All to Play For

Book 0: Frontrunners

by Josie Juniper

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Sports Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

No one has what it takes to catch up to this fierce, female F1 driver. But one cocky Brit is dying to try.
 
Sage Sikora: agent of chaos, blue-haired spitfire, and the Emerald Formula 1 team’s newest (and only) female driver. She has one goal in mind—becoming the first woman to win a Grand Prix—and everything else is just a distraction. That includes Alexander Laskaris, the rich, spoiled (albeit gorgeous) British blogger who recently landed on Emerald’s bad side with a scathing post about Sage. To avoid legal action, he’s just become Sage’s intern.

All his life, Alexander has been able to get anything, or anyone, he wants. But he’s never wanted romance—just a good time. That’s something he and Sage have in common. As it turns out, they have a lot in common. Despite their hilarious and hot battle of wills, something deeper is starting to build between them. And when a family catastrophe strikes and an old rival begins digging for secrets, the two end up as allies. But with the critical eyes of the racing world upon her, Sage can’t let her feelings take control of the wheel. She has too much to prove and even more to lose. Will Alexander be able to keep up with the only woman he’s ever loved? And will Sage let him?

Release date: April 7, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 350

Sample

SAGE

I focus on the target, cocking my arm back, assessing the trajectory: right into the middle of that clown’s face. Release the breath slowly with an underhand snap of the wrist, and—

Bull’s-eye.

I can’t hold in my laugh. “That’s for ‘mouthy little hoyden with more ink than talent.’”

Beside me, Priya hands over another hefty wooden ball. “Get it out of your system, girlfriend.” Her tone is half motherly soothing, half impatience.

I toss it up and catch it—weighing the mass, balancing, integrating it as part of my arm—then launch another straight into the high-score ring.

Bam!

“And that’s for ‘pint-sized poppet with more assets in the seat of her trousers than in her helmet.’” Lights flash and bells chuckle. Another string of tickets spits out of the game, just below the start button.

Priya leans to tear it off before draping them around my neck with the piles of others. “I know this is therapeutic, but how much longer? I’m starving.”

“Go get some of that stale popcorn.” Eyes locked on the Skee-Ball game, I jab a finger at the coin slot. “Gimme more. I’m not quitting ’til I beat the high score.” I nod toward the clown face. “Looks a little like him, doesn’t it?”

My PA and lifelong best friend drops nickels into the slot, sighing, then tips her head and gives the target a glance. Her glossy, dark hair slips around her shoulder. “Maybe the bow tie? Alexander Laskaris seems like the kind of guy who’d own one.”

I grab three balls from the return gutter and launch them into the air, juggling. “I’d like to make him eat it, the misogynist dickbag.”

“Um, language?” Priya scolds. “This place is full of kids.”

Behind me I hear a child’s giggle. I carefully turn, keeping the paint-chipped balls in motion. A little girl with hair pulled into a ponytail on top of her head is watching me.

In a grand finale move, I toss the balls high and do a 360 spin before dropping to one knee and catching them. “Ta-daaaaaa!” I sing out.

“You’re a good juggler,” she tells me.

“Aww, thanks. Wanna take over my lane? I just put in new coins, but my whiny friend here says it’s time to go.”

The girl takes the balls from me, eyeing one of the curls that’s escaped from my seventies trucker cap. “Why’s your hair blue?”

“Grew that way.” I stand and brush off the knees of my jeans, which are dusted with popcorn shards from the dirty floor. “My mother’s a mermaid, and my dad—”

“Don’t lie to children!” Priya hisses.

Lifting the prize tickets from my shoulders, I drape them around the girl’s neck. “Here—get something big. Don’t go for the lava lamp, though. I got that once and it was a piece of—”

“Sage!” Priya snaps.

“I was gonna say ‘junk’! Chill out, babes.” Waving goodbye to the little girl, I hook an arm through my best friend’s and drag her away from the Skee-Ball lanes.

Just before the exit doors leading out to a rainy Oregon afternoon, I stop at a bank of candy dispensers. I love how everything in this arcade is a time warp from my childhood. This place—the whole funky, artsy Southeast Portland neighborhood, really—has barely changed since I was a kid.

My parents’ house, a mile from here, is the same one I grew up in. We could’ve afforded fancier—my dad made a fortune in the late-nineties dot-com boom—but my parents have always preferred experiences to “stuff.” We went on tons of family vacations: Mom, Dad, my brother Julian, and me. And my karting was a major investment, along with Julian’s mountaineering.

