Page 8

Chapter 8

Chasing Something Real

Noah

I wake with the phantom pressure of her lips still on mine.

My body hard and aching.

Cold shower. Black coffee. Work. That's the only way I'll survive today.

But her words linger, "I want someone who stays when it's not easy.”

It echoes like a challenge I wasn’t ready for.

The irony isn't lost on me. I've spent my career mastering the art of going fast, of leaving everything behind. Now, for the first time, I'm wondering what it would be like to stay.

Argh. I am NOT going to start the day thinking about June Kennedy.

I’ve got work to focus on.

Because right around the time she kissed me like she meant it and then walked away without a word last night, the simulation rig arrived at Mega Max Velocity Park.

Full-motion hydraulic platform. Triple-screen wrap. Custom F1 wheel with dual-clutch paddles. State-of-the-art. Stupid expensive. And exactly what I need to stop thinking about her.

By the time the sun crests over the ridge this morning, the Fagioli crew had assembled and staged it like a throne inside the glass-walled control room.

Which is why I’m here at Mega Max, bright and early. Not to think. Not to feel.

To execute.

And right now? I’m locked in.

Laser-sharp. Or trying to be.

As I calibrate the simulator's steering response, I catch myself wondering what it would take to prove to her I could be that man. That maybe what started as temporary doesn't have to end that way.

Because lately, everything I do here feels different. More grounded.

I used to run simulations to prep for the next race. Now? I run them to stay close—to the town, to this track, to the girl who’s somehow turned one kiss into a full-system override.

It starts as a typical off-season training arrangement. All F1 racers use simulators for muscle memory and reflex training. Dante and I have already agreed to ship one of the team's simulators here so I can stay sharp during the break—daily drills, telemetry sessions, the whole package. But once everything is arranged, something else clicked.

Why keep this temporary? Why not make the simulator a three-month or even permanent loan to Mega Max? It solves my need to stay in Cedar Falls throughout the off-season while still training.

So, I hatch a plan. A great one at that.

What if we gave aspiring drivers more than just dreams? What if we gave them actual access to professional equipment?

Not some glorified arcade game. And definitely not a tourist trap with pre-programmed thrills. I'm talking about creating an elite-level facility—something that replicates the best of F1 training, adapted for public use.

A space that makes anyone—kid or adult—feel like they’ve stepped into the real thing. The authentic hum of machinery. The precise resistance of the pedals. That initial surge of power that sends your heart racing, regardless of age. This simulation will reveal true instinct and potential, not just measure basic reflexes.

It’ll be a hell of a flex for the Fagioli brand. This simulator will let the public experience one immersive moment as an F1 driver—while remaining professional-grade equipment that I can use to maintain my skills.

For Mega Max, it becomes a cornerstone attraction that distinguishes this venue.

For Cedar Falls, it's marketing gold.

For the Fagioli brand, it establishes goodwill and a lasting legacy that connects professional racing with everyday enthusiasts.

Before pitching to Mayor Lewis, I ran it by Dante. Brought it up during one of our calls—told him what I was seeing, what this place could become if we committed to it.

He didn’t hesitate. Told me to go for it. Said if I believed this town had the bones, he’d bring the muscle.

So I met up with Mayor Lewis earlier in the week for lunch and pitched him the vision. Showed videos of the rig, walked him through the long game.

How Mega Max could be more than just a winter thrill park. A proving ground. Not a home, not a start line, but something more permanent than both. A birthplace where the best could be born.

Something permanent. Something lasting. The words hit differently now, after what June said to me last night. About wanting someone who stays when things get hard. Maybe I'm trying to prove something—not just to the town or these kids, but to her. That I can build something that lasts.

Thankfully, Lewis gleefully lapped it up.

The mayor greenlit the idea before dessert. Fagioli’s logistics crew moved faster than customs paperwork ever should. It wasn’t just a delivery—it was a collaboration.

