Overdrive | ✓

22 | alpha behavior

String lights flickered to life as the last of the setting sun tucked itself behind Hard Rock Stadium, though the track that wrapped around it still seemed to sizzle with dissipating heat from qualifying - literally and metaphorically.

Gemma and I made our way back down into the paddock from the VIP box, easing our way into the slew of people looking to catch post qualifying press. Gemma had her arm looped around mine, but her face was painted with disdain. I gave her a reassuring squeeze as we walked through the crowd.

"Okay, I mean it could be worse...right?" I said. "The most important thing is that Cal is fine. He is also technically still on pole tomorrow, isn't he?"

I knew by now that the third and final session of qualifying was the one that mattered the most - the best guys typically blasted their way through with the best times, and the intensity was as tangible as the smoke coming off the tyres. Watching Atlas whip his car around the track in a ferocious effort to catch Callahan's best time had me grabbing for Gemma's arm on more than one occasion. With less than a minute left in the final session, Gemma finally grabbed for me as Callahan took a bad turn and went straight into the wall. Even though he already owned the best lap time of the session and therefore provisional pole, he went out for another lap, which garnered some confusion and criticism. Despite not being fully in tune with racing, there was part of me that understood why he went for another lap. I would have done the same if I had a lead score in a surfing heat - a win is never a win until time expires.

Looking as composed as she could be, Gemma let out a shaky breath. "I don't think I've ever physically felt my heart stop before."

I could almost empathize with Gemma by now - when she'd texted me last month about Atlas's crash in Monza, even seeing the words he's alright did little to settle the rattling in my heart. But having to actually witness a crash in real time? I didn't want to conjure nightmarish visuals of Atlas's car in a wall - seeing that happen to Cal still unsettled me.

"Well, I'm glad I'm here with you Gem," I offered her a smile. I meant it, and I knew she knew when she returned my smile. The lights strung between the palm trees played on her features as we continued along to the interview panel.

Interviews were normally conducted somewhere inside, but because it was Miami, and because it was a glamorous night race, the outdoor ambiance felt necessary. A cool night breeze whipped through the paddock, and I wished I hadn't sacrificed fashion over function as my little baby tee and open sandals offered little protection from the dropping temperatures.

"How many iced lattes would I owe you in order for you to surrender your blazer," I asked Gemma, tugging at her jacket sleeve.

"Absolutely not happening," she replied with her chin up.

I wiggled my eyebrows at her. "Is that little lace crop top you've got on underneath too sultry for anyone other than Callahan to see?"

Gemma scoffed and kept her gaze forward. "You know I hate that word."

I was about to fire back another smarmy remark when my attention was pulled to the interview panel. It wasn't a surge of noise, but rather the opposite - a vacuum seemed to suck all of the noise out of the air as the guys took their places in stools set up behind a small barrier separating them from the rest of us mortals. The top three drivers were first, and we stood facing a sea of silence, waiting on the edge of a cliff to see who'd jump first.

"Ronn Kota, Daily Mail," a tall, greasy-haired man stood up and introduced himself as he tucked a pen behind his ear. "This question is for Callahan. You obviously had a tremendous lap in Q3 that secured pole for you tomorrow, but are there concerns about the state of your gearbox and whether you'll be able to keep your position?"