“Jesus.” I run a hand through my hair, looking around to make sure no one is paying attention to us. I’m painfully aware that if I use Derek’s emergency debit card to purchase an illegal ticket, he will never let me hear the end of it. Screw it. Desperate times. “Can you wait while I run to an ATM?”
He shrugs. “Go.”
“I’ll be five minutes. Please, please, don’t sell it to anyone else.”
“Why so desperate, bambolina?”
“My boyfriend is racing.” I’m already backing away, searching for the closest ATM. “I have to get inside before it starts.”
“Oh, your boyfriend. Sure.”
I race around the corner, relived to find an ATM near the bathrooms. Two people are in line in front of me and my head starts to pound waiting for them. The cheers on the other side of the grandstands are getting louder and it’s all I can do not to scream at them to go faster. When I reach the front, I actually wince over the amount of money it dispenses at my request, but I resolve to deal with it later. I sprint back to the scalper, who is still asking people if they want the ticket. His eyebrows shoot up when I appear in front of him.
“Let’s see the ticket.”
He slides it out of his pocket, and I quickly scan it for the date, time, and location. It’s in Italian, so I’m relying mostly on assumptions. God, please don’t let it be fake. A loud roar kicks up behind me, forcing me to shove the wad of bills into his hand. “If I don’t get it in, I will hunt you down like a dog. Do you understand me?”
“You remind me much of my ex-wife.”
Finally, he hands me the ticket, and I’m off running again. The line at the entrance has died down, I’m assuming because the race is getting ready to start. An usher looks at my ticket and directs me to an area far from the starting line, so I ignore him and push through the packed bodies toward the front. I’ve come this far, and Shane is going to know I’m here, dammit. I don’t care if every person I’m elbowing past is cursing at me, they’ll get over it.
Against all odds, it seems, I make it to the front barrier. Men twice my size are pressed against it, though, and I can’t see over them. Peering between their bodies, I see I’m still a short distance away from the starting line where several helmeted drivers are getting ready to climb into their cars. I don’t see Shane. I would know him from the way he moved.
Someone lays a hand on my shoulder, making me jump. I glance over, and up, to find a giant of a man staring down at me. His smile is friendly and sympathetic, so much so that I’m suddenly battling tears. Failure is looming in front of me. After the effort I’d made, it doesn’t seem possible. This stranger appears to read it on my face. I’m not surprised, since I don’t have the strength to hold anything back at the moment.
“Would you like to watch the start of the race on my shoulders?” he asks me in thickly accented English. Okay, seriously. Am I wearing a sign that says I’m American?
Normally, that kind of forwardness from anyone would freak me out, but I’m plum out of options. I find myself nodding slowly and before I know it, this gigantic stranger in a racing jacket is picking me up and tossing me on his back like a rag doll. It’s the second time that it has happened in less than twenty-four hours, so it stings just a little. But I don’t care, because I can see the track. I can see the group of drivers adjusting their gloves and helmets, some of them waving at the roaring crowd. An announcer’s voice is barely audible among the whistling and shouting. Where is he? Where is—
I see him. He’s standing beside a yellow car, nodding as someone in a white jumpsuit speaks to him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman walk onto the track holding a black-and-white checkered flag. This is it. I’m out of time.
I close my eyes and yell, at the top of my lungs. Louder than I’ve ever yelled in my life. It actually makes my own ears ring. “Shane!”
Nothing. He doesn’t even flinch. I don’t stop, though. I try again and again, until my voice starts to go hoarse. Everyone around me is turning to stare curiously at the crazy girl screaming her head off, and I don’t care. I keep going. Just when I’m beginning to admit it’s hopeless, the giant below me starts to shout. Shane. His voice, added to mine, is twice as loud. To my utter shock, men and women in my immediate vicinity start shouting with us. Shane. Shane. Shane. Maybe they sense my desperation, maybe they’re mocking me, but whatever it is has a better chance of working than my single voice.
Finally, finally, I see the voices reach him and he looks up. It’s such an enormous relief that a huge sob breaks from my chest. I feel like I might melt off the giant’s shoulders, but I force myself to start waving my arms frantically, begging him to look over and see me.
He does.
His body goes very still, except for the gloved hand reaching up to remove his helmet. He pulls it off and his arm falls at his side, helmet hitting the ground. Face a mask of disbelief, his mouth moves in a way that tells me he’s saying my name. Then he’s jogging toward me. The man in the white jumpsuit tries to grab his arm, but Shane shrugs him off. His expression is making it hard for me to breathe and it’s worth everything I’d gone through to get here. Fuck that, it’s worth every hardship I’ll ever face in my life again. It’s love. It’s beautiful.
“Willa.”
An announcement comes over the loudspeakers, then. First, in Italian, then in English. He stops, halfway between me and the starting line. Looking back over his shoulder, looking at me. The man in the white jumpsuit is shouting at him to get into the car. The people in my little cheering section are staring at me in a whole new light, whispering to one another.
“Who are you?” the giant asks me.
“I’m…he’s mine. We’re ours. I…we haven’t talked about it yet.”
“Now might be a bad time for a discussion. He’s about to get disqualified.”
I don’t have time to answer because Shane is closing the distance between us again. He’s picked me. Over the race. Over this entire city of fans who have come out to watch it happen. I want to sink down into that knowledge and live inside it forever, but I can’t yet. He has to fulfill his dream, and I’ll be damned if he’s going to give it up. If it’s his dream, it’s my dream, too.
Balancing precariously on the giant’s shoulders, I draw myself up resolutely, ignoring the grunt from below.
“Shane.” I point at the starting line. He’s close enough now that he can hear me, so he stops and nods. “Get in that car. And smoke their asses.”
…
He actually wins the race. It’s like something out of a movie. When he crosses the finish line, only a few seconds ahead of the next driver, I can’t quite believe it. I’d seen his trophies so I knew he was capable of winning, but to see it happen live, feels like a far-off dream. Yesterday, he’d been pouring beer behind the bar, and today he’s winning this massive sporting event. It’s incredible. I’m so filled to bursting with pride and happiness, I have to cling to the fence to stay upright. Immediately, people stream onto the track, circling Shane and trying to hoist him onto their shoulders. Champagne bottles are being popped, spraying over the hood over the car. News cameras push through the celebration, trying to reach Shane. All I can do is stand on the sidelines smiling, watching it all play out. Celebrating for him on the inside.