Normally, this kind of governmental projects take six months and five committees. But Cedar Falls? This town runs on gossip, sugar, and horsepower that runs down bureaucratic red tapes.

From the moment the mayor gave his nod, the Fagioli team leaned in, treating this town like more than a backdrop. Like a partner. Efficient, precise, unstoppable. And now here we are—setting up a world-class PR event in a snow-capped town on high-octane hope.

Dante didn’t just send gear—he sent intention. That’s the difference with his team. The Fagioli team culture isn’t just about results, though we rake in podiums like clockwork. It’s about legacy. Loyalty. Making sure every racing prodigy who walks through our ranks knows they’re not just stepping into a machine—they’re stepping into a family. One that demands the best, yes, but also builds it.

And Dante? He’s always had my back. Even when I pushed too far or ran too hot. He’s the reason I can pitch something like this and have an entire F1 operation move on a hunch. Because when I say I see something—he listens.

Thank God for that.

I flip through the simulator. Spa. Monza. Suzuka. No training wheels.

Marco’s voice comes through my Bluetooth. He’s calling from Fagioli HQ in Italy—probably surrounded by more screens than a broadcast truck, analyzing telemetry before he’s even had his espresso.

“Rig’s hot. Connectivity locked. I’m testing lag against real-time data. And yeah, Dante’s already there, right? Let me guess—pacing outside the sim room like he’s about to run his own lap.”

I glance toward the glass doors leading into the sim room—and yep. There he is.

Dante Fagioli. In the flesh. Dark suit, no tie, fitted like it was stitched to his damn shoulders. That stillness he wears like armor. The man himself, casually surveying the setup like he didn’t just fly in from HQ this morning.

I bring the mic closer to my mouth. “Remind me to thank you for shipping in the pressure, Marco.”

Dante’s voice cuts in, smooth and dry. “You always did handle pressure better with an audience.”

I flinch. “Wait—were you patched into that whole call while I was deep in simulation?”

“Of course I was,” Dante says through the call, voice low but clear. “I wanted to see how the setup handled remotely with real-time load.”

Marco chuckles in my ear. “Yeah, and he’s already asked for two tweaks. Throttle feedback feels a half-percent light, and the lateral force calibration could use a nudge.”

I nod, fingers flying over the console. “Copy that. I’ll shift the brake modulation and tighten the rear slip curve.”

Marco whistles. “You’re gonna make the next kid feel like they’re driving Spa in the rain.”

“Good,” I say. “Because if they’re going to dream about this—really want it—they should feel how unforgiving it actually is.”

Dante steps into the sim room, calm and controlled. He moves like a man built from a thousand hours of track strategy and finish-line pressure—silent, sharp, and exactly on time.

His gaze shifts toward the setup. "Think we’re ready for the demo run in front of the kids and press?"

I nod. "Let’s lock it up, if you and Marco are happy with the responsiveness now."

"Feels tight. Like it should. Marco dialed it in."

As we hang up on Marco, Dante and I both look at the sim machine—silent and waiting. There’s a weight to it now. Potential, just hanging in the air.

I lower my voice. "Hey, I meant what I said before. There’s a kid in this camp—Mikey Torres. Quiet, sharp hands. I want you to watch him on the kart track later. If he holds his line, I’ll put him on the sim myself."

Dante raises a brow. "Kart to sim’s a jump. Braking zones, G-force shifts, muscle memory—it’s not arcade level."

"Exactly," I say. "Let’s see if he can rise to it. If this place is going to mean something, let’s start with the kid who has no idea how close he is to being great."

Dante must still be between time zones when he asks, “How many hours before the media event?”

I glance at the clock. “Three hours. You’ve got time to crash at my loft if you want.”

His mouth ticks up. Barely. “Booked a suite downtown.”

“Don’t worry,” he adds smoothly. “I’ll be well rested.”

He scans the sim rig one more time, then shoots me a look.

