Now #3
Once that is done, I have to head over to the media pen. I already missed all of media day yesterday, so I can’t get out of it. Of course, they ask me what was keeping me busy the day before, and I make up an excuse about physical therapy and recuperating from it.
I’m fucking starving by the time someone brings me my lunch. Two chicken breasts, steamed broccoli, and whole grain rice. It’s as good as it can get, but in moments like this, I really miss my mom’s soul cuisine. But ’tis the season, and I have to put up with it for my benefit.
Then, finally, I head over to the Paddock Club. I never look forward to shaking those rich assholes’ hands, but there’s a certain person I’m eager to see.
I’m swarmed pretty much the moment I step into the lounge area set up above the paddocks.
Sponsors, VIPs, and guests come to shake my hand and wish me luck for Sunday’s race.
I’ve gotten so used to it that I act and respond on autopilot, my eyes scanning the space to find the one person I actually want to see.
When I finally find her, alone in a corner, her eyes are already on me. We exchange a knowing smile across the room, and before I can think of a way to get closer to her, I’m interrupted.
“Jackson, my boy,” Wesley proudly says, gripping my shoulder after a sympathetic tap on it.
“Weren’t you supposed to arrive tomorrow?” I ask, surprised to see him.
“Yes, but the missus wanted to spend some time on the yacht. We’ll be sailing to Barcelona for next week’s race. There’s nothing more romantic than the French coast.”
“Can’t disagree with that.”
“Come, I want you to meet some friends.”
Resigned, I follow him to a cluster of people farther into the room. The entire time, I glance back at Evie, who’s sipping on a glass of champagne, looking down at the activity in the paddocks below us.
Once I’m done with Wesley’s friends, I’m brought to another cluster by the FIA official accompanying me.
If I weren’t contractually obliged to do this bullshit, I’d tell them all to go fuck themselves before grabbing Evie and getting out of here for the day.
I love my job, genuinely, but I’d rather do without all this stuff.
Then, there’s the quick Q&A, where I’m brought up on a small stage as they all gather before it. Evie stands relatively close to me, and I try not to look at her too much, adamant to be as discreet as she demanded.
Following a couple of questions about this morning’s session, someone asks, “Are you confident about your odds this Sunday?”
It’s always the same fucking questions and the same answers … At least they stopped asking me about my struggles getting into Formula One as a Black person. Money was an obstacle far bigger than the color of my skin.
“Of course. Look at my track record,” I answer. “I haven’t lost in Monaco in five years, and I haven’t lost yet this season. So, yeah, I’m feeling pretty confident about my odds.”
Two more questions, and I’m free to roam around at leisure. I’m ready to beeline to her, but more people come in the way. I’m near the pyramid of champagne glasses, talking to one of Wesley’s friends, when a delicate perfume teases my nostrils. I know this scent. I reveled in it the whole night.
I turn around and, sure enough, Evie’s right beside me, grabbing a new flute of bubbly. Wesley’s friend is called elsewhere, and just like that, it’s the two of us. Finally.
“So, you’re one of the drivers,” she casually says before taking a sip.
“Oh, no. I’m not one of the drivers. I’m the driver, princess.”
She poorly hides her grin behind her glass. “I heard you’ll win on Sunday.”
“To tell you the truth, I plan on winning in Barcelona as well. Which reminds me …” I step a little closer to her and lower my voice so only she can hear.
“Wesley was telling me his plan to get there, and he gave me an idea. We’re supposed to fly directly, but what do you say we take a little road trip along the coastline?
We can stop at a cute bed-and-breakfast for a couple of nights on the way there and arrive right on time for media day. ”
Her eyebrows twist with confusion. “Jax, I’m not staying for Barcelona.”
It’s my turn to be puzzled. “You’re not?”
“No. I have a birthday back in Colorado.”
“You said it was at the end of the month.”
“Yes, but … Jax, please. This is supposed to be a one-time thing.”
“Yeah, I know that. But I thought you were here for a couple of weeks, at the very least.”
She lets out a sigh, looking around at the room, uneasy.
“How about this?” I start, adamant to keep her a little longer. “If I win this race, you have to come to Barcelona with me.”
She chortles, baffled.
“What? It’s a good deal.”
“It’s not. There’s no challenge to it. You’d win this race regardless of me being here or not. You should have offered something you can’t seem capable of doing, like finishing third. Then I might have considered following you to Spain. But this? It’s too easy.”
I think about it for a moment, then see her point. Yes, it was a little too much of a given.
I guess I’ll have to find another way to make her extend her trip by a week.