We’re living in the golden age of sports romance, and what was once defined largely by football and hockey romance plots is now welcoming just about any sport as the perfect backdrop for a beautiful story to unfold. Swimming, tennis, chess—you name it. There’s plenty of fodder to keep sports romance authors going for years. And one new favorite subgenre entering the conversation that I simply can’t get enough of? Formula 1 romance.
Something about the racing cars just gets my heart racing right alongside them. And no books do it quite like Simone Soltani’s Lights Out series. Reading about brooding Formula 1 drivers finding love in a spicy sports romance series is going to hit every time. Luckily for us, the third book in the Lights Out series is making its way onto our shelves this fall. And to get you even more excited, we have an exclusive excerpt from Crash Into You by Simone Soltani below.
A forbidden love forces a shift in gears in the next sizzling Formula 1 romance from the USA Today bestselling author of Cross the Line.
What is Crash Into You about?
Formula 1 driver Zaid Yousef is back, even though he isn’t really sure if he wants to be. The seven-time world champion has finally recovered from a crash last season that left him with two broken wrists, and his future is just as uncertain as his confidence back behind the wheel. With an unfinished contract hanging over his head, his only option is to suck it up and return.
On the other hand, Ava Farahani was forced to leave her job in marketing and the world of F1 she grew up in because of the press, and she knows she should stay away, but she can’t resist the draw of the sport she loves so much.
A preseason event brings the two together for one reckless night, and weeks later, it results in a positive pregnancy test. Ava desperately wants to be a mother, and the baby gives Zaid a newfound drive. There’s just one little problem: Ava is a team principal’s daughter…and Zaid is their biggest rival.
Exclusive excerpt from Crash Into You by Simone Soltani
Five months later, February London
There are three things I know for certain about Formula 1 drivers. Number one: They’re all hideously competitive. They wouldn’t have reached this elite level of open‑wheel racing if they weren’t. Number two: At their core, they’re huge nerds. Data is a god to them, and they’ll use whatever they can to their advantage. And number three: They all have extremely questionable taste in fashion.
“Did your invite get lost in the mail?” I ask Axel Bergmüller, the two‑time world champion who’s currently wearing ripped jeans, scuffed sneakers, and a Specter Energy Racing polo shirt. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen a driver wear, but it’s certainly not appropriate for a formal event. “You know the dress code said black tie, right?”
He steps off the red carpet and into the wings where I’ve been waiting for him. “They should be glad I’m even here,” he says, unfazed by my scolding. Maybe it’s an Austrian thing. Maybe it’s a champion thing. Or maybe it’s just an Axel god-damn Bergmüller thing, but this man could not care less. “I didn’t want to come.”
“You never do.” I loop my arm around his to drag him into the venue, tired of standing around in my beautiful but insensible stilettos. At least one of us followed the dress code. “My dad is going to be furious when he sees you.”
“Omid will weep gracious tears that his number one driver decided to show up, and you know it.”
There won’t be tears, but my father will undoubtedly heave a small sigh of relief that his bratty, infuriatingly talented number one driver has shown up for a mandatory event.
As team principal of Specter Energy, one of Dad’s main responsibilities is wrangling this twenty‑six‑year‑old man‑child who carries the hopes and dreams of the team. And it’s a task we share, even though I haven’t worked for the team in over a year. But Axel is—unfortunately—like family at this point, all thanks to Dad practically adopting him when he was just a teenager racing in Formula 3. As his honorary older sister, my duties include getting him to show up where he’s supposed to and not make a mockery of the team in the process.
We’re not doing a great job of either at the moment. “These are the worst parties,” he grumbles as I tug him into
the throng of well‑heeled guests. “Full of people who don’t know shit about motorsport and act like they’re entitled to our time, all because they’re paying to have their company logos on our cars.”
This annual event, hosted by the official timekeeper of the sport, a long‑established Swiss watch brand, does indeed draw the exact crowd he mentioned. It’s more of a preseason kickoff party than anything, a chance for teams and sponsors alike to mingle and network before everyone is at one another’s throats in the spirit of competition.
I see why he dislikes it. He’s about to be paraded around like a prized pony, gawked at and fussed over, made to give a speech and be on his very best behavior for the next several hours. He’s temperamental on a good day, and if he’s being forced to do something he hates? No one is safe. May the universe have mercy on the first person who asks him how he thinks the upcoming season is going to go. They’re about to verbally get their ass handed to them.
