Kendall's story. Description to come.
Tropes: strangers to friends to lovers, new adult, good girl/bad boy, ballerina, street racer, Formula One, diabetes awareness, she saves him
I come out of the boot like a whip, using the chute to gain momentum, instead of losing it. My tires shift from asphalt to concrete. The machine handles the change of terrain, but I feel the difference in the vibration beneath my gloves. I guide the IndyCar around the outside of the loop, my heart pumping when I see the back straight. It's my favorite part of the track at Watkins Glen International, because I get to go as fast as physics allows.
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A male voice enters my helmet, mechanical and tinny. "You're at two hours, Boone."
I've asked the crew to warn me when it's time to take my medication. I'm not feeling the effects of glucose buildup in my blood yet, but I can't afford to wait until that happens. Not when I'm flying at over two hundred miles per hour. A single tremor or lapse in concentration could send me into the energy reduction barriers.
I spent the weekend teaching Kendall how to drive, but she had to go back to school, and I got bored. Instead of wasting away beneath an engine or mindlessly killing zombies on my computer, I decided to put my time to good use. I booked a slot on a racetrack, and drove four hours to the middle of New York State to have my laps officially recorded. If I want to convince a company to sponsor me, I'll need proof of my ability.
Once I showed the staff at Watkins Glen my credentials, they were kind enough to rent me a racecar. It's a Dallara base model—all black, which I love. Formula One cars are generally faster over an entire lap, but IndyCars reach higher speeds on the straightaways.
I slam my foot on the accelerator, keeping my neck straight despite the downforce. The vehicle is pressed into the asphalt, and sparks fly in my periphery. I cross the black-and-white checkered line, grinning like a madman. The smile is still plastered to my face when I pull into the pitstop, removing my helmet. A member of the crew takes the protective gear from me, so my hands are free to unlatch the harness.
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"Your fastest lap was one minute and twenty-nine seconds," the mechanic tells me. I hop out of the car, my legs wobbly on solid ground. Given the track is nearly three and a half miles long, completing it in that timeframe is... fast. "Why aren't you racing professionally?"
