MAX

"Easy, Max. Easy. You've got room on the inside but it'll be tight." Jack's voice in my earpiece is the only thing in my brain. It's as if my body and mind know exactly what to do:

Win.

At the beginning of Turn Four, I maneuver my car to the right of Morishita's. He's my top competitor, an excellent driver, but unfortunately for him, he's left just enough room to allow me to pass on the curve.

"You're doing it, Max, you're doing it!" Jack's voice hums with excitement.

"Payback," I growl. Morishita had overtaken me right after the first pit stop and had been in the lead despite my starting the race on pole position. Now I'm snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, and I pull ahead of my competition on the straightaway.

"One more lap. You've got this, Max." Jack's tone is still filled with tension, but with a definite jubilant tone.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Morishita drive slightly off the track and cut the chicane, allowing me a wider lead. Even over the roar of the car's engine I can hear the cheering in the stands. There's nothing like the approval of the crowd, and that's one of the things keeping me in the sport.

"Two car lead now, twenty meters. Bring it home, Becker."

I can feel the familiar tingling in my balls, the sensation that tells me I'm going to win the race. I accelerate a little harder for good measure, and then I hear a pop.

"What's going on?" I yell into my earpiece.

The car slows from 200 MPH to 180. I press the accelerator all the way down, but the car doesn't respond. Jack's going nuts in my ear. 160. 150. 120.

"What the hell?" I yell.

"Pull aside! Pull aside! It's the engine. We can see." Jack and the team have visuals on all the inner workings of my car from the garage, and I can hear the guys groan and shout as Morishita passes me.

"No, I'm going to try to bring it in."

"Max, pull over. I repeat, pull over! It's dangerous!"

Dammit, no. If I can somehow glide to the finish line, it'll count as a full race. I might even eke out a point or two. If I pull over, it's a DNF.

There's another pop, and wisp of smoke. I swear in my native German. I'm only half a track away from the finish line, and there's no way I'm going to make it. Car after car zooms around me, and I slap my hand on the steering wheel while I guide the car into the gravel.

The crowd's going even wilder now, but not for the right reasons. Like me, they're upset that I — the number one driver and the top contender for the championship — has a big, fat DNF for the important Miami race.

I lift myself out of the car as my competition hurtles past me some fifty yards away while going a hundred and fifty miles per hour.

My hands grip the edge of the car, my fingers gripping the fiberglass. I heave myself up and out, my feet searching for traction on the ground. The soles of my shoes make a crunch sound in the gravel. I stand and look at the car. The front end is engulfed in smoke and probably soon flames.

The smell of burning plastic and metal fills the air and I want to spit on the car.

Du Hurensohn. You son of a bitch.

Other drivers would have a big, dramatic display of disappointment right now, but not me. I don't even take off my helmet as I make the walk of shame back to the garage.

In my mind, however, I'm losing my shit.

When I reach the pit, I pull off my helmet. The words "forced to retire after a certain victory" waft from the announcer on the loudspeaker. I want to punch something, but keep that emotion bottled inside me. Instead, I grit my teeth so hard that I can feel pain in my sinuses.

It's so hot that the air barely registers on my sweat-drenched face. I don't acknowledge the rest of the team or the few VIPs in the garage as I stalk up to Jack and pull him aside. "What the fuck?"

The lanky Australian engineer shakes his head. "I know. I know. The engine crapped the bed, mate. It's the worst luck. We're going to get to the bottom of this."

"Did Esteban have any problems with his car?" My younger teammate — a guy who is affable, kind, and above all, scandal-free — has been doing incredibly well for his first year in Formula World.

Jack shakes his head. "Only your car. The engineers are looking into it. I'm really sorry, Max."

He's known me long enough to understand that I need to be alone. We've worked together on and off for seven years now, both as competitors and on the same teams. This is our second team together, and the first year he's my engineer.

I lean against the wall and run a hand through my hair, which is damp with perspiration. I feel like punching something but would never debase myself with such a public show of emotion.

The only silver lining is that I can take a shower without the hassle of the post-race press conference. It'll be necessary to do a few interviews after my spectacular failure of a last lap, but at least I'll be clean.

I slip out the back door of the garage and stalk to Team Onassis' "Recharge Station," a massive mobile home made with sustainable Austrian timber. On the way I'm ambushed by a reporter, someone from a German newspaper.

