Page 24 of Lights Out (Love in the Paddock #1)

“Isla, this was a challenging assignment, and you did a bloody good job with it,” Thomas, my producer, says in my ear. “Well done.”

But Thomas isn’t lying. The assignment was WAY harder than I thought it would be.

The grid is sparse, with mostly crew. There are no celebrities or VIPs to interview. I could have done cartwheels down the grid, I had that much room.

But I busted my ass to provide decent content.

I kept my energy level up the entire time, trying to build excitement for the race.

I was able to get drivers easier than I would on an F1 grid, so I made the most of that.

Because I had done so much homework this week, I was able to make my one or two questions to them good ones.

Team principals were great to talk with, and I did my own commentary on what I saw going on with the cars, the sprint race the day before, and even the weather.

I made damn sure I showed them I could pull stuff out of the air—or more like my head—if needed. And I think I succeeded.

I wrap up my conversation with Thomas, and Jay, the cameraman who worked with me today, smiles at me. “You really did do a great job.”

My chest grows warm with happiness from the compliments I’ve received.

“Thank you. I covered a lot of live events when I was in college and for Total Access Total Sports, and I think it helped me learn to think on my feet. But trust me, some of my first outings were rough.”

I remember the time I tripped on a cable at a college soccer game and fell face first into the turf. When I stood up, I had grass on my forehead.

Hmm. It’s probably a good thing that I didn’t do cartwheels on the grid.

A new horrifying thought hits me.

Crap. I will have to survive that coming back up online again as people become aware of me and begin to search my name.

Thanks, Google.

“You and me both,” Jay says, laughing. “My first few times behind the camera were terrible. I was afraid I’d never get hired again.”

“Luckily we got better.”

We meet up with the audio person and I take off my equipment and hand him back my mic.

“Thanks,” Shawn says.

We part ways, as they have more assignments to shoot today, and I’ve completed all my work for this weekend.

I return to the media center, where I’ve left my belongings, and grab a cup of coffee before sitting down at a table.

I dig my phone out of my tote, and to my surprise, I see I have a text from Caleb:

Nice work on the grid.

I suck in an excited breath. Caleb made a point to watch me live. Talk about another butterfly-inducing moment.

But I need to play this right, so I respond in a way I know he would like:

Don’t you have a race to prepare for?

Caleb Collings is typing …

I’m at the track. And I made time to watch you on the grid.

SWOONNNNNNNNING.

He sends another text:

You were brilliant, Isla. You would never know that was your first one.

I feel a giddy smile spread over my face. I take a second to compose myself, then respond:

Thank you. I won’t lie. That was hard, because there’s not nearly as much going on as on an F1 grid.

Caleb messages me back:

Well, you made it look easy. BTW I envy that grid. I hate getting bombarded by the media when I’m in race mode.

Ugh. I hate that I might make some people feel that way when I’m reporting.

But I have a job to do, and that is connecting fans with the sport.

Dealing with the media is part of a racer’s job, too.

Like today, I was showcasing the future stars of F1.

Because some of those drivers will end up on an F1 team in the future, I made a point to try and talk to as many of them as I could.

I’ve also watched enough F1 to know that Caleb will answer a question when he’s asked—the answer is just clipped and abrupt, that’s all. I remind him:

But you do speak when spoken to, so as part of the media, I thank you for that.

He quickly texts me back:

I’m not that much of an arse.

I snicker at that as another message drops in:

You’re going to watch the race in the media centre, right?

A shiver races through me. We did a Connectivity Video Connect last night, and we talked for hours. Again. We never run out of things to say to each other. I shake my head. I can’t believe how wrong I was about him. From TV, I just had this image of an ice-in-his-veins driver who lived for racing.

But I’ve come to realize he’s only that man when the visor is down. There’s a whole other side to Caleb when he’s out of that racing suit.

And I like the man I’m discovering a lot .

So much so that I’m willing to risk my career chances just to see what he’s like.

But we both agreed it would not be a good look for me to be in his garage for a second day in a row, so I’m going to watch from the media center instead. I message him back:

Yes. I’m going to work for a bit, then get some lunch and head back to the media center to watch the race. I’m so excited to see you race today. Three o’clock can’t come fast enough.

Caleb Collings is typing …

Prediction. Xavier is going to come at me HARD at the start. He’s used to people ceding position to him or drivers ending up off track and claiming he forced them off because he’s so aggressive.

Two more messages drop in, one after the other:

But I’m not afraid of him or his aggression.

I BLOODY WELCOME GOING WHEEL-TO-WHEEL WITH HIM.

Oh my God, just when I think he can’t get any hotter, he does. Caleb wants the challenge of fighting Xavier.

And I can’t wait to see it.

* * *

I’m a bundle of nerves as I stare at the large screens in the media center showing the race.

The cars have already gone on the formation lap to warm up their brakes and tires—with Caleb leading the way in his number 91 chrome-and-black car.

As I watch him come back to his starting place on the grid, everything in me is on edge.

