The next day begins at the NRGYZR's driving simulation lab. The layout immediately reminds me of my old team's facility, but this version feels sharper. Every station is calibrated to replicate the exact controls of an Emerald Series car. The screens are larger, and the rigs look heavier.
Noel stands near one of the consoles, flipping through notes, while engineers move briskly between monitors, adjusting settings and running diagnostics.
An older man in a tailored suit steps away from the back of the room and walks toward me with steady confidence. He extends his hand.
"Liv, nice to finally meet you. I'm Esteban Flores, lead strategist and coach for NRGYZR."
I shake his hand, trying not to look too starstruck. "It's an honor. I grew up watching you compete in the Indigo Series."
He smiles faintly. "Please, call me Esteban. These days I work behind the scenes."
There's something reassuring and calming about his presence.
"Today we'll keep it simple," he continues. "We just want to get a sense of your baseline. It'll take time to adjust to an Emerald car."
He glances across the room. "Noel, get her warmed up."
Noel nods and gestures for me to join him beside the simulator.
He's leaning casually against the seat when I walk over, elbow resting on the backrest, a playful grin already forming.
"So," he says, "have you been keeping up with your stretches? Or are we about to discover muscles that forgot they exist?"
"I promise I'm not completely out of practice," I joke back.
He steps in front of me and gestures for me to face him.
"Neck's the big one. Emerald cars load way more force through here than your last series. Fatigue hits faster than most drivers expect."
He lifts his hands, waiting for a small nod before touching me.
He waits for my nod before placing his fingertips at the base of my skull, guiding my head into a slow tilt. The faint scent of something crisp and athletic drifts over, and I feel my muscles loosen under his steady hands.
"Deep breath... good. You should feel that along the side," he murmurs.
My body relaxes under his control, the tension easing, almost too tempting to fully let go. His hands are calloused, yet warm.
He works through the rest of the stretches with steady hands. His palms are slightly calloused, rough against my skin in a way that feels grounding.
I almost let myself lean into it.
When we finish, I notice Seb and Gemma standing at the edge of the room. Seb's eyes flick up to mine for half a second before he looks down again, tuning back into whatever Esteban is saying.
"Noel, we set?" Esteban calls.
Noel steps back and hands me my helmet. "All yours."
I slide into the simulator, adjusting the pedals and wheel until everything feels aligned. Familiar. Almost.
"Good luck," Noel says, tapping the side of my helmet with a wink before rejoining the others.
The screens shift. Esteban pulls up a practice course from the Emerald Series Grand Prix in Hong Kong.
I wrap my hands around the wheel and inhale slowly.
I've got this.
The first few laps are rough. The acceleration hits harder than I expect. Every swerve jerks my head. My neck strains to keep steady.
By the third lap, though, something clicks.
I start anticipating the car's movements instead of reacting to them. The steering smooths out. The braking tightens. The machine begins to feel less like a wild animal and more like an extension of me.
So far, so good.
I glance sideways. Noel gives me an encouraging nod before stepping away. Gemma stands beside him, arms crossed, with an icy expression.
Esteban watches the telemetry for a moment, then nods.
"Nice work. Keep it up."
I focus on the next straight when Esteban suddenly leans toward one of the monitors.
"Seb, can you check this?"
Seb hesitates. "Can someone else handle it?"
"Noel stepped out, and the engineers are tied up with Gemma's setup. You're it."
He exhales quietly and walks toward me, expression neutral, yet slightly guarded.
I remove my helmet, expecting feedback. Instead, he crouches beside the monitor.
"Need to make sure the cables are hooked up correctly," he says. "Shouldn't take long."
He leans over me to reach the connections, and the space shrinks instantly. A subtle heat radiates from him. I don't mean to freeze, but I do. His shoulder brushes close. Seb's scent is clean, understated, something that might be cologne layered over warm skin.
It's intoxicating.
His hands move efficiently, tugging and rerouting wires. I catch myself staring at his forearms flexing in the process—then force my eyes elsewhere before it becomes obvious I'm staring.