The only thing Jules has to show for his efforts is a missing toe from frostbite when he climbed K2 and a string of brokenhearted women around the globe. Sounds mean of me to say, but… we’re not the best of pals. As for me, all the money and time my parents shelled out set me on the road leading to this year’s dream drive: second seat on the Emerald F1 team, the sole woman driver in the sport.

“You shouldn’t eat that junk,” Priya scolds as I feed a quarter into a machine full of ancient-looking Good & Plentys. “Dagna will strangle you.”

“That’s why I’m having it now. All season she’ll be giving me the stink eye if I touch a cocktail or a candy bar.”

“She’s an amazing physio. You’re lucky to have her.”

I twist the dispenser knob and cradle the spill of purple and white sugar pellets. “Yeah, well. When I told her I was craving chocolate, she sent me a recipe for whipped tofu with cacao nibs.” As Priya tries to lead me to the door, I protest, “Wait! I need Hot Tamales…”

“What you need is self-control.”

She drags me into the rain, shooting a cranky side-eye at me as we walk down the street to where my restored 1974 Triumph TR6 is parked. “I should’ve gotten a video of you talking to that little girl,” Pri says. “Social media gold. Better than a rescue-puppies post.”

I tip candies into my mouth and awkwardly talk around them. “Cynical photo op,” I mumble, transferring the mound of stale licorice to one cheek.

“Maybe a pic of you with your car? Fans must be curious to see what a Formula 1 driver gets around town in.” Priya pulls her phone from a back pocket as we walk up.

“Meh. I don’t need strangers to know that.” I hop into the driver’s side.

“Phaedra told us to get fun pics for Insta,” Priya insists, climbing in. “Gotta ‘build your brand’ and all that.”

“No thanks.” I mop the condensation off the inside of the windshield.

“You’re so weird about social media. Anyone who’s met you would think you’d be live streaming every time you brush your teeth, and your dad made a zillion bucks off the internet, but you act like I’m trying to steal your soul if I hold up a camera.”

“Yeah, but my mom was adamant about ‘being present’ for experiences. It’s part of what gave me the focus to excel at racing. ‘Make memories, not content,’ she always says.”

“Well, your boss sees it differently. Taking pictures of you is part of my job. And you know who cares the most about your socials? Sponsors. Which is exactly what Phaedra will say.”

“The season hasn’t even started yet. Let me enjoy one last month of not having a camera up my ass.” I start the car, the engine coughing before it roars to life. “Soon enough I’ll be back in the snake pit, my privacy all kinds of invaded by dickweed journalists like He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”

“That’s my point. It’s not helping that two of the bloggers who talk about you the most do it because they hate you. We need to create content that makes you fun and relatable. Get ahead of the narrative. According to that Carol-Jeanne lady on Sports and Tortes, you’re a conniving villain who sabotaged her precious daughter.”

“CJ Ardley is a delusional sports-mom who happens to have a big following. Mostly because she posts those cougary cheesecake pics along with… like, actual cheesecakes. No one takes her seriously.” I rev the engine not only to encourage it but also because I’m irritated and enjoy the aggressive sound. “Her own daughter thinks she’s cringe. Maya Ardley and I were super supportive of each other in karting.”

“Sure, but lots of people read her blog. And you know who has even more influence? This guy.” Priya holds up her phone: Alexander Laskaris’s dumb, smirky face in the profile pic beside the banner of his In the Mirrors blog.

“Whatever. Alexander who?” I put the car into gear and screech onto the road.

It’s a shame that he’s been dragging me for months, because I used to be a fan of his writing. He’s smart, funny, and… okay, kinda handsome—I can’t deny that. I used to follow his blog. But after I got the Emerald seat, he started posting all this snarky shit. What a disappointment, discovering he’s just another insulting, clickbait-generating douche.

Priya scrolls down his latest post, skimming the content. “Uh-oh…” she groans.

I look over after navigating a turn. “What?”

She rotates the phone to face me again. I can only afford a brief glance while I’m driving, but it’s enough to see an unflattering pic of myself climbing out of a car outside a club with a flash of crotch.

“Oh, fuckbuckets. What’s it say?” I demand.

“The headline is ‘Putting the “Cock” in “Cockpit,”’ and the lede is, ‘If rumors are true about how much time punk-rock racer Sage Sikora has spent at Klaus Franke’s home on Santorini, it’s no mystery how her perky bum landed in Emerald’s second seat. Does Franke, a notorious womanizer, have a Formula 1 casting couch on his Greek isle getaway?’”

Fury wicks up my spine and spreads in a blanket of heat. I clutch the steering wheel hard. “Okay, that’s it. The creep’s gone too far this time.” At a stoplight, I swivel and give Priya a determined look. “I’m calling Phaedra, and we’re gonna sic legal on him.” I stare back out at the rain, eyes narrowed. “Prepare to be humbled, you sexist London dickbag.”

