Page 97 of Full Throttle

One last push.

That was all she needed.

The finish line loomed ahead. People shot to their feet, clapping and cheering. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck. Her car was overheating, warning lights flashing up on the dashboard. Her front tire was so swollen that it threatened to pop. Please. Juliette gritted her teeth. Just a little farther. Please.

Ten meters.

Her car whined. Juliette white-knuckled the steering wheel.

Five.

There was a pop sound.

Two.

Her car swerved. Juliette swore, jerking the steering wheel. She spun as she crossed the finish line, her teeth gnashing together. Something slammed into the side of her head. She blinked away stars, her ears ringing.

“Hamish?”

“You’ve won!” Someone thumped a desk. “You’ve bloody won!”

Tears pricked at her eyes. The crowd shouted her name, and the sound vibrated through her chest. Hamish was yelling, his Scottish accent thick with excitement, and even though she couldn’t understand a bloody word, the sound of it made her want to cry.

“Are you sure?” Juliette managed.

“Aye,” Hamish said. “Fucking brilliant, lass. What a drive.”

Another voice came on. “Juliette?”

“Hi, Ranya.”

“That was a brilliant drive,” Ranya said. “Especially on those tires.” She was smiling. Juliette could hear it in her voice. “I’ll be bringing that up with the shareholders during our next meeting.”

A lump rose in her throat. “Thank you.”

Juliette hoisted herself from the car. Blue figures crushed her, hands slapping her back, a million voices shouting. She caught a glimpse of Baz holding up a phone, mouthing something about her parents and FaceTime, but then he was gone. Cap. She twisted, searching for her twin brother. Where was Cap? But it was pointless; the crowd was carrying her away.

Juliette went through the usual motions—weigh-in, post-race interview—but it was only when she was mounting the steps to the podium that it struck her.

She’d won.

She’d actually bloody won.

The enormity of it was staggering, like trying to hold pieces of the sky in her hands. She hoisted the trophy over her head. The faceless crowd was a live animal, roaring and stomping its hooves. Dominic caught her gaze. He was standing on the third step, and his gaze was warm honey, the flecks of gold unflinchingly prominent.

“Well deserved.” His warm breath tickled the shell of her ear. “I couldn’t catch you at the end.”

“Thank you,” she said politely. “You did well too.”

Anthony shoved a champagne bottle toward her. “Come on. Take a swig. You’ve earned it.”

She seized the bottle, and the crowd roared its approval. The alcohol fizzed through her veins, and she felt drunk on the victory, her head spinning. Anthony sprayed her with champagne, and she couldn’t stop grinning, couldn’t stop feeling that yes, it was worth it; in this moment, it was all worth it.

The music faded. Juliette stopped to shake hands with the trophy presenters; Dominic and Anthony were already gone, swallowed up by the crowd of supporters. She made her way down the steps, the gold medal bumping against her chest.

Hamish stood at the bottom.

Her race engineer was frowning, a bag of unopened prawn crisps dangling from one hand. Juliette slowed. It was never good, she reflected, when Hamish wasn’t eating crisps.