Page 11 of Green Flag (StormSprint #2)

Everly

Luca’s bike remained a few inches past the white line that secured his position, but he was stuck, his wheels unmoving. His hands were in the air, and I could feel the fury even through the helmet.

“Run!” Abbé shouted at him. “Fucking run!”

And then he was off. Helmet still on, he sprinted through the crowd just off the track towards the pit lane. “What is going on?” Arabella asked, eyes narrowed in judgment as she watched Luca sprint on the screen. “He stalled. He won’t make it.”

“If he stalled when the race started, no, he wouldn’t,” I told her. “But he stalled at the warm-up lap. He has the time it will take to get to the pit lane to grab his other bike. Those in the pit will be changing the tyres of the backup bike from wet to normal.”

Damn, I’d missed the racing. There was a thrill in my veins as people cheered around me for Luca. I was biting my lip with worry but I was so excited for him to come back from this.

The racing was an adrenaline rush, whether you were on the bike or not.

“When a bike stalls, it needs to be electronically restarted. There’s no time to do that here. Whereas the other bike is ready.”

She looked me over. “You know a lot about the bikes. I just nod along.”

“I didn’t really have much choice when my father is my father,” I laughed. “But I had a good teacher.”

My ex had been obsessed with the bikes.

“Well, do you think he’ll make it?”

“They won’t wait for him,” I said, and instead of showing the warm-up lap, the screen showed Luca in his green and red leathers bolting through the pit lane.

“He’ll have to wait for everyone to go past,” I explained. “He’ll be in position twenty-four, far from the twelfth he should have been.”

“He’ll have to do a lot of overtaking,” she commented, gesturing to the track. “He hasn’t done much of that so far. He’s stayed consistent. If he qualifies in a position, the likeliness is he’ll be a couple of positions off.”

“That won’t be enough today,” I worried aloud.

God, with so much pressure on him, I wasn’t surprised he’d stalled it. Or that he would feel the need to take it too far.

“Nix has overtaken already,” Bella said.

But I wasn’t focused on him. The world was just the screens and Abbé talking into his microphone as Luca legged it. On the screen, he was now on his bike as the racers pulled up from their warm-up lap.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered. “I don’t know if he’ll make it. I wouldn’t want to be running anywhere in this heat. Let alone in leathers.”

Nix, in the front line, looked behind him to see where his teammate was and, when he couldn’t see him, looked over to us in the safety box. I waved my hands in a dramatic shrug.

Bella laughed. “You wouldn’t catch me running anywhere.”

But Luca was on his bike as the official race started.

“Let’s hope he learns to overtake,” Bella mumbled.

As the race started, the bikes’ loud, excited groans didn’t scare me this time; I was too focused on my rider.

Because that’s what he was. I was his grid girl. And, even though I hardly knew him, I really wanted him to succeed. He deserved it.

The commentary only spoke of him, even as they went past the first corner and they all became a swarm of bikes that tried to overtake each other. There was a minor crash — knocking one bike out and making another wobble — but no one gave it more than the slightest mention.

The stadium held it’s breath; every single person wanted the best for Luca Mendes.

The loyal, determined teammate. The unexpected fan favourite.

As the bikes rushed past the exit of the pit lane, he was waiting, and I breathed again, knowing that he would at least participate in the race. The last ten people to get past the finish line didn’t receive any points towards the year’s championship.

“Go, Luca, go!” I screamed as the last rider went past the pit lane and Luca’s bike roared into motion.

The whole crowd cheered far louder than the bikes did, and suddenly, I felt like crying.

Because, without really watching this man race, I knew there was no way he wasn’t going to pick up some points. He was going to overtake the ten racers he needed to.

It was a messy start. Frank Feldtt crashed out of first place.

Giorgio Martin wobbled and took out three other racers.

So Luca only had to overtake five.

Every time he raced past us, I was screaming, jumping on my toes for my rider.

Yes, I’d defended him and was likely to get in trouble. Yes, I would defend any injustice.

But he was mine to defend.

He was far too calm and collected to give people the hard time they deserved. Me? I enjoyed righting wrongs.

He overtook two easily. They were slow, hesitant. New riders to StormSprint, like himself.

But there was something in the Mendes DNA that made him effortlessly fast.

Maybe he was completely hairless. Nope, not thinking about that. Not about how I’d rocked into him last night, riding his knee.

My face flushed at the memory.

It didn’t hurt that Luca had raced on this track before, back when he was in Sprint3, but those bikes were far less powerful.

The StormSprint bikes were the fastest in the world.

And, holy hell, Luca was giving them a run for their money.

Within three laps, he had overtaken another. He knew more than I did that there were no points to be earned unless he overtook another two racers.

He followed the bends and curves with a group of three other bikes, always nudging to the side. He wasn’t a risk-taker like his teammate. He fought clean, simply. He took what he could. But the others were blocking him, until Buchre corner.

One of the tightest curves.

He was going too fast too far out, trying to run on the outside to overtake them. Abbé was normally in the pit box, but with the warm-up lap becoming a drama, he was beside me, shouting into his headset.

“Slow down,” he demanded. “Slow down, Luca.”

But he didn’t. The screens above showed him overtaking the whole group but going too quickly with the rest of the curve coming…

I couldn’t look away.

He might be clean, but he had been reckless. Just weeks ago, he’d gone the wrong way up the track, after the red flag had been flown.

The man’s confidence and self-assured demeanour would get him in trouble.

But he managed to straighten, wobble, then straighten again.

Just one more person to overtake.

And he did it with no issue.

And then he overtook another, coming in position 14th.

