SAVANNAH

A week later, we were involved in our usual action — on the track.

I was silently cheering to myself because the second pit stop of the Italian GP was flawless. Being a part of the choreographed pit dance was like nothing I've ever experienced. It was like we were synchronized swimmers, moving gracefully in alignment with the high-powered car. 

I stepped back and watched Dante's car ease away from the team and into the pit lane, my pride in him, and the team, swelling. 

Then, in the privacy of my helmet, I swore softly. Another car was in front of Dante's. A French team had pitted at the same time, refueled at the same time, and pulled out ahead of him. Bastards.

I groaned out loud, and could hear Jack yelling. Would this hold Dante up on the track and put him behind? My heart thumped. He'd talked about winning his home race for days, since it would be the last time on the Italian track before retiring. He had to win.

Then, I spotted a gray hose still attached to the car in front of Dante and screamed, my voice echoing inside the helmet.

"NO!"

Someone on the French team had screwed up royally during their pit stop. The vehicle still had the fuel hose attached and it waved in the air. I watched in horror as a fine mist of fuel, almost invisible if it weren't for the vapor waves, sprayed Dante and his car. Orange flames hovered and danced over his car, and I screamed again.

"Fuck, he's on fire!" one of our Eagle teammates yelled.

I took a few steps at a running pace, but a guy on the pit crew grabbed my arm and pulled me back from the flash of fire. My whole body shaking, I watched as Dante drove ahead slowly. Miraculously, the flames quickly extinguished and he expertly maneuvered the car around his competition, which had stopped in the pit lane with the hose still attached.

Dante exited the pit lane and onto the track, then zipped away. Obviously, he wasn't going to let a small flash fire slow him down. Not in Italy. So he resumed the race as if nothing happened. Still, I knew he'd be pissed.

Intellectually, I knew what had happened: a fine mist of fuel had covered Dante's car and it ignited because of the warm weather and his car's scorching exterior. While it looked terrifying, it probably hadn't caused any damage to the car. Or to him. 

At least I hoped not.

"He's fine," Jack yelled, in between talking to Dante on the team radio. "He said the car's running perfect. Got a little vapor in his helmet though, but he's going to continue the race. He won't tell me how he's feeling. He's being stubborn and wants to press on."

Of course he did, because he was being ruled by his massive ego. If I could, I'd shake him by his shoulders for scaring the crap out of me.

I heaved an exhale but couldn't stop shaking. It was a good thing no one could see my face, because my cheeks were splotchy with tears. Honestly, it was a miracle I was still able to stand, my legs were so rubbery. Although I knew Formula World was a dangerous sport, I'd pushed thoughts of a possible catastrophe on the track out of my mind.

Until now.

For the next twenty laps until the end of the race, I ran through all the possible scenarios. Had fuel gotten in his eyes? Had he been burned? Was he breathing dangerous vapors that could later cause cancer? It was totally like him to be obstinate and drive through his pain; I'd watched over recent weeks as he nursed an old shoulder injury, downplaying his aches through punishing physical workouts and the G-forces in the car that took practically superhuman strength to handle.

I couldn't wait for the race to end so I could see with my own eyes that he was all right. And maybe yell at him a little bit for taking such a risk.

When the checkered flag finally fluttered in the air, I was able to relax my shoulders away from my ears. When Dante rolled into the pit, I hung back, fighting the urge to fuss over him. He popped out of the car and slid off his helmet. His face was covered in sweat and his hair was drenched, too. I longed to wrap myself around him and press my nose to his cheek.

But couldn't.

Girlfriends didn't fuss over drivers in the pit, and crew members definitely didn't, either. Fake girlfriends never did.

"What the fuck happened back there?" he roared at Jack, who put his arm around Dante and steered him to the garage. "My eyes still sting from the fucking fuel. The vapors got into the helmet."

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, gaping at him. He should've stopped to wash his eyes. Should've cut short the race for his health. Dammit.

One of the engineers handed him a washcloth, and Dante scrubbed his eyes in between gesturing wildly.

I'd never seen Dante so angry. Because of the pit fire, he'd finished fifth. At his home race. He was still leading in the points overall but I knew how important it had been for him to win in Italy and how livid he must be. Still. It could've been much worse, and that fact left me trembling.

I followed Dante and Jack and the team's other engineers at a respectful distance, then stood in a doorway as the men talked inside the garage. None of them saw me, and my heart pounded as I listened. Dante's eyes were as blazing as the fire that had nearly consumed his car.

"Where was Savannah in all of this?"

I stepped forward. "I was with the rest of the crew."

Dante fixed his angry gaze on me. "Good. I'll deal with you later. Go stand with the rest of the crew. I'm in a meeting with my engineers and you have no place here."

My cheeks stung as I whirled and walked out of the garage. The fire hadn't been my fault. Hadn't been Eagle's fault—it was a screw-up on the other team. So why had he dismissed me? As if I were to blame for the fire and the dismal outcome of the race?

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