Sunday, August 25 – Race 13: Sepang, Malaysia

My agent is a complete badass.

Even while barreling through the crowd in the arrivals terminal of Kuala Lumpur International Airport with her super-pricey Tumi carry-on rolling behind her, she can not only hold a coherent conversation, but she also looks amazing doing it. Honestly, Celia Gross is the only person I've ever met who can have flawless hair and makeup after stepping off a sixteen-hour redeye.

Me? I'm just happy I didn't spill any of my Business Class chicken cacciatore on my favorite hoodie and that I managed to find an elastic band in the bottom of my backpack to put my hair up in a messy bun. Celia on the other hand is rocking three-inch heels, skin-tight black pants, and a cropped leather jacket. She's so Jersey Shore it's ridiculous, but I wouldn't want to have anyone else managing my racing career.

"Did you really just say that, Nigel?" she asks into her iPhone, expertly stepping around a stroller without slowing. "You are still talking about Lauren Dimas, right?"

I love it when she uses my full name. It's not like there are a bunch of other Laurens racing 3Prix motorcycles to confuse me with, but it still kind of makes me feel important.

"My client has been riding since she was six years old. Do you know what other little girls were doing at six? Playing with puppies and eating mud, that's what," Celia continues with the conviction of an adult who has only ever been around others' kids. At Thanksgiving. For two whole hours at a time. But it's not like she's completely wrong.

"I'm pretty sure I ate mud once," I butt in, but she shushes me, so I fall back a few steps to my dad's side. He grins—his impossibly perfect teeth shining under his short, dark beard—but holds back any comments. For a six-foot-three, two hundred ten pound Navy vet, he's pretty soft-spoken to begin with, plus we've both learned to just let Celia do things her way.

Celia pauses, and I'm guessing that Nigel Clark—the manager of Cadmium Racing Team on the other end of the call—is trying to figure out how he'll wrestle back control of the conversation while keeping his dignity intact. From the way my agent abruptly stops and taps her foot in front of a Cartier store (this airport is way fancier than the Eastridge Mall back home), I'm guessing he chose wrong.

"For Christ's sakes, four years ago Lauren was the California junior one-two-five champion, not to mention she had a top five spot already wrapped up this year in the American two-fifty series even before you approached us, so don't come at me now with this 'taking chances' bullshit." Celia weaves her fingers through her sleek, auburn bob in frustration, but every single hair falls perfectly back into place when she's done. Seriously, what is this witchcraft? I really need to find out what type of product she uses.

"No, that is not what we talked about, and you know it," she continues, her tone getting dangerously close to reaching mama-tiger levels of protectiveness. "We're keeping our current sponsors for all gear, and you're bringing anything on top of that. Beverages, eyewear, retailers, whatever."

She turns to me, and I nod in agreement. While I'm not in much of a position to bargain and getting the chance to ride for Cadmium would be an absolute dream come true, I had one non-negotiable when they offered me a short-term contract: I get to race in the same brands—helmet, leather suit, boots, and gloves—that I've been using all season. It's going to be hard enough to adjust to a Ducati from literally one day to the next after riding a Honda for years. I don't need the added distraction of an unfamiliar style or fit of safety gear, too.

"You're damn right I don't care about optics." Celia spreads her fingers before clenching them into a fist like she's squeezing the juice out of a ripe tomato. At this point a stranger would think she'd start yelling, but when she continues, her tone is firm, yet even. "What I care about is my girl's success, and you'd be a fool to jeopardize that for a few extra sponsor dollars. A fool who'll be greatly disappointed in Australia, if I may add."

The straps of my backpack are digging into my shoulders and I'm holding back a yawn, so it would be great if we'd get moving again. It's also kind of weird to still be talking terms when we're just a few hours from signing the contract, so while watching her go to bat for me is entertaining, I hope everything's gonna turn out okay. Rolling my neck, I try not to think about having to go home without a deal. It would suck Meyer lemons to have left a sure thing only to watch my friends in the American racing series finish the season I actually had a chance of winning. Still, racing in the international championship is the best it gets, so of course I wasn't going to give it up without trying.

With a sparkly display case full of diamond jewelry behind her, Celia is still listening to whatever Nigel is saying on the other end of the line. It can't be too good since she's pursing her lips and anxiously nodding. Awesome. After I mouth what's going on, she holds up one finger before turning away. Now I can't even hear what they're talking about, so I pull an extra-tall can of Max Rate soda out of my pocket. I got it from the vending machine right outside baggage claim and thought I'd save it for the car, but now's a good as time as any to pop it open. The sweet-tart taste of the caffeinated sugar-bomb flows over my tongue as I chug it down, but one swallow goes the wrong way and I cough.

"That stuff will rot your insides," Dad says from behind me.

I want to point out how the scotch he likes to sip before dinner probably isn't making him any healthier either, but I don't. Instead, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and turn. "Don't let the sponsors hear you say that."

"You only have to promote it, not drink it." He takes the can out of my hand and drops it in the nearby bin.