ALEXANDER

The only thing better than waking up to a hand on your cock is when the hand belongs to someone with a pair of tits like these. Brigitte is leaning on an elbow, sheet draped over her hip, showcasing her bountiful charms in a way that would be sufficiently inspiring even if she weren’t caressing me.

“Bonjour, mon preux chevalier,” she greets in a sultry whisper.

“Well, hello to you too.”

I sit up and reach for a water bottle on the bedside table, fortifying myself for another round. With a mischievous smile, she gathers a rope of her long, disheveled blond hair and trails it down my chest. I set the water aside and pull Brigitte close, rolling her beneath me.

My kisses are halfway down the path from her neck to one of those luscious pink nipples when my doorbell rings.

I ignore it, but when it rings again, Brigitte lifts her head. “Should you not…?”

“That’s correct—I should not,” I tell her, sliding my knee between her thighs.

My mobile chimes and the doorbell rings a third time.

“Alexandaaaire,” Brigitte groans in frustration. “Allez! Make it stop…”

I sigh, leaning on an elbow and reaching for the mobile. “One moment, my dove—don’t you dare move your delectable arse.”

The line of text on my preview screen reads, Get up and open the door.

I slide a hand down my face. “Fuckin’ hell. It’s my mother.”

Brigitte yelps, leaping from the bed and scrambling to gather her clothes. “It is Nefeli? Mon Dieu…” She struggles into her jeans, not bothering to put on knickers first, and yanks a pale blue jumper over her head.

I pull on a dressing gown and knot the sash. “Just stay in here and she’ll never—” I fall silent as I hear the front door slam. “Scratch that. I forgot she has a key.”

Combing my fingers through my hair, I hurry toward the sound of clicking high-heeled shoes, hoping to cut her off at the pass. Suddenly she’s framed in the bedroom doorway, all five feet one inch of formidable terror, hands on her hips.

“Jesus wept,” my mother says with disgust. “I thought you promised ‘no more fishing off the company pier’? Bloody hell, we’ll lose another good freelancer.”

Brigitte looks near tears, clutching her wool coat and knee-high boots against herself. “My apologies, madame. Please—”

“Save your breath, love,” my mother interrupts. “You’re a talented photographer, and the magazine is lucky to have you. Just… please don’t quit when this turns into a disaster. There’s a good girl—see you Monday.” She waves in the general direction of the front door, and Brigitte rushes to leave without a backward glance.

As the front door slams, my mother turns on her heel and strides to my kitchen, opening and closing cupboards until she finds a box of PG Tips.

“I don’t need any myself,” I tell her.

“I’d not make you tea were you dying of thirst, so you’re in luck.” She splashes just a touch of water into the electric kettle—making it clear it’s only for herself—then flicks it on. “You’ve got the magazine threatened with a lawsuit. Again, I might add.”

“Oh? What now?”

Her icy look skewers me. “Wipe that smirk off your face. You’ve disgraced us with the blog I allowed you to link to the Auto Racing Journal website—consolation, mind you, because you pouted like a child over Natalia Evans getting the ARJ Buzz YouTube show.”

“That?” I scoff. “It’s all in good fun. Someone took offense?”

She straightens from digging in my fridge, milk carton in one hand. “Good fun? Are you thick? You said Emerald’s new driver fucked her way into the job. Neither she nor Phaedra Morgan will take this lying down.”

I pull a grape from the fruit bowl and pop it into my mouth. “Rumor has it Sage Sikora did take it lying down.”

“They want me to fire you, and I’ve half a mind to do it.”

My smile wilts. “You won’t.”

“No? Oh, do tell me more, Alekos.” She taps her sternum. “I had a Pulitzer before you could tie your shoes. Your father and I rescued a dozen magazines from the nineties print-media slump. What have you done? You’re like a parody of a spoilt only child. You spend money and write when it suits you and noodle on the piano and chase women.” She points at my bedroom, then the front door. “Specifically and unhelpfully, screwing your way through my best talent, after promising not to.”

“Brigitte is freelance; I have no authority over her. And I haven’t so much as winked at an intern in months.”

She gives a sarcastic clap. “Congratulations on having cleared that low bar. Smartarsed thirty-one-year-old idler.” The kettle light flicks on, and she flips the switch off before pouring hot water into a mug. “My God how you test my patience. When we get on that call with Emerald today, if they—”

“Steady on,” I cut in, holding up a hand. “What call?”

“With Emerald’s team principal.” She pours milk into her tea, then turns her wrist to peer at her watch. “In three minutes. Why do you think I was hanging on your bell?”