“Axel, please.” I sigh, pulling him to a stop so he can face my pleading stare. “I just want to enjoy tonight. I know you hate it all, but I’ve missed this.”
His dipped brow eases, his glare a little less severe. “Right, you’ve been away from this bullshit.” He’s quiet as he shifts uncomfortably, probably remembering the why behind my absence. “Are you sure you want to be here?”
I understand his hesitance. Rumors pushed me out of my job and the world of Formula 1, and showing up again is sure to refuel them. But when my best friend—the COO of one of the companies sponsoring an F1 team—asked if I wanted to be her plus‑one tonight, I couldn’t resist the offer.
“I’m sure,” I say.
But Axel’s still skeptical. “Really?”
“Really.”
It’s hard to believe after everything that happened, but it’s the truth. The world of motorsport is all I’ve ever known. My parents worked in IndyCar when I was a kid, and I grew up in the pit lanes of the American circuits, comforted by the scent of fuel and rubber, lulled to sleep by revving engines. I learned to drive a kart before I could read. I even briefly considered becoming a strategist like Mom or an engineer like Dad before I realized neither was my strong suit. It was marketing and design that scratched an itch in my brain, and once I had degrees in graphic design and sports marketing under my belt, I dove straight back into the world of motorsport.
But I only came to work for Specter Energy Racing after grad school, when I received an olive branch from Dad following a decade of him mostly ignoring my existence—aside from dropping money I barely touched into my bank account every month. At the time, I was working in the marketing department of an IndyCar team, but when the offer from Dad came in, I was compelled to accept it. Just like him, I couldn’t resist the allure of Formula 1.
By then, he’d worked his way up to being team principal following years as an engineer, having made the shift from IndyCar to F1 after Mom’s death. While I was left behind at a Virginia boarding school at fourteen, he jetted off to England to follow his dreams of conquering the pinnacle of motorsport. And with six Constructors’ Championships under his belt, I’d say he’s accomplished that.
I, on the other hand, haven’t accomplished much—unless you count being at the center of a scandal that ended with me being asked to leave the team.
I level Axel with a hard stare when he doesn’t look convinced by my answer. “Do you think I’d be wearing a gown and heels that pinch my toes if I didn’t want to be here?”
“I know you love playing dress‑up.” He snorts, green eyes rolling. “Have you talked to Omid yet?”
“He’s the one who sent me to wait for you.” It was more about getting me away from the team’s sponsors he was speaking with, since he was unwilling to address my surprise reappearance. “And now that you’ve graced us with your presence, I can go have fun with people I actually like.”
“I’m the highlight of your night,” he says matter‑of‑factly. “But fine, go socialize with the enemy.”
I bristle at the way he refers to my best friend as the enemy, but considering she’s the sister of one of the McMorris F1 team drivers, he’s not completely wrong.
“And you can go find my father,” I instruct as he puts a hand to my shoulder to start nudging me forward. “You’re all sup-posed to be onstage for a speech in twenty minutes. Specter Energy’s up after Omega Siluro.”
Axel dramatically mimes that he can’t hear me over the noise and music before dropping his hand and melting into the crowd, likely in search of the nearest exit. Whatever. At least I got him in here. I made no promises about making him stay. Besides, it’s not like Dad can fire me all over again.
A flash of blonde hair in my periphery has me turning to catch the enemy approaching, her trademark scowl lightening when she spots me.
“About time you came back in,” Edith Maxwell‑Brown grumbles. “Do you have any idea how many creepy old men I had to fend off while you were gone?”
I give her a quick scan, taking in her black taffeta gown and its sweetheart neckline, accented by the teardrop diamond necklace resting just below her collarbones. She looks amazing on a normal day, but she’s a full‑blown stunner tonight. “At least two dozen,” I answer. “Those guys are plentiful around here.” And so is their money.
“Place is practically overrun with them.” Edith grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray but hesitates on offering one to me. “Are you drinking tonight?” she asks quietly. “Wasn’t sure if you’d changed your mind since the wedding.”
It’s a thoughtful question, since I’ve spent the better part of a year abstaining completely—except at her brother’s wedding last weekend—all for the goal of preparing my body to carry a future baby. Still, I have to fight to keep a smile on my face as I take the glass from her, because there’s a big part of me that wants to cry.