I shrug before pointing at Celia. "Not even that, if this falls through." With her call over, she's pushing her way back to us like a really chic salmon swimming against the stream.

"Can you imagine the nerve of this guy? He needs us as much as we need him, and he's still trying to modify the contract." She's not even done complaining before already scrolling through her contacts. "What was the name of our driver? Omar? Amar? Nope got it. Hello, Imran?" Before either of us can answer, she has the guy on the line.

After she confirms where to find our ride, we follow Celia to the exit. As the automatic doors open, the mugginess hits me harder than sliding into an air fence at sixty miles per hour. I read it's normal for late-summer temps in Indonesia to be in the high eighties, but as a California native, the heat for me isn't a biggie. My meteorological nemesis is humidity. A racer's nightmare, it makes the air heavy and hard to breathe. When I step outside, a fine layer of moisture develops on my exposed skin almost immediately. Blech.

Although a vaulted concrete canopy shields the curbside pickup traffic from the direct sun, it's still hella bright out. Pulling my shades down from my head, I hurry to keep up with Celia. I guess Land Cruisers are pretty popular around here because at least a dozen of these SUVs in various earth tones line the street. A few spots up, a man is leaning against one of the tan Toyotas holding a sign with blocky black lettering: DUMAS.

"That's a new one," I say to Dad, nodding toward the guy. I've seen some epic fails—DIMES and even DEEMUSS that one time when the writer must have been spelling it Hooked-on-Phonics style—but this version is a first.

He laughs. "It's not even one of the more complicated Greek names like Hatzimichalis or Anastasopoulos. You'd think they'd get it right at least once."

"I know, right?" I chuckle, appreciating him never giving me grief over the last twelve years since adopting me about not taking his last name. My biological parents definitely picked the right guy to request as my guardian in their will in case anything happened to them. While in most cases this is just a "what if" scenario, it unfortunately came true for us. But Marcus has embraced the whole instant fatherhood thing, giving up a job with lots of travel so I'd have a stable home and even joining our local Greek community to honor my bio dad's roots.

When we arrive at the car, my ears perk up at the mention of Sepang Circuit.

"But we're swinging by the hotel first, right?" I ask Celia as I shake off my backpack and get a whiff of my armpit. Whoa. 'Strong enough for a man,' my butt.

She walks past me, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. "No can do, kiddo. The team wants to make the announcement right after the first race, and since there're still a few wrinkles to work out, we need to head straight to the track."

"Seriously?" I turn as she rounds the back of the car, but she's already texting someone and doesn't appear to have heard.

"Seriously," Dad answers, instead. He's been putting our bags in the trunk, and as he takes my backpack, he smiles without irony at the conflict between the word and facial expression.

I try to hide my disappointment at the news, but I probably roll my eyes or sigh too loudly (possibly both). Finished with the luggage, Dad steps next to me and puts a strong, dark hand on my shoulder. "I'm hungry and tired, too, but we all knew this was going to be a whirlwind trip. I'm sure you'll have a chance to freshen up once we get to Sepang."

"Okay," I say, hoping my hour or so in the lounge before the press conference will be enough to recharge. At least I'll get to see my first live World Road Racing Federation—WRRF for those in the industry—event. There are worse ways a girl could spend her Sunday, I guess.

After slipping into the back next to Celia, I snap my seatbelt in place and pull my phone out of my pocket. Under the lockscreen picture of my fave Kpop group Supahstarr, the display shows the local time and date: 10:20 Sun, Aug 25.

"Ugh. Why do I still have two more days until I'm eighteen? It sucks to have the biggest contract of my life and not be able to even sign it myself," I mumble as Dad and the driver also get in the car.

"Whether you like it or not, the law still considers you a minor until then," Celia says.

"That's right," Dad adds. "You'll have plenty more deals without me soon enough."

"Thanks for that," I say, fiddling with my ear buds. "You know that's not what I meant." I should be grateful that he's raised me to be independent, but sometimes I wish he'd allow himself to take more credit for getting me here. Without all the weekends he spent at the track, working on my bikes himself and driving me all across California for races, I could have never gotten to this level, and I'll value his opinion until I retire from the sport even if his signature is no longer needed on my contracts.

The car pulls away from the curb. We give the right-of-way to a silver Audi (I guess makes other than Toyotas do exist here) then merge onto an overpass leading from the airport.

"Excuse me, but do you know how long until we're there?" Celia scoots forward to address the driver over his shoulder.

"Yes, madam," he says. Pointing across the adjacent runway to a multi-lane expressway, he continues. "We go there. Maybe ten minutes."

Celia shakes her head. "I don't mean how long before we're on the highway. When do we arrive at the racetrack?"

"That is the racetrack, madam." He points again. "See? Sepang Circuit is there past the palm trees. Three kilometers as the birds fly, but thirteen for us to go around in car."

I have to crane my neck to see over Dad's shaved head and broad shoulders, but over a slight crest in the distance, I can just about make out the scalloped awning of the main grandstand. Whether it's from the energy drink kicking in or the realization of just how close we are, I now couldn't care less about stopping by the hotel first.