This was what Pedro had been like when he raced before becoming Ciclati’s sports analyst. Never taking no for an answer. Commanding the track, making it his bitch. Pedro had loved this track. And he’d loved this team—right until everything crashed around him.

As the race ended, I should have taken myself off, but knowing he’d done so well and that the press were likely to find their way into our pit box, I wanted to be there in case he needed me.

Not that he would.

But he should learn to back himself up more.

The press had to be in the winners box for the three winners. Nix, Cesari and Eris, but people were crawling in pit lane, creeping to get to Ciclati.

Luca and his freckles had become viral sensations months ago, and after this, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did so again.

At least in the motor world.

He’d be as legendary as his cousin in no time.

When I got there, he’d just removed his helmet, but his brows were creased. Despite the fact he’d gone from position 24 to position thirteenth, he wasn’t happy.

“Fucking stalled it!” he raged and threw his gloves on the ground. Seeing him out of control, the power in his movement, the veins popping in his forearms… I needed a minute.

Instead of asking to give him a blowjob, I should have demanded it.

There was something so hot about a man unleashed.

That anger? Take it all out on me, Luca. Cause hot damn.

I’d seen rage before, but the destructive kind, not like this. He had the willpower to hold it in.

His fury turned me on for three very hot seconds.

Before I realised we had kind of hooked up once and that didn’t mean I could trust him. He cared about the race. The team. And that meant I couldn’t expect him to work with me on tearing down Ciclati’s director.

Dad was nodding, trying to explain something about the electrics, but Luca dismissed him. “I’m not pissed at you or the bike. I’m pissed at myself.”

My dad stepped back with a sympathetic smile that was out of character. “It couldn’t be helped—”

“It could,” he snapped and looked to Abbé. “Couldn’t it?”

Abbé shrugged. “No one else is pissed at you though. Don’t worry about it. You gained points. Gained them, Luca.”

“Not as many as it should have been. I went from twelfth to…” He was shaking his head, placing the helmet on the side. “ He never would have—”

“Don’t,” my dad said softly. “Don’t compare yourself—”

“How can I not!”

And, when he saw me, he stilled and swallowed. “I just need a second.”

The press were coming forward but Dad lifted a hand. “We’re not taking any questions on the Ciclati Inquiry.”

“We want to speak to Luca about the race,” one said. “Presenters are coming down.”

With such a short turnaround, they couldn’t say no to that. The presenters spoke live and wanted to track down the highlight of the race.

Cris looked from Abbé to Luca and back. “Our media manager—”

“I’m here!” Livie cried, breathless. “I’m here. Let’s just discuss the boundaries. You’re not to mention…”

And as she rattled on, Luca nodded, distracted. He answered their questions robotically, sometimes with nothing more than a nod. He was fluent in English as if it were his mother tongue — having grown up in America — but at one point, asked them to rephrase.

A stalling tactic.

Until they asked more specifically about the race and what went wrong.

He skimmed over that, but when he spoke about overtaking the other racers, he had more excitement in his voice.

Until they asked again about Alv and Livie escorted them out. She stroked Luca’s arm through his leathers. “Sorry, Luca, I told them—”

“Can’t be helped, Quinnie,” he said, shaking his head.

Quinnie? What the hell was that?

No one else blinked or looked them over with the narrowed eyes I did.

Livie turned to me, her perfectly waxed brows low on her pale face. “We need to talk, Everly.”

“Uh, okay,” I mumbled, blood rushing to my face. Why did I feel like I was about to get told off at school in front of my classmates?

“Don’t,” Luca sighed. “She was only trying to help me.”

“You don’t need help, Luca,” she said, voice tight. “Everly, your dad has told me not to treat you any differently and… if you want to be on the track next race, you need to simply smile. And not get involved.”

I nodded. “The press—”

“They’re scum, yes,” she said. “But things are tense right now. You’re either on our side, which is trusting me that this will work out, or you’re not on our side and you can take yourself back to VIP.”

“She wanted to help,” Luca said, stepping closer to me. “It’s her first day.”

“Help by smiling,” she said with a sigh. “Stand straight; look like you want to be here instead of disgusted. Talk to the people on tours about themselves as if they’re new to racing. The feedback I received wasn’t great. They were confused. You have to explain things.”

A lump grew in my throat as tears welled in my eyes. On the tours, I got a bit carried away, showing off everything I knew because, for once, I did know everything. I channelled my father’s passion through the walk around the facilities and I thought he’d be proud…

Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this. But I had to be for just a few more months, because something I could do? Be at my Dad’s side for every flight, with the mechanics while they loaded the tech. Ask Saliha for my dad’s schedule.

Find proof.

“I’ll help her,” Luca promised with quick nods. “Don’t worry. She’ll be on the track next race.”

Her gaze flickered from me to him and back before she mumbled in agreement and left.

I thought I might collapse to the floor. She’d been so lovely yesterday. And, yes, I may have been in the wrong, but… that was brutal.

Luca guided me to the seats that lined the wall, away from the others. “She’s not normally like that,” he said, standing over me with a sheepish smile, his shoulders raising and lowering. “In fact, she’s never like that. This inquiry has got her stressed, so…”

“No, it’s fine,” I said, waving a dismissive hand. “I—I get it.”

Ciclati were being glared at through a microscope. The last thing they needed was the director’s daughter kicking up a fuss and looking like a sourpuss.

“I just… I hated the way they spoke to you. It was either telling them what I thought or punching them. And I don’t know how to throw one.”

Luca sat beside me, raising a brow. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

I groaned with a deep exhale.

“You don’t know how to punch?” he asked, brows higher. “Looks like I have a few things to teach you.”

I huffed. “Add it to the list.”