Page 14 of Speed Crush
She’s in the pit area again, clipboard in hand, calling out last names like a drill sergeant wrapped in motor oil and sass. Her braid swings like a pendulum as she walks between karts, inspecting them like she built the things herself.
She doesn’t look at me like a trophy. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fawn. Just eyes me like I’m some average Joe. And the less she seems to care… the more I want to impress her. Which makes zero sense. I came here to avoid the attention, not chase it.
But June? She’s not performing. She’s real. And it’s messing with me.
I must’ve been staring, because Levi appears beside me and slaps a folded camp shirt against my chest.
Levi hands me a camp shirt. “Coach Noah. You ready for this?”
I tug the shirt over my head. “Only if June’s not in charge of hazing.”
Levi laughs. “Oh, she is.”
“Great.”
He smirks. “Try not to cry in front of the kids.”
Later, while the kids are on a break. I spot her by Kart 17, crouched low, humming something faint but familiar—Sabrina Carpenter? Whatever it is, she’s hitting every note like she means it. She doesn't know I’m watching. Not until she glances up and catches me leaning against the frame, arms crossed, smirking.
“Didn’t peg you for a pop princess, Songbird.” I say.
She straightens slowly, eyes narrowed, but her smile remains on her beautiful face at my teasing. “Didn’t peg you for a stalker, Mr. Fast and Curious.”
“That’s because I’m subtle.”
She rolls her eyes and gestures toward a kart with an open side panel. “Since you’re here, grab me the torque wrench.”
I hand it to her, fingers brushing. She doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
“You’re cute when you pretend you don’t remember the kiss,” I murmur.
She doesn’t look at me, but her mouth curves the tiniest bit. “You’re annoying when you think you’re smooth.”
“Maybe you need a reminder.”
“Maybe you need to focus. We’ve got a throttle issue.”
Right. Throttle. Camp. Kids.
A sharp rev of engine cuts through the pit. One of the 18-year-old guys—Reid, I think—has hopped into Kart 4, trying to show off. He revs it again, muscles straining under his shirt, clearly hoping June notices.
She doesn’t.
But I do. I definitely notice.
Another teen—Jake Something, Schmuck-for-all-I-care—grabs a nearby rag and struts over, asking if she needs help tightening the steering column. Then another guy quickly follows, and within minutes, five or six of them are hovering around June like she’s the engine instead of the mechanic. They’re asking questions. Offering help she didn’t ask for. I swear one of them actually adjusts his hat and puffs his chest.
I grit my teeth. It’s stupid. They’re just kids. Barely legal. But June’s only a few years older, and she’s got curves that dodangerousthings to denim… and adolescent males.Not that they stand a chance.
Then, June lowers herself onto a mechanic's creeper and slides beneath the kart, still humming, completely unfazed. Her jeans stretch tight over parted thighs, the position doing unspeakable things to my focus—and every hormone I’ve ever had stands at attention.
Meanwhile, I’m two seconds from dragging the whole group over to the whiteboard like Coach Caveman.
Instead, I grab another creeper and slide in beside her, shoulder to shoulder under the frame.
“You good?” I ask, voice low, just above the hum of her song.
“I was. Until the testosterone flood.” Her voice is soft, and close. Only for me.
