The Smell of Victory

Mason

The Boxster was a speed demon.

It ate pavement and cornered like a beast, which meant one thing. I was able to take risks. The roads weren’t as slick as I’d been anticipating. I was lucky that the rain had cleared up well before the race started. My tires had excellent traction, and I took corners tight—tighter than any of the other cars I watched in my mirrors. Those saved fractions of a second kept inching me farther and farther ahead of the group.

And farther ahead of Mark and Sid.

Their cars were at the front of the pack but were driving a good three or so car lengths behind me. And I was still losing them. I owed Kline big time for this car.

The race Harley had planned led onto busier streets, as they all did, and when I hit one of the main roads, I opened up on the throttle, racing toward a red light I knew would turn green as my tires crossed the sidewalk.

It did.

I blew through the intersection. Peop