I follow as she strides into the living room. “Because you wanted to ruin the lovely morning I was enjoying with a leggy Parisian?”

Pointing at my laptop on the coffee table, she makes an impatient hissing noise. “Tsst! Get that booted up—don’t stand there gawping.” She perches on the sofa edge.

I open the laptop and slide it toward her. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, switching to her account and logging in, then tapping a link before I can duck away to comb my hair and put on a shirt.

She waves me back, angling an imperious finger to the sofa. “Sit.”

“I’m not dressed for the occasion.”

“You look like the dog’s dinner, and it’s fitting.”

“Stunning. Cheers.” I settle beside her and adjust my dressing gown to close it more, then make another attempt to calm the disarray of my auburn hair.

A window opens on-screen to display a dour-looking Phaedra Morgan, Emerald F1’s hot-tempered team principal.

“Ms. Morgan,” my mother greets, all warmth. “How are you this morning?”

“Well as can be expected,” Phaedra replies. “Sage’ll join us any second.”

My stomach twists. “Oh? She’s weighing in?”

Phaedra lifts an eyebrow. “Considering she’s the one you accused of sleeping her way to the top, obviously she’ll be here.”

I can’t resist a small barb. “The top? Emerald? Perhaps sleeping her way to the middle…”

“Alekos!” my mother snaps. “Skáse!”

Another window opens: Sage Sikora, that pixyish beauty—rosebud lips, deep dimples, flashing honey-brown eyes, all framed with ice-blue hair. My stomach does another aerial trick, and I feel heat creep into my face like I’m an adolescent with his first crush.

“Hey, cats and kittens! Let’s get this party started.” She points at the screen. “You, sweetness,” she says with heavy sarcasm that’s clearly directed at me, “have a great future in the fast-food industry. But I’ll personally break every one of your soft little rich-boy fingers if you go near a computer again.”

“Are your soft little rich-girl fingers going to do the job?” I return, feigning boredom.

Her eyes narrow, and she rakes a tendril of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear to expose the peacock feather tattoo that runs up the side of her neck. Her pink bow of a mouth opens to throw a comment back when Phaedra speaks.

“Nefeli? I’ll direct this at you, because your fuckwit son doesn’t have the sense not to double down on his fantastic dipshittery. He’s put your magazine at risk for a defamation suit.”

“And I couldn’t be more embarrassed,” my mother says. “I understand exactly why you—”

I cut in, “I was reporting on rumors, stated in the form of questions.”

“You’re here to grovel,” my mother snaps. “And you’re doing a piss-poor job.”

“I’m not the groveling type. Humility is for the people flying in coach.”

Phaedra rolls her eyes, but to my surprise, Sage has a lopsided smile. She studies me with challenge, as if she’s sussed out the rules to a game.

My mother’s expression, however, is near murderous. Her nostrils flare. “You’re fired.”

“Oh, stop,” I say with a chuckle. “I’m only taking the piss.”

She turns back to the screen. “Ms. Morgan, he’ll not trouble you further. We can print a retraction if that’s your preference, though you may wish not to have more attention drawn to such an offensive rumor. He’s lost admin control, and it won’t be reinstated. I suppose we could even delete the blog entirely, if—”

“Hold on a bloody minute,” I fume. “That’s my intellectual property!”

Ignoring me, she continues. “If Emerald wishes to initiate a lawsuit, I encourage you to name Alexander personally. He neglected to get editorial approval before uploading that nonsense, and as of today, he’s no longer an employee of Auto Racing Journal.”

“Are you serious?” I demand.

Still addressing Phaedra and Sage, my mother says, “I wash my hands of this. My son is a fool. Better late than never that he learns from his mistakes, so feel free to handle this as you wish. He’s all yours.”

I give her a sardonic look. “All yours? Handing me over to Emerald in service like a Dickensian orphan? What does—”

“Yeah, okay… I’ll take him,” Sage cuts in.

Phaedra laughs. “Not a bad idea. Seeing as Mr. Laskaris is now unemployed, how’s about a little internship at Emerald? No pay, of course, but”—she smirks—“loaded with opportunity for personal growth.”

I offer a thin courtesy smile. “Not interested.”

“Perfect,” my mother deadpans. “When does he start?”

Sage winks at me. “Welcome to Emerald, honeybee. Looks like I’m your new boss.”

SAGE

I know it pains my mom that Julian and I don’t get along. We’re only thirteen months apart; my mom had us practically back-to-back just before turning forty. Maybe it’s us being so close in age, but Jules was my first and fiercest competitor, and that’s made me who I am. My aggressive hates-to-lose personality is probably due to this lifelong dynamic. It’s worked great for racing, so I wouldn’t change it if I could.

