As I approached the car, Jason stepped close, lowering his voice. “Paula doesn’t take losing well. Let her win. You owe her that much.”
I shot him a cold, cutting glare. Without saying a word, I got into the car.
The engine roared to life and as I pressed the gas pedal, a surge of long-forgotten excitement rushed through me.
“Paula wants to win?” I thought. “Let her chase me.”
To my surprise, Jason announced over the radio that he would serve as my navigator for the race. His voice crackled through the headset, steady and familiar as he guided me.
Despite myself, I began to trust him. How could I not? Years ago, he was my navigator—my partner in every sense of the word. The rhythm came back easily, the tacit understanding we had built over six years resurfacing like muscle memory.
I pulled ahead of Paula in minutes, leaving her far behind.
Then, just as I approached the final stretch, Jason’s voice echoed in my ear.
“After this big turn, it’s a straightaway. Step on the gas and take the win.”
I trusted him. I accelerated hard.
But it wasn’t a straightaway—it was another curve. A sharp one.