I’m nervous. Excited. Anxious. I’m a wreck, but in the best way possible.

My adrenaline is sky high, and even though this race is sixty-three laps, I don’t see myself settling down until Caleb crosses the finish line at the end.

Because as much as I love racing, I also know the dangers of this sport.

Drivers have died racing on this very track.

I remind myself that Caleb is one of the best drivers in the world. He will wreck sometimes. It’s part of the sport. I just have to believe that no matter what happens on that track, he’ll be okay.

I tap my foot underneath the table and bite my lip. One of my absolute favorite parts of an F1 race is about to happen—waiting for the red starting lights to come on. I always find myself eager for this moment whenever I watch a race, but now, with Caleb sitting on the pole?

I’ve never been more excited in my life for them to turn on.

The TV cameras switch to that famous bar of five red lights above the start line. One by one, they will illuminate, in one-second intervals. When they all go black, the race will begin.

Each light coming on builds anticipation. Tension. Drama.

The “lights out” moment is about to happen, and it’s one of the greatest moments in sports.

My heart is in my throat as I stare at that black bar.

One red light comes on. My nerves jump when I see it.

The second light turns red.

The third light illuminates, followed by the fourth.

I suck in a breath as the fifth and final light goes up.

I wait for what seems like an eternity, but it’s anywhere between .02 and 3 seconds before the lights go out. The time is randomized so drivers can’t anticipate the start of the race.

I stare at those red lights, my heart in my throat.

Then they all go black.

All the cars take off. There’s the roar of the engines, the chaos of all twenty cars tightly packed together as they all fight to move up positions on the track.

But my eyes are only on car 91.

Just as Caleb predicted, the navy-and-pale-blue car of Hoffman Racing goes right for the top spot. Xavier puts pressure on Caleb, and they go side by side. I hold my breath as they approach the first turn. Caleb doesn’t cede ground, and Xavier backs off.

Caleb comes out ahead.

I exhale. Then I smile. The race is well and truly underway.

And I hope Caleb ends up on the podium by the end of it.

* * *

Ten laps to go.

Caleb is 2.6 seconds ahead of Xavier.

In a few laps, Xavier will be in the DRS zone—the area of the track where a driver can activate the drag reduction system on the car by opening the rear wing to go faster when you are within one second of the car in front of you.

There will be a fight to the finish between Caleb and Xavier.

I bite my lip. My body is tense as Caleb completes another lap. Xavier is closing the gap.

Come on, Caleb, I will him.

The crowd begins to cheer. They sense the challenge coming.

The gap has closed to two seconds.

Adrenaline surges through me. I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen.

I’m listening to Caleb’s radio in my earbuds, and JP continues to update him on how Xavier is closing the gap.

It’s too stressful for me to bear, so I turn that off and focus on the coverage from The Downforce Network on the main screen.

But I can’t avoid the graphics or the announcers, who paint an intense battle between the two friends for first place.

Lap fifty-six—Xavier is now running 1.92 seconds behind Caleb.

On lap fifty-seven, the gap between the cars has closed to 1.85 seconds. Then 1.67 seconds.

UGH, THIS IS SO STRESSFUL! I wish I could watch through my fingers.

But as a member of the media, that would be a bit unprofessional, so I keep my hands firmly clasped in my lap, my nails biting into my palms.

They pass the grandstand again, Xavier in hot pursuit of Caleb, and the fans go crazy at the drama that is unfolding before them on the track.

This is why I fell in love with racing. For this kind of high-speed, high-stakes drama measured in hundredths of seconds.

But that was before I met Caleb. Now all I want is for him to cross the line first.

The gap closes to 1.45 on lap fifty-eight.

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I think I’m going to have heart palpations!

Five laps to go.

Xavier continues to close. Caleb continues to push his car to its absolute limit.

Three laps.

Xavier is still trying to close, but still not in DRS range.

The gap closes to 1.38.

Oh my God, I hate this sport right now. If Caleb makes one mistake—no matter how small—Xavier will pounce.

THREE LAPS TO GO. The gap is now 1.33.

Caleb crosses the starting line to start the last lap. Xavier is only 1.06 seconds behind.

Come on, come on, come on!

Xavier is under one second now. And in DRS range.

Shit, shit, shit!

Xavier continues to chase him, but Caleb is hanging on. Xavier can’t catch him in the DRS zone, so now it’s a flat-out run to the end, with the Hoffman car in Caleb’s mirrors at all times.

They reach the home stretch.

And Caleb crosses the line first!

It takes everything in me not to cheer. I form my hands into fists underneath the table, but I don’t contain the smile I feel spreading across my face.

That was freaking amazing. Caleb is amazing. I feel as if I’m on a huge high now, watching that incredible bit of racing he just did at the end, doing everything to keep the points leader at bay.

He did it! He’s won his first race of the season!

Caleb is the winner of the Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix.

As I watch him pump his fist in the air from his cockpit camera, I’m so happy for him, I could burst.

Now only one thing is on my mind: I can’t wait to congratulate him in person.

And on a date in Monaco next week, I will.