Chapter 171
Chapter 171:
Just ahead at a diagonal, Ballard—the same one who had mocked her earlier—caught her eye through his window and mouthed, “Last place p>
Brinley’s grip tightened, her gaze locked on the starting line.
The green light was moments away. She inhaled deeply.
She would make sure they saw what she was truly capable of.
When the signal light went dark, she released the clutch—and instantly, the cars flanking her lunged inward.
Ballard on the left. Dominik on the right. Their cars crowded her lane, mirrors nearly grazing her doors, trying to shove her straight off the track.
A harsh screech tore through the air as tires bit into asphalt. The white car jolted back half a length, teetering dangerously close to the boundary line.
The grandstands erupted with laughter and jeers.
“See? Told you Brinley couldn’t handle it p>
“She can’t even start straight—what’s the point of her being here p>
𝗠о𝘴𝘵 𝗿𝘦а𝘥 𝗍𝗁𝘪𝗌 𝘸е𝖾𝗸 𝗼𝗇
Brinley’s heart skipped, but years of instinct on the track steadied her nerves. She twisted the wheel with precision, using the pressure from both cars to cut sharply and slip through the narrow space between them.
She dropped to the back, but her car regained its balance.
Surprise flashed across Ballard’s and Dominik’s faces; they hadn’t expected her to break free so cleanly.
Grinding her teeth, Brinley pressed harder on the accelerator. Up in the stands, the betting screen refreshed, flashing updated odds beneath her name: Brinley Moore—Win Rate: 0.5%. The money stacked against her kept climbing; everyone seemed convinced she wouldn’t last.
“Miss Russell put money down that she’ll crash out in the first round—odds are 1 in 20 p>
“I bet she won’t even survive the first curve. A rich lady like her can’t handle this kind of heat p>
A sneer touched Brinley’s lips as she caught the screen. She could feel the weight of everyone’s dismissive gazes, all certain she’d never make it past the first round.
Well. She’d prove them wrong.
She remembered the first time she’d set foot on a track; the ridicule back then had been ten times harsher. And yet, hadn’t she still carried home the championship?
The red light vanished, and engines roared like thunder across the arena.
As soon as Brinley released the clutch, Ballard on her left and Dominik on her right closed in like moving walls, forcing her toward the middle. Their side mirrors came so close they nearly scraped her door, and gravel kicked up by their tires peppered her car’s body with sharp rattles.
“Ha-ha! That’s more like it!” someone shouted from the grandstands. “Show her what real racing is p>
Sweat beaded on Brinley’s palms as the steering wheel shuddered violently beneath her hands. But in that instant of chaos, she found her opening.
She slammed the brakes, the car dipping hard—then, in the same breath, she floored the accelerator.
The engine growled like a wild beast, and the white car shot forward low and fast, slipping between Ballard and Dominik in a daring move.
Smoke curled from her tires, the acrid smell biting the air. Before the spectators’ gasps could even fade, Brinley was already surging ahead, catching the moment the lead car slowed for the curve—and in one breathtaking maneuver, she overtook two cars in quick succession.