Traffic gets worse the closer we get, but the all-access passes Celia fishes out of her purse apply to parking, too. We take a reserved—and nearly empty—lane to get inside the gates, head past the overflowing general admission lots, and pull into a drop-off by the main entrance. I jump out as soon as the car comes to a stop.

The A/C inside the Land Cruiser had been on full blast, but now I'm sweating again so I pull off my hoodie. As I'm tying it around my waist, the sweet roar of a high performance bike catches my ear. I turn as the Japanese monster—with an engine displacement at least five times greater than what I ride—rolls up.

I don't think I'll unsee the image any time soon.

To each his own, but the paintjob is a horrendously tacky zebra-stripe, which would be cringe-worthy enough by itself. What really gets my attention is the chick sitting on the back. With her arms wrapped around the driver—to his credit, dressed semi-decently in jeans, leather jacket, gloves and boots—she's not only less protected (I guess she doesn't mind road-rash), but an unfortunate victim of fashion.

She's the one wearing a floral print baby doll dress over neon-pink leggings and platform sandals, but I'm the one getting secondhand embarrassment from looking at her. If I didn't already know that most biker bunnies preferred appearances to utility, I'd bet it was her first time on a motorcycle. When she removes her helmet and immediately checks her hair and makeup in the rear view mirror, I have to suppress a giggle. Called it.

The bike is parked on the grass median where yellow fluorescent vest-wearing attendants have been directing the massive amount of two-wheeled overflow traffic, but the rider is having trouble putting the Suzuki on the kickstand. The soil is probably excessively soft since the machine is leaning too far over, and the poor guy looks increasingly frustrated. There's a simple hack any regular rider knows—which means he's probably a newbie—so I grab an empty plastic water bottle off the top of a nearby trash can and head over to help.

I've already crushed the half-liter container by the time I get to them. "Here. Use this," I say, holding it out, but he's either too surprised or too confused to know what to do with it. Crouching down, I place the piece between the metal stand and the soft lawn.

"Okay?" I ask, and as I stand, I give them a thumbs-up in case they don't speak English.

He carefully leans the bike onto the kickstand and pushes down on the handlebars to test its sturdiness. The flattened disc holds up perfectly, creating a solid surface to prevent the leg from sinking into the ground and tipping over.

"Cool," he says with a grin. "Thanks."

I nod and wave good-bye. "No problem."

"You ride?" he calls to me after I've already turned.

I smile and glance over my shoulder. Man, if you only knew. "Yeah. A little."

"Are you coming?" Dad yells from the other side. With luggage at his feet and my backpack on his shoulder, he's tapping his wristwatch in the universal sign for 'get your ass in gear because we're going to be late.' I know it well.

I run to his side and take my bag. Celia is a couple of steps ahead of us again as we follow signs to the central welcome area. There are people everywhere. The energy is unbelievable, and everything—and everyone—is covered in branded merchandise: hats, shirts, backpacks, flags, you name it. The piped-in techno music gets louder as we reach the inside gates where huge billboards on either side greet visitors to the Sepang International Circuit. An announcer with a cool British accent interrupts the bass beats to boast of the day's attendance: a record-setting seventy-three thousand spectators. Holy crap, that's a lot of people.

We use the special access entry here too and break off from the crowd to take a pedestrian tunnel right under the track's longest straight. We come up on the other side by the pit building, which has the team garages on the bottom level and—per the signs—VIP lounges on top.

"We're meeting Nigel Clark at Race Control, but you go ahead to the Paddock Club. We'll catch up with you there," Dad shouts above the sound of revving engines. They've been quiet up until now, and the change means the start of the first race is getting close.

My eyes dart around the paddock—filled with more official-types than spectators—and my heart rate spikes just like it does before I take my place on the starting grid when competing. I know I promised not to poke around the garages until the paperwork was done, but that was before the sweet smell of racing exhaust hit my nose. I give Dad a quick fist bump and nod. "Okay, but I'm going to find a place down here to change first."

