At first, I can't tell if the pounding is just in my head or if it's coming from somewhere outside. Actually, I'm not even sure where I am until I open my eyes. The room is dark, I'm in a bed, and—bam, bam, bam—yup, someone is definitely hammering away at the door.

Door. Room. Hotel . . . hotel in Germany on Monday morning. Monday is after Sunday, and on Sunday night . . . oh god.

I bolt upright as I suddenly remember why my head throbs like it's in a vice. Compared to that, my shoulder—still tender and stiff—is the least of my problems. I was drinking, I hit on Seb, and did I even try to feel him up? Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

"Hey, kid. You up yet?" Dad asks between knocks. I'd almost forgotten someone was out there.

"Uhm, yeah," I croak, my dry tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Blech. I didn't almost kiss Seb with alcohol breath, right? What the hell was I thinking?

"Well, you better get a move on. The airport shuttle is leaving in fifteen," he says.

Clearing my throat, I pile on the fake cheer. "Okay. I'll meet you out front."

He mumbles something I don't catch—do hangovers come with ringing in the ears, too—but I assume he's okay with the plan. After climbing out of bed, I stumble to the bathroom while avoiding the mirror at all costs. Getting the water to soak away my shame proves to be impossible, but the warm shower makes it tempting to linger. I brush my teeth and comb my freshly washed hair before stepping out, all the while trying to figure out whether the copious amounts of alcohol last night made me act out of the ordinary or if it really just brought out feelings I've been trying to ignore. Both are equally embarrassing, but only one has some pretty hefty consequences.

Pulling on my go-to travel outfit of sweat pants and an oversized, long-sleeved tee, I remember deodorant at the very last second before sweeping all my toiletries up into a bag and throwing that in my suitcase. It's probably the fastest I've ever finished the basic routine, but then again, I usually didn't go to bed so late after a race and definitely never drunk.

I can't believe Seb had confronted Diego at the gala without ever mentioning it to me until last night. He hadn't done it to show off, to gain my trust or even to get me to like him. He did it because it was the right thing to do. That just makes it even more cringe-worthy that I threw myself at him, but I can't change the past. All I can do now is avoid all contact with my teammate for the next four weeks.

Sounds legit. I sigh and roll my eyes.

After I gather up the rest of my crap—how did my fave pair of Ray Bans get stuck between the nightstand and the bed—I hurry down to the lobby. I'd give my right arm for a cup of coffee, but of course the first person coming out of the breakfast buffet is the last one I want to see. My grandiose plan didn't even last ten minutes.

"Good morning," Seb says—smiling, rested, and disgustingly chipper—as he walks past.

I give him a quick nod in return and when he's gone, I pull out my phone. It's time for plan B. There are only two people who I'd trust with my confession. It's the middle of the night in California, so that leaves just one.

I did something really stupid last nite, I type and send the text to Shane. I'm hoping he'll be as equally uncritical of my current situation as he was with my public blow-up at Diego. Post race day, he's probably en-route somewhere, so I'm surprised he writes back almost immediately. New phone. Who dis?

Although I feel like a bag of crushed assholes, I laugh. I'm serious.

Unless you slept with or killed someone there's probably a way to make it right, he writes back.

He may have a point. U sure?

Yes. What happened?

If the parts I do remember are anything to go by, then there's no way anyone else will ever know. Can't tell u.

Can't help with no info.

Do I really need his help though? I really just wanted to unload my misery. But I guess as long as he's offering . . .. What if it's too embarrassing to bring up? Or more like, what if I'm not exactly sure what I may have said or done, but I know it was bad?

Is a guy involved?

Shit. I shouldn't even have started this convo. I pause. Too late now. Maybe.

The response is taking forever, and I start to pace in panic that he's judging me. Dad emerges from the eatery with two to-go cups in his hands just as my cell pings.

Then you're okay. No such thing as too embarrassing for us. You can never go wrong with an apology.

It's not the advice I was looking for, but I know he's right so I fire off one more message. Thanks. xx

"Morning, sunshine. Didn't think you'd have time so I picked one up for you," Dad says, handing me one of the cups. "Go on out to the van. I'll be there in a minute."

