Sometimes life puts you on a rollercoaster without a lap belt. And then sometimes that same life lets you off the rollercoaster in the just the right place. That’s how I explain what happened at the raceway that day.

My entire experience at Braun-Evans was one crazy rollercoaster from the accepting of the unexpected internship to meeting King and the whirlwind of helping with his brand, to today at the track. I was nauseous from it all, bumping around out of control while the ride took me where it wanted. But the craziest part happened next.

King came out dressed and ready. He stood with all the other drivers for the presentation and then the teams swarmed the cars. He zipped his suit up, his eyes locked on mine. “Have I totally fucked everything up?”

“No. I’m just . . . adjusting.”

He examined me some more then kissed my cheek. It was a long, lingering, wonderful kiss that left me breathless for more. Preferably on the lips. “I’ll see you after?” It was a genuine, hopeful question.

“Of course. Don’t make me nervous, though. I didn’t eat breakfast.” I didn’t tell him that watching him race was going to be nearly as traumatic as being a passenger in a car. That I’d spend every minute of the next two hours holding my breath with worry.

I held his new helmet in my hands but he didn’t take it. “I’m going to be fine, Isabel. I promise you.” Then he took my face in his hands and kissed me.

My knees went weak and I melted against him, whimpering because everything and nothing made sense. His lips were soft and insistent, as if he were repeating his promise with actions instead of words. Then he looked me in the eyes. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll see you soon.” He took the helmet and put it on, modeling it for me first, then the video camera anxiously waiting for the first shots of King wearing it.

It was only moments later that we cleared the grid and I was seated beside Elizabeth again. The cars took off on the warm-up lap then stopped again in their assigned starting positions. A man with a flag walked behind the last car. A series of lights above the track lit up one at a time and then . . . they went out and the race started.

Yedlin held the first position. He charged ahead with King sliding in behind him. Everything looked good until they reached the first turn when Marchand slingshotted around King to try and pass Yedlin. They touched and both Marchand and Yedlin veered off the track.

The good news was that King was now in the lead. Yedlin and Marchand both recovered, rejoining the race at the back. It was just as wild for the next five laps and the team was visibly tense. The pit crew sat inside the garage just over a little half wall from where Elizabeth and I sat. Their legs bounced as they watched the televisions hung from the ceilings. Beyond them was a bank of computers the team bosses and engineers sat in front of, reading the data as it came in from the cars. Adam and his team sat at a different bank of computers in the back.

“It’s King’s job to stay in the lead now,” Elizabeth whispered. “He needs to hold off the rest until Yedlin can make it back.”

“Can he do that? Yedlin I mean?”

“Braun-Evans has the fastest cars. If he drives smart and Adam does his job, then yes.”

As chief strategist it would be Adam making the call on when to pit and what tires to take. That decision could determine who won the race . . . or lost. I quickly learned racing wasn’t just about the men in the car, or even the cars themselves, but about strategy. How long could tires last? When would another team pit? Would the weather change? There was a man sitting beside Adam whose only job was to watch the radar.

Sure enough, over the next hour, both Yedlin and Marchand leapfrogged car after car until they sat in third and fourth behind King and Ricci. And that was what really worried me. Ricci was still taunting King and so far King hadn’t fulfilled his promise.

But I knew it was just a matter of time. King got his nickname because of situations like this. He was focused unless provoked. And then . . . well heaven help the person stupid enough to do that.

It happened with five laps to go. They descended through a left hand turn, through a small straightaway, then a right-left-right. Ricci followed King closely and when they entered the long straightaway Ricci jumped out from behind, accelerating up beside King.

“Don’t do it,” Elizabeth whispered. “Please no.”

Her fear seeped into me, quadrupling my nervous energy. “What don’t you want him to do?”

Ricci was just beside King as they entered another hairpin turn. Neither man moved over but King expertly negotiated the turn and angle that gave him the clear advantage. Ricci tried to steer into King but he was already accelerating away and Ricci turned sideways, going off the track and into a barrier.

The crowd gasped while I sat there in shock, watching King race away without a scratch. He was going to win.

And I was going to loose the crackers I’d eaten.

“This is terrifying to watch.” I think I held my breath for the rest of the race.

“Don’t worry,” Elizabeth patted my hand, “it’s basically over now. The safety car will have to come out because of the wreck and that means no one will change positions. King’s won.”

For the next two laps the cars followed the flashing lights of the safety car while Ricci’s car was removed from the track and the debris swept away. The safety car peeled away with one lap to go, but King was too fast and no one could catch him with only a lap to go.

I didn’t breathe or move, too afraid any shift in the air might change what was happening. But no, he crossed the finish line first and the entire garage went nuts.

I was swept away with it all. Luckily Elizabeth stuck with me, making sure I wasn’t squished. “This is King’s first win,” she yelled in my ear as we crammed against a barrier with the crew. “It’s a big deal.”

He parked his car in the number one spot, removing his helmet, safety devices, and gloves before finally climbing out of the cockpit and throwing himself over the barrier and into his team. They caught him, celebrating so hard I worried they’d hurt him. When they finally set him down he started scanning the crowd.

His eyes landed on me, asking a question.

Can I kiss you?

And man oh man did those butterflies take off again. A thousand logical worries flew threw my head but not one was as loud as the one desire. So I nodded and in less than a second he was in front of me, taking my chin in his hand and kissing me for the second time.

It was even better than the first because it wasn’t a surprise. It was still tender, still needy, but now it was also intense with the adrenaline of victory.

And all I could think was yes.

Oh, yes. This has to be right.