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“Holy shit,” Kelsie says. “You really said all that?”

It’s six a.m. in London. I landed about an hour ago and immediately dragged Kelsie out of bed to give her a word-for-word

recap of what happened.

“Yep.” My voice comes out a little shaky. I’ve been oscillating rapidly between “totally proud of myself and high on adrenaline”

and “one wrong move away from a total breakdown.” “It was insane.”

“I’m so proud of you.” Kelsie reaches across the table to grab my hand. “Seriously.”

“Yeah.” I look at my hands for a moment.

“Hey.” Kelsie squeezes my fingers. “It’s going to be okay.”

I nod once, then again. There’s a painful lump in the back of my throat. “I’m going to be fucked if I can’t get a job.”

“Jacob.”

A thin panic rises in my chest. “I can only stay here six months without some kind of visa.”

“That’s plenty of time. If things don’t work out with Crosswire, we’ll find something else. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll

just arrange a sham marriage.”

I manage a laugh. “Right.”

We smile at each other for a second, then she kicks me under the table. “Come on. You wake me up this early, I demand you

take me out for breakfast.”

“Yeah, alright.” I rise to my feet. “Hey—thanks, yeah? For letting me stay and everything.”

She shrugs. “I’m not doing it to be nice. I’m doing it so that you’ll buy me a bunch of fancy shit when you become a millionaire

F1 star. Obviously.”

My lips twist into a smile. “Obviously.”

On Tuesday morning, twenty-two minutes after eight, I walk into Crosswire Racing’s factory, thirty minutes outside of London.

I rented a car for the day to get here, and I was so nervous about getting lost or delayed that I got here twenty minutes

early. After agonizing about it for a while, I decided that showing up eight minutes early shows initiative and courtesy.

I was originally going to do twelve minutes early, but that seemed a bit too early, almost rude.

I’ve overthought this way too much, obviously.

The Crosswire factory is scary impressive. Even the parking lot is amazing. There are these two crazy metal statues of F1

cars when you turn in, and every parking spot is marked with a glossy wooden sign. There are five labeled “Guest” and twenty

labeled “Visitor,” and I agonized about that choice for about five minutes before I decided on Visitor.

I smooth down my T-shirt as I walk toward the building. I decided on casual clothes, a dark gray jacket, black shirt, and

dark jeans, and I’ve got a black messenger bag that I bought yesterday over my shoulder, with my race stats and stuff printed

out in a folder.

I pull open the frosted glass door and step into the lobby.

The ceiling is so high it feels like a church and the walls are covered in really huge, artsy black-and-white photos of historic F1 cars and drivers.

Farther ahead, to the left, there’s a vast marble-floored room with a long line of old Crosswire cars.

I gape at them for a moment, feeling like a little kid visiting a cool museum.

The sudden clicking of heels makes me jump. “Can I help you?” asks a pleasant voice.

The speaker is a woman about my age with a friendly smile.

“I’m here to meet Tom Kellen,” I say nervously. “I’m—”

“Jacob Nichols, of course. Mr. Kellen is expecting you. Right this way.”

She leads me past the incredible row of cars and up a flight of stairs to a hallway lined with doors. The door labeled “TOM

KELLEN” is already open. I swallow hard. Tom was the team principal of Crosswire for about ten years. He took over when Crosswire

was a crap team and turned it into three-time championship winner. He trained his replacement for a few years, a woman named

Sofia Conyers, and then he bought out the previous team owners and took over the whole team. On TV he always seems friendly

enough, but you can tell he’s one of those people who’s scary smart and expects everyone else to keep up with them.

Naturally, I’m terrified of him. But Amanda suggested what she calls a “foolproof” interview strategy. No matter what they

ask, she said, be completely honest. That way, if you get the job, you know it’s because they really want you. And if you

don’t, you can find a little comfort knowing you wouldn’t want to work with someone who doesn’t want you for your true self.

It seems kind of basic, but at the same time, it does make me feel a bit calmer. I don’t have to try to think of fancy, impressive

answers. I’m just going to tell the truth.

“Ah, Jacob.” Tom rises and shakes my hand, firm and brisk. He’s a tall, thin white man with pale hair and glasses. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Of course.” My voice is thin and nervous. “Thanks for having me.”

“Have a seat, please.” The woman melts away, shutting the door behind her, and I sit in the chair Tom points me to, on one

side of a glossy wooden desk. He sits in the chair opposite me. The window behind him overlooks the parking lot with the two

car statues. “Did you find the place okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you living these days? I hope you didn’t have to come too far.”