"I'm sure there are better facilities—"

"You want me to make a good first impression, right?" I cut him off and point to my sweatpants and tee combo, already having expected the objection. Of course I could change anywhere including the lounge's restroom. I just wanted an excuse to stick around down here a bit longer. Reaching up, I smooth out the collar of his light blue polo shirt. The color is totally on point against his dark complexion. "I'll just pop into the nearest ladies' room before heading up."

"For god's sakes, Marcus." Celia throws up her hands. "Let her be and get on with it."

"Fine," he relents with a half smile. "But be good."

I grin. "Always."

I'm not lying. I have every intention of being good. Just a quick peek into the garages before changing, then I'll happily join the elite few who've either received comped tickets from sponsors or paid a premium for the privilege of watching the day's races in catered—and air-conditioned—luxury.

But fate appears to have other ideas, and most of the back doors to the pit boxes are closed. I'm able to sneak a glance into one of the Spanish team's garages until I accidentally see a rider adjust himself in his leathers. After I low-key catch him with his hand down his pants, we exchange a quick smile-and-nod, and I duck out.

I'm ready to give up and follow the signs to the nearest bathroom when a mechanic in a yellow and black Cadmium Racing team shirt enters the adjacent pit box. Bingo! Technically, my pass allows me to be here, but as I follow the man inside, a little Dad-shaped angel appears on my shoulder, and he doesn't look happy. When I remember I'm standing in one of the world's premier racing garages, my moment of guilt disappears with a proverbial poof along with the Marcus Nance-looking manifestation of my conscience.

Holy shit, I'm actually here.

I take a deep breath before exhaling. I really don't want to cry, but I'm tearing up from joy.

If he saw my reaction, my adoptive dad would probably forgive me for not quite following his request. If he were alive today, my biological dad would be flipping out, but for different reasons. While Marcus got into this sport for me, I got into it for Nick Dimas. He not only rode—not competitively, just as a hobby—but he also followed the local races. There are plenty of pictures in our suburban San Jose house of him shaking hands with all the major riders on the US circuit from fifteen and even twenty years ago. His sweet smile at the chance to meet his idols in each one inspires me every time I look at them.

A lump forms in my throat at a bittersweet thought. The funny thing—not 'ha-ha' funny, more like ironic funny—is that if he and Mom hadn't died, I probably wouldn't even be here today. Not as a future team member, anyway. Mom was too protective to ever have let me get on a motorcycle, much less race one. But Marcus had no such reservations. Or at least he didn't voice them when I had asked to give it a try. And look where I am now!

Most activity at Cadmium Racing is at the front of the garage, and every indication shows that the 3Prix guys are probably just minutes away from heading out to the track. Engineers and other staff are crowded around the lone two-fifty bike standing in the opening, and getting a good look at the machine is nearly impossible.

I stay in the back where it's practically deserted, but also much less interesting. Set up for quieter discussions, it's also a chill space place for riders to get prepared or sit between sessions. On the left, a privacy panel is covered with an eight-foot tall poster of Austin Harris. I'd raced against him in California a few years ago, so I recognize him even without his name and number in large print.

Standing in his racing suit with his helmet tucked under one arm, he's sporting shoulder-length, blonde hair and wearing a huge-ass, goofy grin. I can't blame him. Around the time the picture was taken, he probably had every reason to be happy. At fifteen, this kid from Nashville had just won the US Pro250 Series, earning him a spot here on the international circuit. He was on course for a repeat performance in 3Prix when a sudden diagnosis of exhaustion a couple of weeks ago sidelined him for the last third of this season.

In a sport where endurance—both physical and mental—is a prerequisite, the abrupt lack of it for Austin had been puzzling. Newspapers ran several articles trying to get more details, and in all honesty, I also wondered if there was more to the story. But either way, his bad luck led to the crucial vacancy on the team that I now—fingers crossed—will be filling.