“I’m taking a break from IUI for a while. The last round’s failure took a lot out of me.” I lift the glass in a mocking toast to me not being pregnant. “So I’ll be drinking expensive champagne and eating all the soft cheese my heart desires until I’m ready to try again.”
She taps the rim of her flute against mine. “That’s the spirit. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.”
Her mention of when, not if, buoys me a little, as if it’s just a matter of time before I spot two little lines on a pregnancy test. I’ve dreamed of one day being a mom ever since I lost my own, wanting to build a family to pass along the love she gave me and to support my kids in the way I wish I could have been by my remaining parent. I want to be everything for a child that my mother was for me.
But the harsh reality is that it’s been eight months of trying and I’m no closer to making my dream come true.
Logically, I know that less than a year isn’t a long time to be trying for a baby. It’s not even long enough to be hit with a diagnosis of infertility. But having to keep waiting because my body has decided Hmm, no, I don’t think we want to do that is the letdown of the century.
“My doctor thinks it’s time to move to IVF, so maybe I’ll have better luck with that,” I say, trying to remain positive despite the slow creep of disappointment month after month. “But she did warn me that I’m heading into advanced maternal age territory.” I scoff. “She might as well have just called me old. I mean, come on, I’m thirty‑four, not eighty‑four. I’m not even old enough to run for president.”
I can joke all I want, but I know basic biology. Growing older means this process will only get more complicated. It’s why I finally said to hell with waiting to find the perfect partner to do this with—I just had to go for it before I lost my best window of opportunity. I’m grateful that there are procedures and techniques that allow me to do this as a single woman, but even still, it’s starting to feel like a task that only ends in heartbreak.
I’ll be okay, though, no matter the ultimate outcome. Like my mother always liked to remind me, it’s okay to stumble down the path of what you want, as long as you keep going.
“My mum had my youngest sister when she was in her forties. You’ll be fine,” Edith reassures me. “Besides, if it doesn’t work, you can just take one of my kids. I don’t really need any past the heir and the spare.”
I purse my lips to fight a smile. She loves her four beautiful, hell‑raising children dearly, though she’s very glad to be away from them tonight. If my future kid turns out like any of hers . . . Well, I’m going to have a riot on my hands from day one, but I welcome it. “Still considering that,” I admit. “They’re pretty cute.”
“Take the littlest. She’s already talking about wanting to be an F1 driver like her Uncle Thomas. You and your dad can make her into a champion.”
I’m not sure how useful I’d be, considering I’ve never worked in any sort of driver development department and my brief karting career wasn’t particularly successful, mostly because I was more interested in playing racing video games than actually being on‑track. My dad, however, might have better luck, considering he turned Axel from a kid with an attitude problem into a world champion (with an attitude problem).
“Let’s see if Dad will talk to me long enough to even bring it up,” I say dryly before taking a sip of my champagne, savoring the fizz. I might as well enjoy myself tonight before going back to my structured life of no booze and preemptive prenatal vitamins soon enough.
“Things haven’t gotten better between you?”
I shake my head. “It’s the whole reputation thing, you know? I embarrassed him, the team, the Farahani name . . . I think he’s still trying to get over it. It was easier to push me away than stand up for me.”
Edith huffs her disappointment, but our conversation is interrupted by applause carrying from the other side of the massive event space, where the next pair of drivers and team principal have taken the stage. They’re being interviewed by the host for this evening, some British comedian who’s clearly been instructed to be on his best behavior, if his lackluster routine is anything to go by.
“God, this is painful,” Edith mutters as we listen to yet another set of media‑trained drivers say nearly the exact same thing as the last batch. “Had I known it was going to be this bad, I wouldn’t have asked you to be my date tonight.”
Bad as it is, I’m glad she insisted I stay in London for the week after the wedding so that I could be her plus‑one to this horror show. It’s not often we get to spend this much time together, and it’s even rarer for me to take an extended—but much needed—vacation from my freelance graphic design job. Being your own boss has some perks, but it can be tough running a business as a one‑woman show.
“I’ll never understand why they make them do this.” I take another sip of champagne to keep from wincing in second-hand embarrassment, even if part of me is gleefully enjoying it. “If they want to talk, let them, but this feels like torture for everyone.”
