"Lila, you seem to forget that you are not the sole owner of this. I am a partner as well," Isabella cut in firmly.
Lila turned to face her. "I know that—you don't have to remind me. But I'm putting my foot down on this. I don't want him on my team."
Coyote kept his cool. "Why are you really against the idea of me being on your team?"
Lila let out a dry chuckle. "I'm sure you heard me before, but I'll say it in a clearer way. You are a reckless driver who hasn't raced in a year. I've watched you a couple of times, and every single time you put everyone around you in danger—just because you want to win at all costs. Do you even know how many drivers you've caused to get injured or wreck their cars? And on top of that, you're definitely not fit."
Coyote couldn't deny there was some truth to her words. He had taken risks—sometimes extreme ones. But if he hadn't, he wouldn't have won. Still, something about the way she said it got under his skin—especially the part about him being unfit. Her tone felt personal. Maybe one of those wins came at the expense of her team, or even someone close to her. That would explain the cold reception from the people in the garage earlier.
"You're right about some of the things you said," Coyote admitted. "I can be reckless. I take a lot of risks. I want to win at all costs, and I can't change that. But one thing I promise you is this: I'll win trophies for your team starting this season, if you let me."
Lila's expression didn't change. "That was very moving. I am moved. But my answer still remains the same, I don't want you on my team."
Isabella opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Coyote stepped forward. "What if I showed you how fit I am—would that change your mind?"
"I doubt it," Lila replied with a smirk. "But I'm willing to bet you'd make a fool of yourself."
"Let's make this a bit more interesting," Isabella interjected, stepping out of the office and onto the garage floor. Her voice rang out clearly, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. "Hey everyone, we're betting to decide if Coyote becomes our new driver, and I want you all to be witnesses to it."
Instantly, heads turned. Conversations halted. All eyes locked on Isabella, Coyote, and Lila as the trio stood at the center of the garage.
Isabella kept her tone cool and confident as she continued, "If Coyote maintains an average speed of 177 mph during a lone five-lap race on this track—today—he gets to be a driver for your team."
Lila stepped forward, arms folded tightly across her chest. "And if he doesn't?"
Isabella gave a theatrical sigh and rolled her eyes. "I was getting to that. If he doesn't, he won't get to be a driver on your team, and I will cut my hair."
Coyote's brows shot up in surprise, why would Isabella put her hair on the line for me?
[Because her affection for you has increased since yesterday.]
[See.]
[Love Detector]
[Isabella Cruz: 30% love detected.]
"Wow, I really did fuck her good yesterday," Coyote responded to the system.
"Really? What about her? If I lose and she has to cut her hair, then Lila has to do the same if she loses too," He said, trying to make things equal.
Lila blinked, just for a second, thrown off guard. But she recovered fast, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. "Bring it on."
Isabella's grin spread wide, her eyes sparkling. "This is going to be fun."
—--
—---
Moments later, Coyote stood beside the blue Chevy waiting at the edge of the racetrack. The car gleamed under the morning sun, freshly polished and humming with potential. Bold white numbers—77—were emblazoned on the side, just beneath the shimmering Nakamura Racing logo stamped across the hood.
The entire garage had emptied out, drawn like moths to the flames of competition and spectacle. Crew members leaned over the barriers, arms folded, some with skeptical expressions, others watching with quiet curiosity. Their earlier coldness hadn't faded, but now it was laced with a thin thread of anticipation.
The pit crew stood near the timing booth, murmuring amongst themselves. A few held stopwatches. One had already fired up the telemetry system.
Everyone was waiting.
Coyote cracked his knuckles and took a deep breath, the weight of every eye in the facility pressing down on him. But he didn't flinch.
He climbed into the driver's seat, shutting the door with a satisfying click. The rumble of the engine starting up echoed across the track. Some people in the crowd leaned forward unconsciously, drawn in by the sound, the scent of burning fuel, and the storm about to unfold.
Isabella and Lila stood at the top of the pit box, overlooking the track like queens on opposite thrones—one confident, the other cold. Coyote could feel Lila's glare burning holes through his back, but he didn't turn. Instead, he climbed into the driver's seat, the familiar scent of rubber and oil flooding his senses.
He strapped in, fingers brushing the wheel with reverence. The car was different, but the instinct? The hunger? That hadn't gone anywhere.
A voice crackled through his headset. It was Isabella.
"No pressure, but I'd really like you to keep my hair."
Coyote smirked.
"Don't worry, your hair isn't getting cut today."
The countdown began.
Three... Two... One...
The engine roared to life like a caged beast unleashed. Tires screeched. Coyote shot forward, a blur of blue carving through the racetrack as the first lap began.
Everyone on the sidelines leaned forward, eyes locked on the car. The speed monitor blinked to life.
Lap 1: 178.3 mph average.
In the pit area, jaws dropped. The same people who had whispered behind Coyote's back were now gripping their phones, capturing footage, murmuring in disbelief. One of the younger crew members muttered, "That's insane…"
Up on the platform, Isabella's eyes sparkled with satisfaction. Lila, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes, arms crossed tighter across her chest.
Coyote flew through lap two, his focus razor-sharp. The corners were tight, but he handled them with calculated aggression—just enough to shave milliseconds off his time, not enough to lose control.
Lap 2: 179.1 mph average.
"Goddamn," one mechanic whispered, then louder, "Did you see that drift?"
Even Lila looked slightly taken aback.
By lap three, the Chevy was no longer just a car—it was an extension of Coyote himself. Every twitch of the wheel, every tap of the brake, was poetry in motion.
Lap 3: 178.6 mph average.
He could hear the cheers now—small at first, then swelling. The same pit crew who had barely acknowledged him before were now slapping shoulders, whistling, eyes wide with admiration.
Lap four came fast. Coyote pushed harder, shaving dangerously close to the edge of the track, tires kissing the red-and-white curbs as he powered through.
Lap 4: 177.9 mph average.
Back on the platform, Isabella let out a breath. "He's really doing it."
Lila's expression was unreadable—somewhere between disbelief and growing fury.
Then came the final lap.
Coyote leaned in, muscles tight with focus. His fingers gripped the wheel as the world blurred around him. Speed wasn't the enemy—it was his ally, his voice, his legacy.
He roared past the stands one final time, the engine singing a triumphant howl.
Lap 5: 178.7 mph average.
The car slowed after the finish, pulling into the pit lane. The monitors confirmed it: Five laps. All above 177 mph.
Silence hung for a split second—then the garage erupted in cheers.
"Holy shit, he fucking did it!"
"That's our guy!"
"Damn, this dude can drive!"
Coyote stepped out of the car, sweat clinging to his forehead, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The once-cold garage crew now swarmed him, clapping his back, shaking his hand, tossing his helmet between them like a trophy.
Lila stood frozen, lips pressed into a tight line, her long black hair catching the sunlight like silk. She didn't say a word.
Isabella walked over, her heels clicking against the pavement. She raised a brow at Lila, who still hadn't moved, then turned to Coyote.
With a proud smile, she extended her hand.
"Welcome to the team."
The garage exploded again with cheers, applause, and laughter. The pit crew chanted his name, the energy electric. Above it all, Lila remained still—silent, seething, and now about to lose her long head of hair.