“Try not to show off too much in front of the cameras,” he says. “Take it easy. No pressure at all.”

I smirk, fingers already flying across the console. “I only crash when I’m bored.”

But the truth is—I haven’t been bored since I met June.

Frustrated, confused, turned on beyond reason—sure.

But bored?

Not even close.

She’s thrown me into a tailspin I can’t seem to recover from.

Three hours later.

The conference room’s packed—every chair filled, standing room tight. Sleek lighting, branded banners, auto journalists shoulder to shoulder with locals and council members. But right now, they’re watching me race—except they don’t know it yet.

On screen, they’re watching a driver tear down an unfamiliar track—fast, precise, ruthless. Full sound. Vibration. The simulated cockpit rattles with every shift, every swerve, every near-miss. Smoke effects curl at the edges of the rig as if the tires are burning rubber, and the engine roars like it’s alive.

A few reporters are leaning in, murmuring. Someone asks if this is a broadcast, or a feed from a real lap. Another voice—half-curious, half-stunned—says, “Could this be Team Fagioli’s Noah Verelli? Where the hell is he racing from?”

Then the lap ends. The virtual finish flashes. The cockpit powers down.

And I walk out through the side door of the conference room, helmet under my arm, and my gear clinging to me with sweat and adrenaline.

Now they know—it wasn’t a global broadcast or a highlight reel. Just a real-time feed from the simulation room next door inside Mega Max. Real enough to fool a room full of seasoned auto journalists.

Gasps ripple through the room, followed by a burst of applause that rolls like a sudden downpour. Phones lift. Reporters scramble to reframe their angles. Even the camp kids look like they’ve just witnessed a magic trick.

Someone near the back whistles low. “No way that was a sim,” a voice mutters, half-laughing. Another chimes in—“That was insane.”

I glance over at the pair, Zeke and Dash, both wearing press badges and that familiar influencer smirk. One’s holding a GoPro on a selfie stick. The other’s got a gimbal, scanning the room like it’s already content.

Content creators, not motorsport press.

Still, I nod.

“Make sure you guys take a turn on the sim later.”

Dash’s eyebrows lift. “Seriously?”

“Of course,” I say. “Just don’t expect to match my time though.”

They laugh like they’ve already won.

The sound of shuffling notes, camera shutters, and murmured questions rises like static—buzzing with curiosity, disbelief, and something close to awe.

Dante’s gaze sweeps the crowd. His voice cuts clean through the energy in the room—steady, grounded, undeniable. “You just watched Noah Verelli on that screen—driving live inside the world’s most advanced simulator, right here at Mega Max."

Dante scans the crowd, letting the weight of recognition settle in their eyes before he continues. “At Fagioli, this is how we train our drivers. And now, we’re partnering with Cedar Falls to extend that same level of intensity, precision, and opportunity to a new generation. This isn’t a thrill ride. It’s how we find the fearless. How we push the gifted. The ones who can hold a line under pressure, even when no one’s watching.”

Applause breaks out across the room—claps, whistles, and excited murmurs erupting in the conference room. Cameras flash. Reporters scribble. For a moment, the energy crackles like a pit lane right before lights out.

I step up beside Dante and take the mic. "This simulator wasn’t just built for show. It’s what I use to stay sharp in the off-season. And now, thanks to the Fagioli team, Cedar Falls gets to be part of that edge."

The overhead screen flickers to life again, replaying the lap I just ran from a driver’s point of view—every shift, every corner, every breath.

I gesture toward it, letting my words land. “This is our newest simulator—now available right here at Mega Max.”

I step off the stage and move toward the front row where the camp kids are sitting—still in their Mega Max t-shirts, some wide-eyed, some trying to play it cool, but all of them watching.

I look into their eyes. “So, are you ready to live out a moment as an F1 driver?”

The hush is instant. That collective inhale of attention.

This is the part I live for.

Not the press. Not the buzz.