"Max, what happened out there on the track?"

Although I want to yell at her, I've never been violent or hostile with the press. It's just not my style, not even when I was a younger driver and in my truly wild days, back when I was on a team with Dante Annunziata — a wild man in his own right, before he got married.

I stare at the reporter, a middle-aged woman who knows her racing. She's been on the Formula World beat for years. "I was headed for a win and something went wrong," I say in German. "I lost power, and the team lost points. It's as simple as that. Now if you'll excuse me."

Even though she's asking more questions, I clam up and stalk into the mobile structure, where press isn't allowed.

It's where my driver's room is located. There, I can shower and seethe in peace. I wave at the woman behind the front counter — it's where the team can also get snacks, drinks, and much-needed espresso — and she buzzes me through a triple-locked door and into the back. My room is on the second floor of the behemoth building, which the team constructs and deconstructs for every American race. There's a second one in Europe for the races there; Onassis has spared no expense with his old family money.

Esteban's room looks like a playroom, with video games, a mini-foosball table, and a bean bag.

Compared to his, my room is sterile. A massage table is the only thing that looks out of place, with its crisp white sheets and small pillow. The armoire is functional and white, housing my necessities. The desk and chair are small and tan, matching the sofa. The only splash of color comes from the framed photographs of my hometown of Tübingen, Germany, on the walls.

I want no distractions in my moment of failure. No media. No fans. No frills.

I strip off my suit and hang it on the rack, feeling my muscles tense as the cool air hits my skin. During some races, I lose up to ten pounds in water weight from sweating alone, which is why I have a case of water bottles stacked in the corner. I reach for one and inhale the liquid, then pad into the shower and turn on the cold, gasping as the full blast hits me. I slap my hand on the wall, half-expecting the entire building to come crashing down around me. I'm that angry.

Winning today was crucial, and not just for the points. Oh, sure, I want to win the championship. It's been two years since I've had a truly excellent year, since I won my last championship. I hadn't won last year with my old team, and now I'm with Onassis. This year we have the best car in the league, or so I thought. Now I'm having my doubts, given the way the engine blew up today.

On the last fucking lap.

This hadn't happened to Esteban's car, and I automatically wonder if I have an inferior machine. Of course, I don't, but doubts creep in after something like this. Maybe this is my sign to finally leave the sport, after years of injuries and neck pain — and after getting a call from the head of a startup electric racecar circuit in Germany. They want me to be a consultant, which would require me to retire as a driver.

I douse myself in soap, a knot of failure tightening in my gut. There was another reason I wanted to win here at Silverstone, a reason far less rational than winning another championship.

I lather my hair, practically scratching my scalp raw as I scrub.

Lily Onassis. I'd wanted to win for her. She's the boss's daughter. The woman I'd lost my virginity to when I was twenty-two. She'd been an intern for her father's team one season. I was driving for a different team back then, and sleeping with a rival team's intern was taboo, so we spent eight months sneaking around, slipping into each other's hotel rooms all across the globe.

When that season ended, she broke my heart.

She lives in Miami, and since this is the first year that the city's held a race, I figured she'd be here today. Or the after party. I wanted her to see me win on her home turf. Before every race, I like to have a personal goal for winning. Sometimes it's as simple as, "Mum's watching on TV and I want to make her proud," or "I'm doing this for that little kid with cancer because he's my number one fan."

Today it was, "I want Lily to see that I'm a champion."

"Fucking stupid," I mutter as I rinse off. Of course, it's idiotic; she knows I've won the Formula World championship two times since we ended our relationship. I don't need any more external validation, championship cups, or money. Hell, I'm not even sure how much longer I want to be in this sport.

But it would feel good to see Lily Onassis admit she was wrong when she broke up with me. She's the only woman who's ever rejected me.

Maybe I'll skip the after-parties entirely and fly to Germany to see my family instead. Seeing Mom, Dad, and my younger brother, always helps me focus. I'll avoid all the post-race hoopla and get on the private jet. Or maybe I'll save myself the long flight and head to LA to see my best friend, a German actor who's made it big in Hollywood as a talk show host.

I've gotta get out of Miami, preferably before tonight's parties.

Because the last thing I want is for Lily to look at me and think I'm a loser.

____