One Last Fling - Chapter 12
Cam
Cam and several engineers watched Lily win from the garage. He cheered exactly as much as the other members of the team—no more, no less.
Inside, he was wrecked. Lily drove like she always did when it mattered most—clean, ruthless, unafraid. Like someone who had learned early that hesitation cost more than mistakes ever did.
When she crossed the line first, Cam exhaled so hard his chest hurt.
Hell of a drive, he typed, thumb hovering for half a second before he hit Send. Then he put the phone away. Because now it was his turn.
As he climbed into his car, he forced his mind where it needed to be. Not Lily. Not the elevator. Not the way she’d looked at him that morning like maybe—just maybe—this could be something.
He cared about her. That was the problem. But he couldn’t afford to fall apart now. There was too much on the line. People could whisper about him all they wanted—the golden boy, the rich kid, the driver without a contract—but he knew who he was deep down, a racer with the heart of a lion. It was time to uncage him.
When the lights went out, the race unfolded better than it had any right to. Clean launch. No mistakes. The car felt alive beneath him, responsive in a way that made confidence easy instead
of forced. It was fun for the first time in a long time. By lap forty-four, with twelve more to go, he was in second place.
Second.
His engineer’s voice crackled in his ear, barely containing disbelief. “This is so strong, Cam. It’s a five-second gap to overtake Bishop ahead. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Got it.” Then he saw Bishop duck into the pit lane. This was confounding since Cam was gaining on him. Why switch tires now? “Talk to me. What’s Bishop doing?” Cam asked.
“Not sure,” the engineer said sharply. “Stand by.”
Of course, Cam now had clean air ahead of him for the first time in the race, so he took his chance and shot off like a rocket.
“Bishop is out. They had to retire the car. You’re P1, Cam. Time to bring it home.”
For a second, Cam forgot how to breathe.
He didn’t celebrate until the checkered flag waved. Until it was real. Until the radio exploded with shouting and disbelief and his own name.
He screamed then. “Yeah, baby! Come on! Let’s go!”
When he got out of the car, he celebrated with the team, then he spotted Lily. She was smiling—wide, unguarded, proud in a way that made his throat tighten.
“That was incredible,” she said, stepping in close enough that only he could hear.
“So was yours,” he replied. “Guess we’re even.”
Her smile softened. “Congratulations, Fowler.” It wasn’t Cam. Not here. Not now.
And he understood. Even if it was disappointing.
The team corralled them after the podium celebration—mechanics, engineers, execs—all funneling toward the Hughes Racing garage for the inevitable photo. Victories stacked on victories. History-making weekend. Everyone buzzing.
“Cam. Lily. Right here. Up front, right next to each other,” one of the marketing managers directed.
The photographer called out, “Alright, team—tighten up!”
Lily’s arm brushed his. She glanced at him, then redirected her attention straight ahead.
The photographer took several shots with the marketing and PR folks standing behind him. As soon as the session wrapped, the photographer showed them his work. Cam quickly realized they were
looking at them. As in Cam and Lily. With curiosity. With knowing. With expressions that said this wasn’t news—just confirmation.
And in that instant, Cam understood something with brutal clarity. The elevator was a huge mistake.
And Hughes Racing knew exactly where to aim its questions next.