The spark—the quiet ignition in a kid’s eyes when fantasy collides with possibility.

The moment they realize this isn’t a fantasy. That it’s real, and it’s reachable.

I watch them—these older kids whom I’ve been working with all week at camp, now leaning forward, eyes wide. Some with fire already in their bones, others just starting to believe.

I clear my throat and hop back on the stage. “Simulators like this are usually top secret in F1—locked down, private, off-limits. But today, we’re sharing it. Because we believe the sport should be more accessible, more inspiring, and more real. And we’re not worried about the tech—because the Fagioli team is always innovating.”

I pause, let the silence carry.

“The next generation of talent starts here. With you guys. And trust me—every tenth of a second counts.”

A ripple of laughter and excited applause follow as I step off the stage. Dash, the influencer, calls out, "You’re smoother with a wheel than a mic, Verelli!"

I flash her a grin. “That’s fair. I let the lap do the talking.”

Cameras flash again. Someone near the back yells, “So, are we signing up for the simulator today or what?”

Mayor Lewis takes the stage to answer these logistical questions as the city staff begin shifting into motion—clipboards in hand, subtle nods exchanged, already jotting down names of anyone asking how to try the sim for themselves, smoothing the edges of what’s now a full-on media moment.

People are excited. Curious. The energy is buzzing like an idling engine waiting to launch.

As I shake hands with the press after the presentation, I catch Karla whispering to Tara near the chairs, her voice sharp with amusement. "First he can't take his eyes off June at karaoke, now he's bringing million-dollar simulators to town? This man doesn't do anything halfway."

I smirk, wiping a hand across the back of my neck. If only June understood. If only she could see that all of this—every wire, every screen, every deal I just pitched—is for more than PR.

It’s for her.

The very thought of her makes my head swivel—like a damn magnet just flipped polarity—and there she is.

June, like sin in denim.

Leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, braid gone, that black waterfall of hair loose around her shoulders like a dare.

So, while I was running simulations and presenting, she's must have been here all along. Watching.

“You’ve been holding out on us, Verelli? You did good there.” She calls out once our eyes meet across the room, cool as ever.

My heart kicks.

She’s looking at me like she saw right through the smoke, speed, and precision—like she caught the part of me that’s doing what I believe in. Not just chasing speed.

My body tightens with the memory of her pressed against me, the taste of her mouth, the tremble in her fingers against my collar.

Dante notices my distraction and follows my gaze. "She’s the teacher-slash-mechanic?" he questions off-handedly.

"More than that," I admit, the first time I've said it aloud. "She sees through my bullshit. Makes me want to be... better."

I watch June as she turns to leave, and I know—simulation or not—I'm about to chase after her again. Because one thing's becoming clear: June Kennedy isn't temporary for me.

Last night, she asked for all or nothing.

And I'm starting to realize that when it comes to this amazing woman, I want it all.

An hour later on Mega Max tracks.

The simulator press demo had wrapped up successfully with a final photo of me and Dante in front of the gigantic Mega Max banner. Journalists scatter, chatting excitedly.

The main go-kart track is live—karts are zipping around in controlled bursts while staff monitor everything from the control booth.

The end-of-camp party is in full swing. Off the track, families join their teenagers as they excitedly share their proud moments. There are kids sprinting between games, parents juggling pizza slices and hot chocolate, and the facility smells like sugar and motor oil. It’s loud. Bright. Exactly the kind of sensory overload I’m used to.

Some of the camp kids swarm me for selfies. Levi claps me on the back as he walks past with Lily, flashing a thumbs-up. From their smiles, I know they’re proud. Their donation didn’t just build a track—it built momentum and legacy. For their beloved town. For the kids. For something lasting.

Then I hear her.

June’s voice—light, teasing, cheerful—filters through the noise. She’s across the track, now in her Mega Max staff t-shirt. Her braid swings as she bends down to help a child tie a scarf. She’s laughing at something, shoulders relaxed, her eyes bright. And for a beat, the world stills.