“I would never tell any of them to their faces to shut up and drive,” she says, “but fucking hell, please shut up and drive. They’re much better at that.”
She can claim that she wouldn’t say it to their faces, but I know better than to believe it. In the five years Edith Maxwell-Brown and I have been friends, she’s never once been anything but blunt. We met in the paddock at the Spanish Grand Prix when she marched up to me and pointed at the embarrassing coffee stain on the white shirt of my team uniform, quickly declaring it unacceptable for me to be seen with. She then whipped a stain‑removing pen out of her handbag to fix it for me. She only introduced herself in her posh English accent after I stuttered my thanks, and even then, it was with curt directness and a handshake so firm I swore my bones squeaked.
It’s what makes her an excellent businesswoman. And minus the handshake, it’s what makes her a great friend too, because I’ve never once had to wonder what she really means. She just says it.
She’s right about how boring this is, but it’s not stopping me from basking in it. Of course I’ve missed the racing and on-track action, but I’ve longed for the little things too, like the awkwardness of the drivers and the interviews that show that their talents are best displayed behind the wheel.
The world at large puts them on such a pedestal, and in some ways, they deserve it. It’s a sport with only a handful of spots available—you have to be the best of the best just to make it here. But underneath it all, they’re still remarkably human. Every driver I’ve worked with, including the ones I secretly couldn’t stand, has had the same typical wants and needs and fears as the rest of us mere mortals. Even my little shit of an adoptive brother, a champion with more inevitable accolades in his future, is just flesh and blood like the rest of us. They’re undoubtedly special people, yes, and I’ve missed being able to see that up close and personal, but I’ll always cherish the moments when I saw them as only human. It’s one of the things I miss the most.
We clap politely when the Omega Siluro drivers wave to the crowd as they conclude their interview, but the applause picks up when they leave the stage and the Specter Energy boys take their place.
“Oh my god,” I groan when I spot that Axel has somehow found and added a bow tie to his outfit, as if that were the missing part to make his ensemble black‑tie appropriate. “I didn’t think this could get worse.”
Edith snickers, eyes flicking over him. “He’s lucky he’s cute.” Then her eyes cut to me. “How have you never been interested in him?”
“I’ve told you before,” I say patiently, keeping my voice low. “While Axel is a very handsome man, he’s”—I lift a finger to start counting—“one: not my type, and two: my dad’s favorite child. He even speaks Farsi better than I do, the bastard.” I clear my throat to dislodge the bitterness and add a third finger. “Three: He’s eight years younger than me, and I’ve known him since he was a teenager, which is bad enough on its own. And four”—I raise a final finger—“Having a child with an F1 driver does not sound like fun, which is arguably the most important factor at this stage in my life.”
Besides, just the rumor of being romantically tied to a driver can be nearly life‑ruining. I’ve already learned my lesson.
Edith contemplates my list. “I get it. Not sure I’d want to raise a kid with a man who’s gone nine months of the year either.”
Exactly. I wouldn’t wish that part of how I was raised on any kid, let alone my own.
We listen, occasionally rolling our eyes, grimacing, and even chuckling as Axel and his teammate Raphael Marchand go through the motions of the interview. When it comes to charisma, the Frenchman wins ten times over, but Axel’s wit and dry humor are charming in their own way, especially when he discusses how it feels to be racing again after last season’s crash at the Singapore Grand Prix, one that could have ended his career, just like it did for Lorenzo Castellucci.
“Shit,” Edith swears under her breath, and I glance over to find her frowning at her phone. “Something’s come up at work. I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
I’m used to her bailing early or canceling our plans completely because of her job, but my stomach still sinks. There’s always some kind of drama going down in the hotel business, and it’s been even more dramatic since her father overlooked her for a much‑deserved promotion to CEO of their family’s company after years of practically running the place herself. He picked her completely useless older brother, Andrew, instead, but after recovering from the initial shock of it all, Edith decided not to take that as a final answer.
“More Andrew chaos?” I ask.
She nods. “Staging a coup really is so much work,” she says airily, but there’s a steel to it too. “You can come with me if you’d like, but I don’t think you really want to watch me ream him and a bunch of solicitors into the wee hours of the morning.”
“While I’m sure that will be entertaining, I think I’ll stick around.” I touch her wrist in gratitude. “Thanks again for letting me crash at your flat this week. I wasn’t sure if staying with
my dad for that long was a good idea.”
