Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 5: Lauren

My eyes dart between warming dishes of vegetarian spaghetti and chicken Parm behind the self-serve line's sneeze glass when someone taps my tray on the metallic slide with theirs.

"Lovely Lauren. How was your first day playing with the big boys?" The guy's hot as fuck Spanish accent almost makes up for the thinly veiled insult. Almost.

I roll my eyes before turning. "It was fine, but I've done this plenty of times, thank you."

"For sure." He grins. Wearing the blue and white gear of Team Magister Honda, he's a little flushed, but freshly changed out of his racing suit and into the more casual shorts and t-shirt combo. "You, of course, are not new to motorcycles, but now you are finally riding with the best, no?" he continues.

What is his deal? It's like he's trying to pick an argument or something. I grab the nearest plate of food before looking him up and down. About my height, he has icy blue eyes and wears his dark hair in a butch cut. Behind his all-knowing smirk, I'm going to guess that the obvious prodding is perhaps masking a bit of insecurity. That's always a hard pass for me, so no thanks.

"The best? I guess I'll find out soon enough," I say, getting increasingly irritated. All I want to do is prove that I belong among these racers—whether that means not making a fool of myself, possibly finishing a race in a points-earning fifteenth place, or hopefully even getting a full contract for next year—not lock the real contenders out of the series. But it does kind of feel good that this guy is intimidated.

His smile doesn't waiver, but there's a slight squint in his eyes. Ha. So he's not a fan of sarcasm. "I am Diego Martin." He extends his hand.

We shake, and I nod. "Sure. I know you."

"You do?" His delivery of faux-surprise is totally unbelievable.

"Of course. You, Dai Mura, Tobei Kojima, Reid Butler—are all racing goals. I know every one of you in this federation by name. You're pretty famous," I say, meaning every word even if I'm not a fan of Diego's attitude.

He laughs. "From what I hear, you too are quickly becoming famous."

"What do you mean?" I ask, already guessing the answer.

It had happened a few laps after the change to my suspension settings during morning practice. I lost control going into turn nine and ran into the gravel pit. I knew it was unnecessary and had argued against the adjustment, but Nigel had listened to Seb instead. The team manager apologized afterward, but it clearly showed where his loyalties—and worse yet, his trust—lay.

Diego scratches his nose and smiles. "Oh, something about a photo session the other day."

"Right," I mutter, picking up my tray. Crashing on my first time out is one thing. My competition talking about the 'Tommy Miranda-slash-girl who refuses to be undressed to sell jeans' debacle behind my back? That's even worse.

"Excuse me." I move out of the line and leave Diego behind.

After grabbing water out of the industrial fridge, I hand a meal voucher to the cashier and look for a place to sit. Square four-person tables dot the place; some are pushed together to make room for six. Riders, technicians, and others with behind-the-scenes access from both my category and those from the premier PrixMoto group take up most of the spots. The mid-sized performance bikes of 2Prix are out on track now. The engine sounds filter through the tempered glass wall lining one side.

Spotting an empty table in the middle, I sit down before Diego pulls out a chair across the room directly in my line of sight. Son of a bitch! When the Spaniard leans toward his teammate Dai while looking at me, says something I obviously can't hear, and the rest of the party—including two unfamiliar guys and a pretty Japanese girl with her arm hooked into Dai's—erupt in laughter, my face burns from embarrassment.