“Can you get me one? I just want a bite of it.”
“Yes, of course,” I say.
I also have something else that is living rent-free in my head, and that is the thought of telling him I love him.
But I’m not going to do it. I mean, I want to, but I’d like a little more time to make sure he’s on the same page. Nothing like springing that on him the night before the race—and adding a whole lot of pressure if he’s still en route to love.
So I go back to focusing on that decadent pretzel.
And enjoying watching Caleb fight for another podium finish tomorrow.
* * *
I stand at the back of the Collings Motors garage, headphones on, watching as the cars line up on the grid after the formation lap. The same tension sweeps through my body as it has every time I’ve watched Caleb race, but it’s heightened now because I’m in his garage. His space. With his team.
I look over at the wall, where his face is looking back at me. Caleb is confident and strong in the picture, eyes trained on the camera, jaw set. I know it’s a media photo, but I also know that’s how he is when he gets in that car.
I replay the moment he walked into the garage in my mind. I can see in vivid detail how he looked with his fireproofs on and putting his Driver Comms into his ears. How he put his black balaclava on, then his helmet. God, he’s so hot in his racing suit. It’s a sight that never gets old and looks oh-so-much hotter when he’s only a few feet away from me.
We locked eyes as he came out, and he gave me a little nod. Speculation will grow with each appearance I make. My credibility will be questioned, even though that’s stupid, but people love sharing their hot sports opinions, so to speak.
Whatever. Seriously,whatever.
I lift my attention to the monitor showing the race. I see his chrome car in the fourth spot, and hear JP talking to him through my headphones. Catherine is standing next to me, as are other VIP guests of the garage. His parents aren’t in Austria this weekend, so I’m lucky to be able to handle the new media speculation about us without the pressure of meeting them for the first time.
I will do that at the next race, however, which is Silverstone back in the UK.
I continue to study the various monitors on the wall, and then I stop on the one showing the weather. There’s a big, ugly rain mass on the radar. Before I started seeing Caleb, I loved a good rain race. It added even more danger and drama, as if that was needed.
But now? I don’t like it. Caleb might love it, but I don’t.
The energy shifts in the garage. It’s time to race. One by one, the red lights on the gantry illuminate. Butterflies attack my stomach. All five lights are on.
Then they go black.
The cars take off, with Xavier pulling out in the lead. But the start of a race is all kinds of chaos as cars try to make moves for a better position. I cringe as Caleb and Mason end up side-by-side on turns one and two, and they are mere inches from touching. Caleb is trying to overtake him, but there’s not an opportunity yet.
“Caleb, we have time,” JP reminds him. “We don’t want to jeopardize the team.”
“Yeah, copy,” he says.
I can’t even fathom how hard that is. He’s a driver. Caleb’s instinct is to race and win. Yet Mason is his teammate, and both of them need to score heavy points to stay at the top of the Constructors’ standings.
The field begins to spread out, but Caleb and Mason seem to be in a race against each other, which causes extreme tension in the Collings Motors garage. I happen to glance over at Catherine. Her eyes are glued to the monitor, but I see her nails are digging into the palm of her hand.
If she does like Mason like I suspect, this has to be so hard to watch. It’s her brother, her best friend, fighting against the man she has a huge crush on.
I shift my attention back to outside the garage. The dark clouds in the distance are moving closer.
Very close, as a matter of fact.
“Caleb, we’re expecting rain in about five laps, potential for heavy for an extended period,” JP says. “We will need to box for inters.”
“Copy.”
Intermediate tires are used for damp tracks. Wets are used for the best grip in heavy rain, but race teams rarely seem to use them because if it’s that bad, usually the race is red-flagged and paused until conditions improve.
I stare at the radar as the storm system moves closer. The air shifts and begins to pick up. I can feel it blowing through the garage, and the temperature drops significantly. The dark, ominous clouds are over us now.