Now #2
“Terrible timing, by the way,” her husband cuts in. “One more year and you would have experienced all this.”
“It was better that way. I’ve come to learn that money buys comfort, not happiness.” The way they look at me as if I’d just spoken in a foreign language almost makes me smile, but I hold back.
“Well, you’re here now,” Eliza says. “And you two must join us for dinner on the yacht this evening. To celebrate today’s win.”
“Oh, I—I’ll have to check with Jax. We’re not together. This is—”
“In fact, you know what we should do, my love?” she interrupts me, turning to her husband.
“They should join us on our journey to Spain. There’s enough room for them and the Hendricksons.
Some friends who are staying with us this summer,” she explains to me.
“Wouldn’t it be brilliant? We would all have so much fun, don’t you agree, Wes? ”
Her husband has completely tuned out of the conversation, his eyes on the wall-mounted large TV, eyebrows twisted with a mix of worry and disbelief.
Curious to see what’s going on, I turn to look at the live footage playing on it.
“What an incredible overtake!” the commentator practically shouts. “Only two laps until the finish line, and Vollenweider from Mercedes has taken the lead from Reyes!”
The images confirm the man’s words, and we all stare at the silver car, now a few lengths ahead of Jackson’s.
“Who would have thought there was still hope for another team to win this race?” the commentator continues. “After Reyes’ dominance this season and his track record here in Monaco, not many would have predicted this twist. But look at Vollenweider, already pulling away from the Altron driver.”
Mr. Pryce pulls his phone out of his jacket’s inside pocket and calls someone on speed dial. “What’s happening?!” he barks into it as soon as the call connects. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
Aware he must be talking to someone from the paddock below us, I return my focus to the screen. What is happening, indeed? Jackson spent most of the race in the lead, quickly regaining track position after each of his pit stops. And now, so close to the end, he’s losing it?
“And Reyes needs to be careful here because von Ranzow from Red Bull Racing is right on his gearbox,” the commentator adds. “With only one lap remaining, can the championship leader hold on to second place, or will he drop to third?”
Everyone around us is as absorbed as we are by what’s unfolding on the screen.
The race’s stakes have just shifted, and the winner we were all expecting might not make it after all.
Because of the narrow track, overtaking is rare here in Monaco.
Yet we are, it seems, about to witness it not just once, but twice.
When the Red Bull car finds its way past Jackson halfway into the last lap, Mr. Pryce slaps his forehead, an aghast expression plastered on his face. “What the fuck is happening?” he shouts into his phone.
“I can’t believe this!” the commentator shrieks. “We are about to see Reyes lose his first race of the season! The man who once claimed to know this circuit better than his own driveway is now down to third!”
We watch in stunned silence as the Mercedes car crosses the line to win, and seconds later, the Red Bull follows. Jackson crosses just after them, only four-tenths of a second behind von Ranzow.
In utter disbelief, I try to process the turn of events. Jackson didn’t win. He finished third. How the heck did that—
… Something you can’t seem capable of doing, like finishing third …
Those words I uttered two days ago come back to me with the brutal force of a hammer.
No, he wouldn’t. There must have been a problem with his car or something. He wouldn’t have purposefully lost a race on his favorite track so I’d follow him to Barcelona.
Bewildered and confused, I struggle to sort through my jumbled thoughts as the commentator keeps talking about the incredible save from Mercedes and the unlikely loss from Altron.
He wouldn’t, I repeat to myself. It’s crazy, even for him. There’s no way he’d lose a race for me like this. Especially since he can’t be certain I’ll decide to stay.
“This is insane,” I whisper, my head spinning.
The flutes of champagne have gone to my head, or maybe it’s the panic of potentially having caused this crazy twist.
My anxiety peaks when the parc-fermé interviewer is done with the first and second place winners and moves on to Jackson, still sweaty and reddened by the heat.
“Jackson, can you tell us what happened out there? Was there a mechanical issue with the car?”
“No, the car was perfect. The engineers have done an incredible job this season.”
“Then how did you lose two positions in the final laps?”
“I thought I’d give my opponents a bit of hope. I’m sure it’s frustrating to watch me win all the time. It keeps things interesting if they feel like they have a chance.”
The journalist lets out a polite laugh, and Jax continues, “But honestly, this one’s on me. I’ve been getting nasty cramps in my braking leg. Usually, I can push through it, but this time I just couldn’t keep the pressure consistent, so I had to slow down to avoid a collision.”
“Do you expect to be back at full strength next week in Barcelona?”
“I’ll be focusing on hydration, recovery, and training this week—lots of electrolytes, magnesium, and stretching. I have a new cardio routine in place, so who knows, it might help. But yes, I’m confident I’ll be back to fighting form for the race next week.”
He looks straight into the camera, and I can’t help but feel like that is for me. Is he seriously confessing to me, in front of hundreds of millions of people, that he’s thrown a race just to keep me around?
And am I the freaking new cardio routine?
I’m not even worried anymore. I am pissed. I can’t believe he’d do something so reckless. And for what? To guilt-trip me into staying another week?!
Using everyone’s lasting confusion, I make my way out of the Paddock Club.
With the race over, visitors are already making their way out of the racing area, so I’m surrounded by people as I walk back to the hotel.
The entire way there, I struggle to think straight.
Jax wouldn’t do such a thing. Again and again, I try to reason with myself.
I’m overreacting, I’m not that important to him, I’m panicking for nothing …
Once I’m back in the room, I pace the length of it for a moment, doing breathing exercises to get a hold of my nerves. It’s only when I’m calm enough that I grab the remote and sit on the bed as I turn the TV on. I don’t even have to switch channels to stumble on the aftermath of the race.
The podium ceremony has just started, and Jax already stands on the third-place podium. It’s always a big deal in Monaco, with Prince Albert II awarding the winning trophy himself. Fuming, I watch it unfold, barely able to stay seated for a full minute at a time.
Half an hour later, in the media pen, Jackson gives the same excuse again, promising he’ll be all patched up by next week, but once more, I don’t believe him. I know this man too well to swallow his lies so easily.
About an hour and thirty minutes after the end of the race, a key card slips into the handle on the other side of the door.
I jump to my feet and rush to it, arriving just as he enters.
“Tell me you didn’t do this!” I whisper-shout as soon as the door is closed.
“Do what?”
“Throw the race so I’d come with you to Barcelona!”
Several excruciating seconds pass, and all he does is stare down at me. When he speaks, it’s to say, “I had a bad cramp.”
“I don’t believe that, Jackson! You can fool all those people, but not me. Did you or did you not purposefully finish third?”
Whatever he sees on my face apparently pushes him to be truthful and own up to his actions because after another pause, he says, “I did.”
“Jesus freaking Christ, Jax! Do you know how stupid and dangerous that was? Race manipulation is a serious offense. You could be fined or banned for the rest of the season. You could lose sponsors. And I’m sure Altron has a clause that would allow them to fire you.”
“None of that will happen,” he answers, way too calmly for my taste.