“Someone might as well inhabit that place while we move into the new house.” She shoots me a wink, then sobers. “Please don’t trip over any more boxes, I really don’t want you ending up in hospital. But feel free to pack a few. That shit’s never-ending.”
“Oh, I’m aware. At least you only moved across the city and not the Atlantic.”
I hauled ass back to the US after getting fired, partially because my UK residency was tied to a work visa, but also because I wanted—honestly, needed—a fresh start. Unfortunately, I’m still unpacking everything I accumulated over ten years in England and I fear it may never end.
“And whose fault is that, babe?” She leans in for an air‑kiss. “We’re still on for breakfast tomorrow, I promise. I’m going to make the most of my last day with you before you fuck off back across the pond.”
I smile, air‑kissing her other cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“And if you don’t, it’s because I’m in jail for fratricide.”
She knocks back the rest of her champagne, hands the glass off to a waiter, and then she’s gone.
It leaves me to turn my attention back to the stage, where my father is animatedly discussing Specter Energy’s confident outlook for the season. As he speaks, I’m reminded of all the speeches he gave at the end of team meetings, how they’d meander and seemingly veer wildly off topic yet always circle back around and end with a poignant question to consider.
I used to walk away either dazed, confused, or truly in-spired and usually found myself huddled up with the rest of Specter’s marketing and social media teams, who were also trying to figure out what the hell he was on about. It’s an odd thing to miss, but listening to him tonight makes the ache of what I lost hurt a little more.
My father gives a reserved wave to the crowd as they wrap up the segment, and I sip my champagne while they depart the stage, half listening as the host cracks more terrible jokes. Without Edith by my side, this is decidedly less fun. Especially with all the eyes that are suddenly upon me.
I’m nowhere near conceited enough to think everyone here knows who I am, but plenty of them do—and plenty of them are staring. Part of me expected this, to be looked at and whispered about, but another part was more optimistic. Surely there’s better gossip to dwell on. The talk should be about Lorenzo Castellucci’s tell‑all interview that dropped a few days ago and shook the world of F1 with some of its revelations—like the teammate sabotage at McMorris or him taking full responsibility for the crash that nearly killed him and two other drivers in Singapore. More attention travels my way when the host announces that Mascort is the next team to take the stage, and it quickly becomes obvious that nope, there isn’t better gossip tonight. God, I should have gone home to my cats after the wedding. At least their judgmental stares are cute.
With Edith’s invitation tonight, I hoped I could dip my toe back into this world, maybe find a way to keep wading until I was immersed again. So far, all I’ve proven to myself is that I was right to move on. I was right to focus on building a version of my life that I could be equally excited about.
Except I’m still stuck digging the foundation of that new life. It’s been a year and a half since I left Specter. Eight months of fruitless IUI after saving up and fighting to get it covered by my crappy self‑employed insurance. Too long of wanting and waiting and wishing for things to happen that just don’t seem to want to come to fruition.
And yet every day I make myself open the metaphorical curtains and feel the sun on my face because I’ve seen how dark life can be, how grief can steal away the light, and I’m determined not to let it drag me back to the shadows.
Taking a cue from Edith, I down my drink and slip through the crowd until I reach the back of the room, wanting to hide for a bit, at least until this part is over. But when the applause starts and reaches a near‑deafening level, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder, looking back toward the stage.
And there he is. Zaid Yousef, the face of Formula 1—and the reason I can never come back.
Pre-order Crash Into You, releasing November 10, 2026
A forbidden love forces a shift in gears in the next sizzling Formula 1 romance from the USA Today bestselling author of Cross the Line.
Lauren Blue, Editor & Book Club Co-Host
As an Editor for The Everygirl, Lauren ideates and writes content for every facet of our readers’ lives, from must-read books and behind-the-scenes interviews to beauty products she can’t live without. When she isn’t sitting in an AMC watching the latest buzzy release, she can be found scouring Goodreads for the perfect pick for The Everygirl Book Club. There, she co-hosts discussions with members, debating plotlines, fancasting characters, and, of course, tossing in her own recommendations.
Feature graphic images credited to: Avery Beason | Dupe
The post Exclusive: Read an Excerpt of Your New Favorite Spicy Sports Romance appeared first on The Everygirl.