“No, sir. I’m living in London. I moved in with an old friend from high school.”

“You like it here?”

I nod earnestly. “Yeah, so much. I love London. And I was living with my parents in Albuquerque before that for a while, during

rehab, which was... not ideal.”

That might be a bit too honest, but luckily Tom laughs, revealing very white, straight teeth. I looked up his net worth on

Google, and it said he’s worth six hundred million dollars.

“I can certainly relate to that,” he says. “I lived with my parents for five years when I was trying to get my first company

off the ground. ‘Not ideal’ is a mild way to put it.” He pushes his chair back. “Would you like an espresso? I’ve only had

four so far today, so I’m struggling.”

“Oh—sure, thanks.”

There’s a Nespresso machine on the other side of the office, and I watch as he makes two espressos.

“How did your rehab go?” he asks. “You must have been in physio for quite some time.”

I nod. “It was good. I mean, it was hard, and it took a while. But it went well. The rehab team cleared me to race again about a month and a half ago.”

“Have you done any racing since?”

I swallow. “No, sir. I reached out to a few F2 teams...” Nope, that’s not true. “All of them, actually.”

“Porteo didn’t want you back?”

I wince slightly at his bluntness. “No,” I answer honestly. “Which... you know, I get it. I was really injured, and I was

off for so long—”

“They’re idiots,” Tom says.

I stare at him. “Sorry?”

“They’re idiots,” he repeats, handing me an espresso. He sits down across from me and takes a sip of espresso, watching me

through sharp blue eyes. “You were by far the best driver in F2 last year. They should have taken you back.”

My cheeks are warm. “Oh. I mean, it was mostly my fault, though. I didn’t keep in touch with them at all after the crash—”

“That’s not your job,” Tom says dismissively. “Clayton’s younger sister died very suddenly three seasons ago. Terrible tragedy.

It wasn’t his job to tell us he needed time off. It was our job to support him through his grief and recovery.” He takes another sip of espresso.

“The same thing goes for the rest of our staff. Drivers are valued in this company, but not more so than everyone else.”

I smile faintly. “I like that.”

Tom nods briskly. “Good. Now, there are still things we’ll have to work through. You’ll need to be cleared by our team here—the

physios and doctors, and our psychotherapists—”

“I—sorry, cleared for what?” My heart is skittering.

“To join the team,” he says, as though it’s obvious. “We already have a reserve driver for this season, Farin Leblanc, but we can bring you in as a test driver. And I’ll tell you in confidence, it’s likely our reserve spot will be open next season.”

I feel kind of jittery and unstable, like I’ve drunk my espresso too quickly. Also sort of like I might cry, which would be

humiliating. “Is Farin... going somewhere?” I manage.

“He is likely to receive a very exciting opportunity,” Tom says vaguely. “One we would fully support him in.”

“That’s nice,” I say stupidly.

Tom watches me for a moment. “I’ve surprised you.”

“Uh—yeah, a little.” I let out a nervous laugh. “I guess I’m just... I mean, don’t you need to, like, interview me, or

something?”

“Interviews,” Tom says, “are a useless social construct. Anyone with half a brain is going to give the right answers and say

the right things. Do you know how I like to select employees?”

“Um—no, sir.”

“I find people I think are qualified, then I talk to the people who’ve worked below them. Everyone is nice to their boss.

They have to be. I want to know how people treat their admin staff, their interns, their rivals. That’s the only true way

to measure a person.” He drains the last of his espresso. “In your case, it was Billy Gaines, Ella Fairchild, Tony Carson,

Maria Coutreau, and Sam Austin. I always speak to at least five people, to ensure a fair sample.”

I sit silently, feeling sort of stunned. Billy Gaines was a sixteen-year-old kid who was going through karting, who spent

a month with Porteo a few years ago. Ella was the team manager’s assistant. Tony was a physiotherapist. Sam was one of the

mechanics. And Maria... it takes me a minute to place her. I think she was my teammate’s girlfriend.

“You are an extremely talented driver,” Tom says. “But so are a lot of people. You treat people well. You work hard. And you’ve overcome a hell of a lot over the past months. I can imagine what it’s taken for you to get to this point.”

“Uh—yeah.” I clear my throat. “It’s been... a lot.”

He nods. “Well, I’m not going to lie to you, you’ve still got a lot of hard work ahead of you. And if you slack off, or start

acting like a jackass, you’ll be held accountable.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Now, come.” He stands. “I’ll give you a tour of the place and walk you through our expectations of you.”

I stand automatically, then abruptly sit down again.