He adjusts the final cable but stays, hovering over me, for half a second longer than necessary. There's a slight tug in my stomach.
Then he straightens, face unreadable.
Seb nods. "All set."
Before I can say anything, Esteban speaks again.
"Gemma, get in the other simulator. Let's try a head-to-head run."
Gemma slides into the rig beside mine, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.
The monitors switch to a split-screen view of the Hong Kong circuit. Two cars. Two drivers.
She glances over her shoulder. "I'm going to enjoy this."
In your dreams, bitch.
The countdown begins.
Red lights.
One.
Two.
Three.
Green.
We launch into the first corner.
My hands grip the wheel, micro-adjusting constantly. Gemma's racing line is nearly flawless. I mirror her as closely as I can, braking late, pushing acceleration on every straight.
Steady.
A tight hairpin looms at the end of a high-speed straight.
This is it. The move I make here will define the lap.
The car leans into the turn, my reflexes firing as I thread through the hairpin.
For a split second, I push too hard, and I overcorrect just enough to cost me momentum on exit. The acceleration stutters, the car slipping out of the corner while Gemma rockets past me with ruthless precision.
She sails across the finish line several seconds ahead.
I sit back in the simulator, exhaling slowly, feeling slightly disappointed.
Next time.
"Get used to it," Gemma says coolly.
I roll my eyes.
Esteban doesn't react to the exchange. He's busy studying the telemetry with intense focus, arms crossed, posture unusually still as the data scrolls across the screen. When he finally looks up, his expression is thoughtful.
He turns slightly. "Gemma, your time was exceptional. Fantastic job."
Her smirk fades when Esteban looks back at me.
"And good work," he adds. "You're picking things up faster than expected."
Despite losing, something about that feels like a win.
Seb still hasn't said anything.
I glance toward where he'd been earlier, half-expecting to find him watching, arms crossed, analyzing, but his spot is empty. He's already gone.
***
After practice, I head to the cafeteria and survey today's offerings. I settle on a bowl of ramen then scan the room for an open table.
That's when I spot Seb.
He's sitting alone at a small table near the windows, an apple in one hand, a pen in the other, scribbling intently in a notebook.
Things seem to have smoothed over since we ran into each other in the recover room yesterday, but he's seems distant today.
I hesitate for a moment, then walk over and take the seat across from him, setting my tray down.
"Hey," I say. "What are you working on?"
My voice catches him slightly off guard. His pen pauses for half a second, but he doesn't look up.
"Tire management," he says, continuing to write.
"Race next weekend in Dubai. Trying to figure out the best pace for each stint without wearing them out too early."
I take a bite of ramen, my gaze drifting to the open page of his notebook. Countless graphs, notes, and numbers layered over one another.
"So you're balancing speed with how long the tires last," I say. "Does that mean adjusting how hard you push at different points?"
He finally looks up, and for a second it looks like he wants to smile, as if he's impressed I even asked.
It's the first time he's shown any warmth in his eyes today.
"Exactly," he says. "You have to anticipate how the car will react over time."
"That makes sense," I reply. "It's like predicting how the track will evolve as you drive it."
Then, as if catching himself, he looks down, resets, and replaces his expression with one of indifference. "Yeah," he says. "Something like that."
The tone is curt, but not cold.
He closes the notebook and gathers his things. "I need to head out. I'll see you later."
I watch him leave then quietly finish my lunch.
Afterwards, I stop by the locker room to grab my things before heading out.
As I turn to close my locker, I see Gemma standing in my peripheral. She is leaning on the locker beside mine. Without a word, she swings my locker door shut, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Not bad today," she says. "I'll give you that."
"But don't get too comfortable thinking you're good because of one run," she continues. "Things are different when you're on a real track."
Then she takes a single step toward me.
"I've been doing this a long time. I know what I'm doing. As long as I'm on this team, don't expect things to change."
She tilts her head slightly.
"You might be good. But you're not me," she hisses.
"I know you have experience," I say evenly. "I'm just here to learn."
Her lips form a faint smirk. Then she pushes off the locker and walks away without another glance.
This is going to be a long season.