And the race continued...
They approached the first set of ramps—an artificial hurdle designed to test not just speed but balance. Summer timed it perfectly, accelerating just as she hit the incline, her Porsche taking the ramp smoothly and landing with minimal bounce. Tristan followed suit, his McLaren making an equally graceful landing.
Halfway through the second lap, Summer started noticing something strange. Her Porsche felt sluggish, and her brake responses were delayed. She frowned, tapping the brake again, but it felt off. Then the realization hit her—her car had been tampered with.
A chill ran down her spine as she understood the gravity of the situation. Both her accelerator and brakes were malfunctioning. She pressed down hard on the accelerator, her car jolting forward with more power than expected. Her heart raced as her mind calculated the odds. She had to finish this lap and get the car away from the crowd. If she didn't, there could be casualties.
Meanwhile, Tristan noticed her erratic movements from behind. His eyes narrowed as he analyzed her swerves, the unnatural way her car sped up and slowed down. His mind worked quickly, piecing together the puzzle. Sam's car is sabotaged.
He swerved his McLaren next to her Porsche, rolling down his window. "How much time do you have?" he shouted over the roar of their engines.
Summer glanced at him, her expression tense. "Forty-nine seconds!"
"Jump into my car!" he yelled back. "I'll drive us both to safety!"
Summer shook her head, speeding up. "I can't! If I don't get this car away from here, people will get hurt! Besides..." She grinned despite the danger, "...I'm not losing my record to you."
Tristan cursed under his breath "Stubborn woman!" He accelerated ahead of her, weaving between cars to get a lead. His jaw clenched as he dialed the authorities, alerting them to clear the area near the finish line.
The commentator's voice filled the arena again, now laced with urgency. "It seems something's wrong with Little Turtle's car! We're getting reports of a malfunction, possibly tampering. Everyone near the track, please move back immediately! This is no drill!"
Summer was gaining on Tristan, her car dangerously fast now. She gritted her teeth, knowing she had to time everything perfectly. They were nearing the last turn when her car scraped against the barrier, sending sparks flying. The driver-side door unhinged from the impact. Without a second thought, she kicked the door off, leaving it tumbling behind her.
Tristan, now a little ahead, saw the door fly off and he quickly slowed down to ride beside her "Sam! Don't be stupid, jump!"
But Summer was determined. Her eyes flicked to the clock. Twenty-five seconds left. She revved the engine, pushing her car to its limits. She just needed to cross the finish line, then she could jump out.
Tristan swerved back next to her, his car close enough for her to leap into. "Sam! Stop being reckless! You're going to get killed!"
Summer glanced at him, their eyes locking for a brief moment. She smiled—a wild, determined smile. "Don't worry. I'm not dying today. But I am winning this race."
Tristan's heart pounded, a mix of admiration and frustration swelling in his chest. He sped up, giving her room as they approached the final stretch. The finish line was in sight, and the crowd had backed away, thanks to his call.
The seconds ticked down.
Twenty. Fifteen. Ten.
As the seconds ticked down—twenty, fifteen, ten—Summer gritted her teeth, her eyes laser-focused on the finish line ahead. The crowd had been warned, pulling back as the tension in the air became almost tangible.
Tristan's McLaren was just behind her Porsche, close enough that he could see the determination etched into her features. He didn't dare slow down driving almost neck-to-neck with her, so he can pull her in His car. He shouted again, his voice nearly hoarse from worry, "Sam! You're out of time! Jump!"
But she didn't respond. Not yet.
Her eyes flicked to the clock, counting down those precious last moments. Five seconds. Four. The car rattled beneath her, the rear tires already ablaze, the whole frame threatening to fall apart, explode anytime. But Summer wasn't letting go—not until she crossed that line.
Three seconds. Two.
With a final surge of adrenaline, she pushed the Porsche past its limits, the engine roaring as it shot forward. At the very last second, just as the finish line blurred beneath her, she leaped out.
One.
Her body hit the asphalt hard, rolling as the force of the jump sent her skidding across the ground. Behind her, the Porsche hurtled into the barriers and erupted into a violent explosion, flames licking the sky as the sound of the blast shook the stadium. Gasps and screams echoed through the crowd, the fiery wreckage lighting up the track in a blinding flash.
Tristan slammed his brakes, the McLaren screeching to a halt just beyond the finish line. His heart pounded in his chest, dread washing over him. "Sam!" he yelled, jumping out of his car, his feet barely hitting the ground as he rushed toward her.
Summer lay still for a moment, her breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps. Her clothes were scuffed, and her arms were scraped from the fall, but a slow smile crept across her face. She had done it. She had won.
Tristan dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he grabbed her shoulders. "You insane woman," he muttered, pulling her into his arms, holding her as if she might disappear any second. "You could've died. You should've jumped sooner!"
Summer let out a breathy laugh, her voice hoarse from the strain of the race. "But I didn't. And guess what…" Her eyes sparkled mischievously despite the chaos around them. "I beat you."
Tristan let out a shaky laugh, his chest heaving with a mix of relief and exasperation. His hand came up to cup her cheek, brushing away a smudge of dirt. "You're unbelievable," he said, his voice low and filled with awe.
Still grinning, Summer leaned her head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek. "I know."
For a moment, everything else—the roar of the crowd, the lingering heat of the explosion, the announcer's frantic commentary—faded into the background. It was just them, tangled up in the heat of victory, in the madness of what had just happened.
Tristan's grip tightened around her as he pressed his forehead against hers, his voice softer now, full of emotion. "I'm never letting you drive again."
Summer chuckled, her body aching but her spirit triumphant. "We'll see about that."
He kissed her then—deep, fierce, and full of the raw emotion that had built up during the race. It was a kiss of relief, frustration, admiration, and something more—something unspoken but felt between them.
When they finally pulled apart, Summer looked at him with a smirk. "Next time, I'll let you win. Maybe."
Tristan laughed, shaking his head. "Not if I sabotage your car first."