Page 63 of Jackrabbit

As the track heated from the friction, Colt began to roast. It was a different kind of sweaty with the water drying and rising from the track, and his visor was getting spots of fog he had to be careful about.

He was also losing the line, the grip of his tires different as he passed P3 on an exit. The track was losing its moisture. P7 and P8 were gaining on him like fucking Jaws, and he knew he needed to pivot. They hadn’t slid once, and the only reason Colt was in P1 was because the other cars had been putting on varying renditions of Swan Lake for the first six laps. But everyone was about to find their line, which meant—

P7 took the lead.

Shit.

Okay.

New tactic.

Find your line, boy, stop dickingaround.

Colt watched P7 pull away, the gap widening with every second of precision driving. It stung, seeing that lead evaporate, but he didn't have time to mourn it. P8 was close enough to read the sponsor decals on Colt’s rear wing.

Don't look in the mirror, Beau’s voice rumbled, so clear in his head it was like the man was sitting in the passenger seat.Eyes forward. Hit your marks. Make him work for every inch of pavement.

Colt’s hands tightened on the wheel. He stopped trying to be a showman. His grin melted into a set jaw and relaxed lips as he took a steadying breath. Tucking his chin, he ignored the sweat stinging his eyes and started driving the race Beau Moore had spent months preparing him for. The race Connor had spent half his life trying to get him to.

He would not lose.

Chapter 33

Colt pulled into his spot at the end of the race next to P1 and P2, and had to peel his hands off the wheel to cut the engine. His swallow was loud in the sudden silence, thetik, tik, tikof his car cooling the only other sound he could hear.

By degrees, other things filtered in. Tires. Feet stomping in the stands. The announcer losing his mind.

“—t's right, folks, you saw that with your own eyes. Rookie Colton Rourke in that mustard yellow Camaro just took third place in his second race. A surprise to all of us after last week's fourteenth, wouldn't you say? From street king to the track, we love a good underdog story here at Udall. Why don't we see if we can coax him out of his car with a little applause? What do you say?”

Applause roared like thunder, booming against Colt’s teeth. His legs were like limp noodles, his arms tense and shaking. The suit was tight like an instrument of sweaty torture, and he—

The window netting dropped, and a hand reached in to unstrap his helmet. He sucked in a lungful of cool air as his helmet was removed and tossed into the cockpit. When the hand slid onto the back of his slick neck, his focus narrowed to the contact. Beau’s skin was cool compared to the furnace of Colt’s own skin, and he gripped Colt like he was a stuck kitten.

“That’s right,” Beau murmured, his cologne washing over Colt’s senses. “Good boy. Come on. Let’s get you out.”

Colt nodded, fumbling the buckle on his harness until Beau swatted his hands aside and did it for him. When Colt climbed out of the window, Beauwas there to steady him as his feet hit grass and his legs wobbled. P1 and P2 were already out and shaking hands between their cars, but Colt’s eyes sought Beau instead of other podiumed racers.

“Beau.”

“Yeah, I know.” Beau draped a workout towel around Colt’s neck. “Unzip your suit some so you can breathe.”

It took Colt two tries to undo his collar, and then he pulled the zipper down to his stomach. A breeze slapped against his soaked shirt, and the pressure of the heavy, multi-layer suit eased.

“Third.” Colt ran a hand through his damp hair, then the other, resting both hands at the back of his head and looking at Beau again. “Third.”

“Third,” Beau agreed. He was looking at Colt with a soft sort of expression, one Colt probably wouldn't even recognize if he hadn't spent so long watching his face.

Adrenaline he hadn't known was left zipped through him and he dropped his hands. A laugh bubbled up out of his chest, and he grabbed Beau's shirt. “I got fucking third, Beau, oh my God.”

Then, because his brain was not connected to his body at this exact moment, Colt surged forward and threw his arms around Beau's neck. Just like before, just like that first time he'd found his line on the sim in Beau’s garage, but this time Beau wrapped his arm around Colt’s back and squeezed.

“I'm so fucking proud of you.” Beau’s voice was rough like it cost him something.

All the air in Colt's body expanded, his chest rose in an involuntary, startled inhale, and those words seeped down into the core of him and made themselves at home. He dug his fingers into Beau's shoulder and pressed his nose into Beau's neck, squeezing his eyes shut because it felt like the goddamn Earth had just shifted beneath his feet.

“Boss, save some for the rest of us,” Xavier called from behind them.

The bubble Colt hadn't realized they'd been in exploded in a riot of sound and sensation as hands grabbed Colt and pulled him out of Beau’s arms. Then it was hugs and kisses and Mateo came back for thirds, squeezed Colt and ruffled his hair, and only let go the third time when Camila shoved herself between them and took her turn.