On the final lap, I was half a car-length behind the leader. His silver Aston Martin covered every opening while my engine strained at his bumper.
Jaxon’s voice crackled in my ear. “He’s protecting the inside line, Willa. He’ll brake early for the final chicane. That’s your window. Be ready to dive.”
My pulse beat against the harness. I tightened my grip and waited for the final corner.
Just as Jaxon predicted, the Aston’s brake lights flashed a fraction of a second too soon.
I hit the brake, eased just enough pressure off the pedal, and threw the wheel right. The car slid into the gap with the tires howling. Our side panels came within inches. Then I was through. I floored the accelerator, and the checkered flag passed over my windshield.
The crowd’s roar came through my helmet. I ha