She looks like she belongs here. In this town. In this joy. In this life.

And somehow, standing here—sweaty, tired from the early morning and hours in the sim, surrounded by engine fumes and teenagers—I do too.

It hits me, quiet and certain.

I’m happy.

Not just in the moment.

But the kind that sneaks up on you and makes you wonder if maybe—just maybe—you could belong somewhere after all.

Until it doesn’t.

“YEAH, BABY! WATCH THIS!”

The holler rips across the track—loud, reckless, wrong.

My head snaps toward the noise.

The pair of influencers—Zeke and Dash—are filming something stupid.

Zeke’s planted too close to the indoor straightaway, gripping a handheld camera like he’s Spielberg on a sugar high, directing Fast & Furious: Go-Kart Drift.

Dash is in a kart, revving, swerving, treating the track like bumper cars.

He’s standing—one hand on the wheel, the other waving his GoPro in the air like a trophy.

No seatbelt. No control. No clue. Howling like rules don’t apply to him.

“Nope. That’s not gonna fly.” I mutter, already moving.

Then it happens. Fast.

Zeke steps backward. Not looking.

Right into the live kart lane.

“CUT POWER!” I roar toward the control booth. “Kill the damn track—NOW!”

The staff moves instantly.

Engines whine down. Tires screech. The whole system chokes into silence—but not fast enough.

One woman’s kart slams into Zeke’s hip with a sickening thud.

He crumples instantly. A ragdoll folding.

Like gravity just yanked the floor out from under him.

Screams rip through the air.

A kid cries. Someone shouts.

The party implodes into chaos.

“BACK UP!” I yell, launching over the barrier.

I don’t care how hard I hit the ground—

I’m already running before my feet land.

I don't hesitate. Not even when pain lances through my side as I drop to my knees beside the groaning man.

I check for his breathing first, then bleeding. His chest rises. His eyes flutter open—disoriented, but responsive. I press two fingers gently against the side of his neck, counting his pulse. It's there. Fast, but solid.

“Zeke, stay with me,” I say, voice low and level, like I’m behind the wheel again, holding the line through chaos. “You’re gonna be alright.”

I check on the kart driver, she’s shocked, but otherwise good.

“Noah! Are you okay?” June’s voice slices through the panic.

“I’m good!” I call, even though my side is screaming from where I hit the track divider.

I glance over to see her crouched beside Dash’s kart.

He’s been jerked halfway out of it probably because he had no seatbelt on, legs tangled, stunned but conscious.

June’s stabilizing his shoulder with one hand, guiding his foot back into the floor pan with the other—steady as a combat medic.

Focused. Fast. Fierce.

“He needs a medic!” I bark, gesturing to Zeke. “Someone call fire and rescue. He’s alert, but we need eyes on him now.”

“Two minutes out,” Dante answers behind me. His voice is clipped, already assessing.

I scan the scene fast—parents holding kids tight, teens wide-eyed and unmoving, staff yelling over the chaos, trying to guide the crowd back.

Panic is written on every face. Fear. Confusion. Worry.

Then I see it—Dash. Still filming.

June’s already moved on, helping someone else out of their kart.

But he’s there. GoPro in hand, still rolling like none of this matters.

I stalk toward him, fury boiling under my skin.

“Put the damn camera down!”

He flinches. Hesitates.

Not fast enough.

“You think this is a game?” I bellow as I gesture wide—to Zeke on the ground, to the scattered chaos.

“You risked your friend’s life. You risked YOURs, and mine .”

I glance toward June, thirty feet away, steadying a crying kid.

“You could’ve killed someone. Or destroyed a family.”

The crowd goes dead silent. Cameras are still up. I don’t care.

Dash stammers, finally lowering the GoPro. His hands shake.

The whole floor is mayhem, and I only see red.

