A SECOND CHANCE MAY BE TOO HOT TO HANDLE
They say there are no second chances, and for Lily Onassis, ever since she walked away from Formula World driver Max Becker, she's considered this true. Instead of a glitzy, glamorous life on the auto racing...
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MAX
"Easy, Max. Easy. You've got room on the inside but it'll be tight." Jack's voice in my earpiece is the only thing in my brain. It's as if my body and mind know exactly what to do:
Win.
At the beginning of Turn Four, I maneuver my car to the right of Morishita's. He's my top competitor, an excellent driver, but unfortunately for him, he's left just enough room to allow me to pass on the curve.
"Payback," I growl. Morishita had overtaken me right after the first pit stop and had been in the lead despite my starting the race on pole position. Now I'm snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, and I pull ahead of my competition on the straightaway.
"One more lap. You've got this, Max." Jack's tone is still filled with tension, but with a definite jubilant tone.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Morishita drive slightly off the track and cut the chicane, allowing me a wider lead. Even over the roar of the car's engine I can hear the cheering in the stands. There's nothing like the approval of the crowd, and that's one of the things keeping me in the sport.
"Two car lead now, twenty meters. Bring it home, Becker."
I can feel the familiar tingling in my balls, the sensation that tells me I'm going to win the race. I accelerate a little harder for good measure, and then I hear a pop.
"What's going on?" I yell into my earpiece.
The car slows from 200 MPH to 180. I press the accelerator all the way down, but the car doesn't respond. Jack's going nuts in my ear. 160. 150. 120.
"What the hell?" I yell.
"Pull aside! Pull aside! It's the engine. We can see." Jack and the team have visuals on all the inner workings of my car from the garage, and I can hear the guys groan and shout as Morishita passes me.
"No, I'm going to try to bring it in."
"Max, pull over. I repeat, pull over! It's dangerous!"
Dammit, no. If I can somehow glide to the finish line, it'll count as a full race. I might even eke out a point or two. If I pull over, it's a DNF.
There's another pop, and wisp of smoke. I swear in my native German. I'm only half a track away from the finish line, and there's no way I'm going to make it. Car after car zooms around me, and I slap my hand on the steering wheel while I guide the car into the gravel.
The crowd's going even wilder now, but not for the right reasons. Like me, they're upset that I — the number one driver and the top contender for the championship — has a big, fat DNF for the important Miami race.
I lift myself out of the car as my competition hurtles past me some fifty yards away while going a hundred and fifty miles per hour.
My hands grip the edge of the car, my fingers gripping the fiberglass. I heave myself up and out, my feet searching for traction on the ground. The soles of my shoes make a crunch sound in the gravel. I stand and look at the car. The front end is engulfed in smoke and probably soon flames.