Jules is way mellower than I am. And things didn’t sour between us until eleven years ago. But I can’t tell my parents why. I haven’t told anyone, including Priya. She’s been my best friend since we were toddlers and is the daughter of my dad’s business partner. We grew up together. She’s carried a torch for Julian since puberty, and I won’t hurt her by telling her that Julian once let me almost die.

When I was fifteen, the two of us went hiking one day while our family was visiting Thailand. Jules was annoyed, because he’d wanted to go climbing instead. But because I was feeling under the weather, I insisted on hiking. So, we’d already started out the day grouchy, flipping each other a lot of shit.

My parents stayed at our rented bungalow in Tonsai Beach with friends. I had pain in my side that I figured was premenstrual twingy cramps or something, and it got worse during the hike. On our way back, it was so bad that I mentioned it to Jules, who was complaining about me slowing him down.

He gave me a ton of shit, saying it was just a stitch in my side and I needed to stretch and drink water and “stop whining.” When I sat down to rest for a few minutes, he left me behind in disgust. My appendix ruptured, and I don’t remember what happened before the hospital, but apparently I was lying unconscious just off the trail for hours, basically dying. My dad and brother came back to look for me when it was getting dark and I still hadn’t returned.

I was taken by helicopter to a hospital and came close to not making it through the ordeal. The incision scar is pretty huge, bigger than what’s typical. It was nearly five months before I could go back to karting.

Julian has never apologized.

I have no idea why I didn’t rat him out for abandoning me. My parents were already so upset that I guess it seemed wrong to compound things by pointing fingers. Since they found me off the trail, Julian’s story was that he did look for me right away but couldn’t find me and figured I’d taken another route.

It’s obviously bullshit, but I’ve let him get away with it for our parents’ sake. Their marriage has always been rocky, so I try not to make the family even less stable. It’s easier to keep my feelings to myself—something I’m already practiced at. Another by-product of growing up in a competitive sport. You can’t let people in, because anyone could use your vulnerabilities to their advantage. Your image is your identity, as far as everyone is concerned, and… yeah, it makes you guarded.

It’s been a great visit home because Julian isn’t here. I can relax and have my mom all to myself. My “trustafarian” jerk of a brother is off climbing in Puerto Rico. Tomorrow, Priya and I are flying out to rejoin Emerald, so Mom’s been in the kitchen all day, whipping up the family favorites. Priya and I are hanging out with her, sneaking bites of things and getting tipsy off White Russians while quoting The Big Lebowski.

When my mom cuts into an eggplant, I remind her that it’s Julian who likes it, not me.

“Julian is going to be here in ten minutes or so,” Mom says, focused on her knife flying across the cutting board.

My gut tenses. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Priya sets her cocktail down and touches her hair as if trying to remember how it looks. It’s in two messy braids, and she’s wearing cutoff sweats and a faded T-shirt. “Oh my God,” she mutters. “Um… I need to… uh… I’ll be back.”

She dashes from the room—presumably to put on makeup, fix her hair, and change into something adorable-yet-effortless-looking. My mother and I exchange a knowing smirk.

Mom slices the eggplant with precision. “Those two,” she says with an indulgent chuckle. “I wonder if they’ll ever give it a shot? She’s so sweet on him, and Julian couldn’t hope for a more lovely girl.”

“Why would you inflict that on Pri? I thought you liked her.”

“Be nice.”

“But I’m not ‘nice.’” I reach for Priya’s abandoned drink and pour it into my own before taking a gulp. “Pri’s too stable for Jules—he always goes for the squirrely ones. Remember the fire dancer who put a snake in his bed when she thought he was cheating? Or that artist he brought to your anniversary party, who wore the bustier made of condom wrappers and lectured everyone on Marxism?”

Mom winces, then dumps the eggplant into a bowl of olive oil and herbs. “Exactly. Priya would be good for him.”

I hide behind another sip of my drink, holding back my next snarky comment. The doorbell rings, and down the hall I hear the guest room door slam—Priya barricading herself until she gets her shit together.

“Can you grab that?” Mom asks. “My hands are all gloopy.”

I gulp down the rest of the White Russian and smack the glass on the counter before taking my sweet time sauntering to the front door. When I open it, Julian is scowling, phone pressed to his ear.

“Paz,” he says with a world-weary sigh. “Paz, stop. I can’t talk right now. Can we finish this later? Christ almighty. I’ll—” He cuts off and looks at the phone. “Great. Perfect.” Finally acknowledging me standing there, he offers a feeble. . .