Then, Scott pushes through the crowd, in full firefighter gear.

“Rescue just pulled in,” he says, voice tight, eyes sweeping the wreckage.

He doesn’t wait—heads straight for Zeke.

Behind him, EMTs flood the floor, fast and focused.

Chaos shifting back into control. Barely.

June moves immediately, clearing space for the medics before circling to me.

"Come, Noah." she says under her breath, tugging gently but insistently. “Let them work.”

She steers me off to the side, just enough to get us out of the EMTs’ path. Her body angled protectively toward mine.

That’s when she notices it—the way I’m favoring my right side.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re limping.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. It comes out gruffer than I mean it to.

She doesn’t buy it.

“You scared me—leaping over that barrier like a lunatic.”

I can’t meet her eyes. So I smirk, weakly.

“Adrenaline. Poor landing. No permanent damage.”

“You didn’t even hesitate,” she adds, her voice lower now, full of something I can’t name.

“I couldn’t,” I say quietly. “Not when people were in danger.”

Trying to shift the energy, I glance sideways, mouth twitching.

“Did I do enough to impress you?”

She exhales, a soft sound that might be a laugh. The corner of her mouth lifts.

“Next time you want to impress me…”

Her eyes scan me—sweat, dirt, the wince I’m still trying to hide.

“Do it without the expense of your body.”

The chaos still swirls around us—shouting, sirens, cameras—but I’m steady now. Because June’s here with me. Her voice pulls me out of the tension I was holding.

Her hand is still on my arm—gentle now, like she forgot she was even touching me. Thumb brushing slow over my sleeve. Soothing. Lingering.

I grin, just a little.

“You saying you’re emotionally invested in this fine piece of machinery, Kennedy? Because I’m feeling a little high-maintenance today. I think I need a bona fide mechanic to get under the hood and make sure every vital piece is still working.”

She gives me a look—half exasperated, half amused—and I see the relief bleeding into her edges.

“I swear,” she mutters, voice dropping as she leans in, “you do this again and I’ll personally make sure you’re off the track... and on your back.”

I arch a brow, pulse kicking. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

Her eyes flash, smile curving slow. “Guess you’ll have to survive next time to find out.”

I lean in slightly, soaking it in, letting it settle between us.

“Then consider this machinery officially at your service. Full body inspection. No tools required—unless you’re into that.”

June rolls her eyes, but her hand lingers a second longer.

“Verelli, are you really okay?”

“I’m good.” I lock eyes with her, grounded now.

“You?”

She exhales through her nose, fingers giving one last sweep down my arm—like she’s checking for something else.

“Better now.” Her voice is steady, but her hand doesn’t fully leave me until she’s sure I’m leaning into her.

Then the cameras start flashing again.

Someone’s been filming the entire thing.

And I realize—it’s all probably going to go viral on the internet now.

My voice, sharp and unrelenting. My orders. My snarl. The way I demanded the track be shut down, barked at Dante to hold the line. My body shielding the downed man, every muscle locked in instinct.

It wasn't performance. It was reflex. Real. Raw. And now... public.

Dante appears beside me, jaw tight. He glances at June, then back at me. “Thanks for taking care of Verelli,” he tells her. “I can take it from here.”

“No thanks,” I immediately object. “I prefer her.”

I lean in just enough to whisper to June, “Your soft curves are better for morale.”

She shoots me a look that’s half amused, half scandalized—exactly the reaction I want.

Dante clears his throat, clearly hearing more than he wanted to.

“You handled the entire thing like a pro,” he says. ”Actually, more like a hero.”

“Not how I wanted to be remembered,” I mutter, jaw flexing as the scene replays in my head.

He shakes his head. “They’ll talk about the simulator PR, sure. But they’ll remember the man who jumped the barrier without blinking. The protector. That’s how they’ll remember you, Noah. You might’ve just earned yourself a key to the city—along with a lifetime supply of small-town hero worship.”