shrieks as I take her by the waist, spinning her around to her delighted laughs.
I don’t think. I just kiss her. Hard. On the mouth. On the podium. In front of the world.
The crowd goes absolutely feral.
“I love you,” I shout against her lips, my voice raw.
Our bottles of champagne slip from dripping fingers. Her laugh is wet with tears. “I love you too.” She leans back so she can stare at me with such devotion, it makes my head spin. “Thank you. For this. If not for you, I’d never—”
“No.” I cut her off, shaking my head, hands tight on her arms. “Don’t put this on me. You’re here because of you. Because you never gave up. You fought for this and earned every damn second.”
Her lips crash back onto mine, desperate, joyful, and the rest of the world tilts sideways again.
But I can’t get swept away. I have work to do.