Without waiting for an answer, he heads toward Nigel who's standing in the lobby. We're all catching the same ride to the airport so the shuttle won't leave without them, but I'm curious about what they have to talk about in private. Dad has been coaching me ride from the very beginning so he knows my limits, but Nigel is the boss when it comes to Cadmium so what he says goes. The discussions between these two men usually end in me having to do—or stop doing—something, but I guess I'll find out soon enough.

I pull my suitcase out the door and hand it off to the waiting driver before climbing into the idling passenger van. It's already full of Cadmium crewmembers. I sit next to Scotty, one of the older mechanics. Like Nigel, he's from Australia. He's also the team's electronics expert, a crucial position in the age of increasingly high-tech machinery.

"Did you have a rough night, girl?" he asks as I plop into the leather seat and put on my shades. Like yesterday, the sky's overcast with no sun in sight.

I know he's kidding. Even the way he addresses me is out of affection and definitely not a jibe. But after dealing with the same shit over and over again, I have to hold back what I'd really like to say and go with something that won't end with a stern talking-to. "It would seem so."

He laughs. "You did well this weekend, so whatever it was, you deserved it."

I scoff, remembering Seb's rejection. Oh, Scotty. You don't know how right you are. "Yeah, I deserved it, all right," I say.

"You don't think so?" he asks, assuming I spent the night celebrating when it was actually filled mostly with humiliation and disappointment. "Well, that's only because you can do better."

Now I have to keep from laughing because we're totally having two separate conversations. Scotty would probably enjoy hearing about me striking out with Seb. He loves a good story. He's the one who told me the entire sordid tale of Derek ending up pant-less in Kuala Lumpur. Too bad the info would spread like spilled oil on track among the team, then the paddock, and finally the world. Like I need that to show up online.

"Thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence," I say, instead.

He pats my knee with a bear paw-like hand. "You'll earn some points in Italy in two weeks. Just you see."

"From your lips to . . .." I trail off as Seb gets on and sits one row up, across the aisle from me. I have a good view of him, but he'd have to turn to see me. This is my chance. "Excuse me for a sec," I say to Scotty, pulling out my phone.

I find Seb's name in my contact list and write the only thing on my mind. I'm so sorry.

A second after I hit send, he fidgets in his seat and takes out his own phone. Looking at the screen, he smiles. I immediately feel fifty pounds lighter. When he begins to text, my heart races.

It is okay, the message reads.

I look up at him and wish he could see my relief, but he has his head down. No. U were right. Thank you, I write and hit send just as Dad climbs in.

I can't risk glancing at Seb for his reaction to my extended apology because my father's face has that familiar 'you're not going to like what I'm about to tell you' look. "Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Change of plans." Dad hands me a glossy, Lufthansa ticket sleeve. "You're flying to London with Nicola today instead of home with me."

"Cheerio," the woman in question chirps, getting on board right at the mention of her name and sitting in front of me.

"What? Why?" I stammer. This cannot be happening.

Dad sits across the aisle. "Your performance in the race got a lot of good press. Nigel wants you to take advantage of it. You'll spend the week in England then fly directly back to Rome on Saturday. The arrangements have been made. You can check in with the revised confirmation number in that packet."

My plans to decompress are slipping away right before my eyes. "I don't get a break?"

"We already have interviews set up with Good Morning Britain, the nationally syndicated All Sports All the Time, and BBC4. You'll stay at a five star hotel and be wined and dined. If that's not a break, I don't know what is," Nicola says. "I truly can't understand how you deal with all this intercontinental back-and-forth anyway. You really should have set up a base locally, at least for the European races."

"I'll be sure to think about that when I'm counting my millions from a permanent contract," I snap.

The press officer—who's been rifling through a folder of papers—turns her head and pouts. "You don't have to be rude about it," Nicola says, her British accent sounding even heavier than usual.

"Do we have everyone, then?" Nigel pops his head in through the door before things can escalate. After a chorus of affirmative murmurs, he does a quick headcount and sits next to Nicola. The shuttle finally lurches forward, taking us to the airport.