It's the same setup on the opposite side, but holy crap the photo on the right can't be any more different. With his arms crossed, feet spread, and his body at an angle, the cocky smirk on Sebastiano Bianchi's irritatingly handsome face (stubble-covered jaw, strong Roman nose, perfectly proportioned lips: check, check, and check) as he stares down from the poster oozes the confidence of a reigning world champion. 

The guy is not only hot as hell, he looks like he smells good, too. Like a mix of ocean breeze and cypress pine. Or maybe I'm just remembering that from the body spray ad he was in recently. No matter. In any other situation, I'd be blissfully imagining what it would be like to snuggle up to the rock-hard body filling out those snug leathers. But I have to remind myself I'm here for work, so even my thoughts have to stay focused. 

The Italian is just a year older than me, and I kind of want to hate him for his professional accomplishments, until I remember that out of the first twelve races this season, he only managed four podium finishes and none of them were at the top of the rostrum. There were rumors that Seb let fame go to his head and got caught up in his success. His Instagram from a few months back is full of pictures at parties on Mallorca or fancy events in Cannes, and pretty much all include a girl on his arm and a drink in his hand.

Coming from California, I'm well aware of celebrity culture, so I know not to believe everything I read. But maybe there is something in the Cadmium water for both riders to have had such a challenging season because for the golden boy who'd won almost half of the previous year's races, it was a huge fall from grace. If he doesn't start placing at the head of the field today here in Malaysia, he'll have no chance at defending his title. I'm all for competition, but that isn't the type of pressure I'd wish on anyone, not even a racer I only know from TV and the Internet.

The sound of the back door swinging open followed by Nigel Clark's unmistakable Australian drawl makes me jump. He's grumbling something about losing his patience, and I'm not about to stick around to find out why. The open garage door facing pit lane is the only other way out, so I'll try to slip away before he sees me. I get a few feet from Seb's idling bike before my plan goes to shit. It's too tempting to pass without a better look.

Bright yellow with matte black accents, the Ducati is covered with sponsor decals, but the black "1" on a circular white background decorating the nose fairing gets prominence. Dammit, that's straight fire. Maybe I do hate Seb a little for it.

I sigh. The bike is drool-worthy, but it hadn't won races simply with its looks. The engine purrs with a low, guttural beat so powerful I can feel it in my body even though I'm an arm's-length away. The sound is gracefully monotonous until a technician twists the throttle to rev the engine in short, loud bursts.

It's times like this I really appreciate the protection my earplugs usually give, but my god, that is the most beautiful sound in existence. When the guy opens it up on full blast, the Italian sportbike releases its trademark high-pitched roar, and even I have to cover my ears.

Riders from other garages begin to roll out, zooming past the Cadmium box in rapid succession. A mechanic pushes closer to the bike, forcing me to take a step back. I think there's enough room, but I bump into someone. Before I can see whom, two gloved hands gently grab my upper arms and scoot me out of the way.

Holy shit. I stare as Seb Bianchi walks around me, steps to the bike, and throws his leg over the seat. He blips the throttle before putting the motorcycle in gear and looking up. Although for a quick second our eyes meet, his thoughts should already be on the race so it feels more like he's looking through me with that piercing gray gaze rather than at me. Sure enough, Seb slams his tinted visor down and pulls into pit lane without a reaction.

"You're itchin' to get on that ride, I see," Nigel Clark says from behind.

I blank on a response. I'd completely forgotten about the team manager, but where else would he be? But he doesn't sound angry any more, so I guess the deal went through.

"Yeah." I smile and turn to look at my new boss. Nearing fifty, he's tall and athletic, looking younger than his age. Only the wisps of gray at the temples in his short, black hair betray him. "Sorry about that. I know I promised—"

"Don't worry 'bout it," he says, crossing his arms. "As long as you start doin' what I say from this point forward, we'll let this one slide."

"Right. Of course." I stick my increasingly sweaty hands in my pockets before looking toward the way out. "I'm gonna go change and find something to drink."

"You do that." Nigel nods. "Enjoy the race, and I'll see you in the briefing room after."