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After being dumped, Isla Morris makes a pact with her ex's biggest competition, F1 driver Matthew Carr, to get inside Lucas's head.
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Isla Morris is dating the world's best F1 racer - at least, she w...
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Matthew's tyres were blistering.
He gripped the steering wheel, cursing colorfully under his breath. He could feel the car sliding beneath him. The world rushed past in crimson comets, and he could hear the cheers of the crowd, feel the scorching sun. Bahrain was a tricky racetrack — 57 agonizing laps and some tough corners — but he was in second place, behind Lucas. Only three laps to go.
Matthew tightened his grip on the wheel.
Screw the blistering. He was winning this race, even if all four tyres popped and he had to run the rest of the way.
His radio crackled. "How are the car conditions?"
"Fine," Matthew lied.
There was a pause. Alek seemed to be deciding whether to lecture him. Then again, the Ferrari Team Manager was always lecturing him. "Your tyres are overheating, aren't they?"
"No."
"Box, box," Alek ordered.
Matthew pressed harder on the gas pedal. "I said I'm fine."
"Box, Matthew," Alek said sharply. "That's an order."
Sweat trickled down his neck. "I can make it."
"For fuck's sake, Carr," Alek growled, "you're sliding all over the place. Get in the damn box." Matthew ignored him, and Alek swore fluidly in Norwegian. Something about fucking a hairy Devil, if Matthew's translation was correct. "Listen to me, Matt. Lucas is in pole position. We can afford to box, and it's dangerous to—"
"I'm fine, Alek," Matthew snapped.
"Carr, I swear to god—"
"Enough." Matthew blew out a breath. "I said I'm—"
There was a bang.
The car jerked. Matthew scrambled for the wheel, but it was too late; he careened off the track. Red flashed in front of him. White. The corner of a word. Then he smashed into the sideboard, his teeth gnashing shut with the force of it. The crowd groaned.
His radio crackled.
"Matthew?" Alek asked. "Are you okay?"
"God damn it!" Matthew smacked the steering wheel. "Sorry, everyone. That was my bad. What's the damage?"
"Your front tyre's blown," Alek said flatly. "Left rear puncture, too."
"Shit," he muttered.
"Go to the medic's tent. We'll talk after."
Matthew closed his eyes. "Copy."
Hot shame surged through him. Fuck. He was in for it now, wasn't he? Alek didn't take kindly to idiocy, and especially not the type that cost Ferrari a podium. Matthew unbuckled his seatbelt. He was dimly aware of the Bahrain crowd cheering, of Lucas zooming across the finish line, but he kept his head down, trekking towards the medical tent.
