Prologue—Jasper
March, present day
The sponsor logos lining the track blur as I speed round the Bahrain circuit. I engage the drag reduction system, which opens the rear wing like a letter box flap and boosts my speed by about seventeen kilometers an hour. With the DRS assist, I easily pass Rivera on the right and smirk inside my helmet, resisting the urge to flip him off.
Over the loud whine of the hybrid engine, a calm British voice in my earpiece says with aching precision, “Well done, Jasper, now you are P1, P1, with six laps to go.”
“Yes. Good.” I hit the paddle shifter on the steering wheel, and then I brake hard in the curve at the last possible second. I’m so bloody close to the finish line, I can feel it.
I need this win. Today’s the first race of the season, and I have a lot to prove. That little twat beat me for championship points last year, but it’s not going to happen again. I’m not going to let him win, plain and simple. Not today. Not all year. Never.
My goal this year is simple: be number one and make my team proud.
I’m not doing it just for them, though. I’m also doing it for the fans. My country.
And my family. Maybe.
Now I’m zooming like a bullet down the longest straightaway of the track, headed into the serpentine curves of the chicane. I’m focused on nothing but the race and the way the car reacts to every nudge I give it. More throttle, brake as late as I can, steer sharply left, then hard right, and gooooooo.
Driving an open-wheel race car means that I’m a master of paying attention to everything at once and making decisions in an instant—or less than an instant. In an amount of time so short you can’t measure it properly. Championships have been won on the margin of a thousandth of a second, which is unfathomably short, albeit measurable.
I know there are spectators watching and talking heads narrating what I’m doing. Cameras are rigged up everywhere: in addition to multiple places on the car so fans can literally watch every move I make, there’s one in my helmet recording what I’m seeing and one at my feet to show them dancing on the pedals. Any mistake by any driver gets replayed, turned into a GIF, and memed so it stays with us forever.
I ignore all that. I’m also not thinking about how much is riding on this race or the twenty-plus races before the end of this season, the hundreds of millions of euros I can potentially earn for the team. Yes, there are two drivers on each team, but I consider it my job to be first. Always.
For now, all I care about is that Rivera’s at my back and no one’s in front of me. I just need to do my work: shove all that noise aside and pay attention to the racing plan, to maintaining the lead, to monitoring the track conditions. I’ve managed my fuel levels and my tire degradation. I’m all clear to win.
That checkered flag is mine.
The flat Bahrain circuit is one of my favorites, because I won here as a rookie four years ago and followed it up the next season. Although two years ago …
No. Not thinking about that.
Focus, Jasper. Focus on driving. Focus on winning. Focus on staying the course. Focus on remaining the fastest racer on the track. The fastest in the world.
Five laps later, the finish line is in sight. No matter what exercises I do to regulate my breathing, there’s no way to keep my heart from thundering at a time like this. The heat and noise of the engine behind my back drown out most other sensations, isolating me in my own world. A world where I obliterate all opposition.
Although I’m exhausted from more than two hours of near-constant exertion, I smile. I’m going to win this race.
It’s so close. I can feel the heft of the trophy in my hands, the spray of champagne—well, in this country, it’s a nonalcoholic rose water–pomegranate drink called Waard—on my face, the smooth surface of the podium under my feet, like I’m raised above everyone else. The pomp of the Swedish national anthem, the roar of the crowd, the pop of confetti raining down on us. The splash of LED signs everywhere displaying my face and my car in supercuts.
I see that beautiful black-and-white checkered flag waving overhead as I cross the finish line. My heart soars, and adrenaline surges through me. “Yes!” I yell into the mic, pumping my fist into the air. “Thank you! Ja! Yes.”
“Congratulations, Jasper,” the team principal, Maxine Ackerman, says in her jaded New York accent, and I smile, elated. “Nice, clean race. Well done.”
But as I slow the car down to do a celebratory lap, the square black digital signs along the track light up in a red flag warning.
“What happened? Did someone crash on the last lap?” I ask over comms.
“Affirmative,” Hendricks responds, his cool British voice calming. “We are investigating, but it seems that Rivera has rolled into the barrier at turn thirteen.”
Ice pours into my veins.
No. No no no.
“Is Rivera all right?” I ask, my body shaking more than it did while battling the g-forces of the track.
No response.
“What happened?” I say, louder this time. “Is he hurt?”
“We are checking on that, Jasper. Hold, please.”
I will not bloody hold. Absolute fear—horrifying dread—takes hold of me. Barely resisting the urge to scream, I make my way along the course in what was supposed to be a taunting victory lap but is now a slow crawl of terror. When I approach the scene of the accident, it’s all I can do to not stop the car and race over to him.
Rivera’s car is flipped, the wheels in the air and the weight of the vehicle balancing on the roll bar and the halo—the protective titanium wishbone structure surrounding the driver’s head. I hold my breath.
I am going to get out. I’m going to get him. I can’t let anything happen to him.
Hendricks’s voice in my ear says, “It is not safe to remain where you are. Proceed to parc fermé, please, Jasper.” He’s referring to where the winning cars line up at the end of the race.
My logical mind notes that there are emergency vehicles everywhere, plus two cranes. A dozen track personnel are out assisting the driver, who appears to be trapped. Some have fire extinguishers at the ready, and others are poised with containers of kitty litter to clean up spills. I pass by slowly, being waved at by an official to keep going. I want to stop and help, even though I know I’ll only make it worse. I’m backing up traffic behind me, too.
So I keep driving, the car even more difficult to control at reduced speed. These cars don’t work well at slow speeds; they want to race. My arms are still trembling, from the exertion of the day but also from my current panic.
Is he safe?
The track is about to turn so I won’t be able to see him, but in my side-view mirror, I catch a glimpse of his car bursting into flames.
No. No, no, no, no. I yell and brake, moving to unfasten my safety belts.
But of course cameras catch my moves.
“No, Jasper,” Hendricks says in my ear. “Do not go to him.”
I’m going to be sick. All I want is to pull him to safety. Save him.
I’ll run into flames for him. I’ll do anything for him.
I swallow hard. I’m so damn dehydrated it hurts. I usually lose one to two kilos of weight during a race, but it’s worse in these races closer to the equator. I’m worn out and scared when I should be elated.
“Jasper, do you copy? Proceed to parc fermé.”
“Understood,” I croak. The professionals have fire suppression equipment, and our suits are made of flame-resistant Nomex. But still … I need to know he’s safe.
The problem, besides managing my soaring panic at how he’s doing, is that no one can know I care. No one can know that my insides are being torn up, my soul is being ripped out of my body, a massive tank is running over my heart.
I have to turn my back on Cristian Rivera.
For starters, he’s my sworn enemy—or at least my rival. Our clashes sell tickets. The pundits make much of how Jasper Nord’s and Cristian Rivera’s stats are nearly identical. We’re famous for our taunts—especially him to me. Our fans detest each other. They buy merchandise—T-shirts, bumper stickers, mugs—with some of the pithier Nord-Rivera insults emblazoned on them.
Cristian Rivera, last year’s world champion, is my chief competition. He’s the one I’m always trying to beat. He’s the one I persistently bad-mouth, and he dishes it right back, his jeers delivered with his rakish smile.
As far as the world knows, we hate each other.
But Cristian is also the man who sucked my dick last night.
