Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Caleb
Johannes arrives to the first free practice of the Hungarian weekend looking so vacant I’m worried he’s not actually there. It’s like his body arrived at the track, but his soul’s still back wherever he left it.
He smiles – tightly – at the mechanics who stop him to chat, but he’s gunning for his little room in the garage, I can see it.
A place just for him where no one will disturb him until it’s completely necessary.
I can’t hear him, but I can tell by his hand gestures alone that he’s making his excuses to end the conversation, and ten seconds later he’s closing the door to his room behind him.
I can’t say it gives me any kind of hope for the weekend.
I know he’s been sick and if he fucks it this weekend, the team will use that as an excuse, but he was crying his heart out just three days ago.
That wasn’t because he was ill. That was a personal kind of pain.
I might not know what’s going on with him, but even I could see that.
I found myself in the same position ten years ago, except it was on my mom’s tatty couch that I curled up crying snotty tears, not the comfy seat of a private jet.
I’ve scoured the internet since to see if it was maybe a break-up, but he’s never been reported to have been in a serious relationship.
A whole bunch of hook-ups and a casual fuck-buddy relationship with his best friend many years ago, but nothing more.
Maybe it’s a relationship he never disclosed?
A secret relationship? Secret is probably the wrong word; he’s entitled to a private life after all.
But it’s my job to do whatever it takes to get him back on top of the podium.
And I have a feeling that this weekend, it may take a lot.
I’ve been analysing all of his film from this track, calculating every statistic from every practice, qualifier and race he’s done in Hungary, and I’ve come across something I’m desperate to show him to remind him of the real Johannes.
So, the first time he emerges from his room, I pounce on him. ‘Hey.’
He jumps a little, eyes wide but not bloodshot like they were on the plane.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I just, uh, have something I want to show you. Do you have a minute?’
For a second he doesn’t move. I can tell he doesn’t want to listen to me, but more of the same isn’t what he needs right now. I open my eyes wide and smile, adding, ‘Please?’ in my gentlest tone. As I said, I’ll do anything.
‘Okay,’ he says, gesturing. ‘Lead the way.’
It’s only a short walk to where my laptop is set up, a number on a PowerPoint page on my screen waiting for him. ‘Do you know what this is?’ I ask, my mouse highlighting the numbers – 1:16.623.
He shrugs with what feels like apathy.
‘The record for the fastest lap on this track.’ I pause for dramatic effect. ‘You know who set it?’ The right corner of Johannes’s lip tilts upwards a fraction. ‘Of course you do. It was you. Last year when you beat Harper by seven seconds. Seven!’
I’ve watched that race so many times in the last twenty-four hours.
I know exactly which lap won it for him.
The image of him celebrating on top of the car is burned into my brain.
And then there’s the podium. He had a completely blissed-out look on his face as he took it all in.
It wasn’t even his first win, but it was the first time his name went into the racing history books. It clearly meant a lot to him.
He stares at the numbers for a long few minutes.
I keep waiting for him to ask why I’m showing him this, but he doesn’t.
Watching his face is like seeing a whole movie scroll across his features.
Emotions pull at his features as he contemplates the numbers.
He glares at them like they might come to life and kick him in the balls.
Then he smiles and closes his eyes and sniffs suspiciously.
I hope I haven’t done the wrong thing and upset him.
I hope it’s pride, not sadness, that’s currently choking him up.
‘Johannes,’ I whisper softly, the paddock starting to fill up around us. ‘You did that. You.’ I know he needs to go and warm up, stretch, get into his suit and prepare himself to head out onto the track for the practice hour.
‘Thank you,’ he replies, sucking in a breath and releasing it slowly. ‘Thank you,’ he repeats, and then disappears back into the garage.
Well, that went…
Well?
I don’t think he spoke more than ten words to me, but I thought I was going to have to fight him more.
I thought he might shrug it off. I’m not so na?ve that I believe I’ve ‘fixed’ him.
Nothing that causes a person the pain and anguish he’s obviously experiencing can be fixed so quickly or so easily. But maybe it’s a start? A baby step?
I don’t know.
Then we let him loose for the first free practice. Unfortunately, Ogum goes into the side of Johannes in minute three of track time and Johannes spends the rest of the session in the garage trying to school his frustrated face.
Thankfully, the issue is fixed quickly and he’s back on the track for the second practice. I watch for the full hour, unable to stand still, waiting, hoping…
He’s courteous and gives feedback on the mic when prompted, but he’s not his usual chatty, perky self.
He performs better than he has in the last few weekends, but it’s nowhere near his usual standard, and he takes off so quickly to his room after the second practice that it’s like he’s a puff of smoke.
Even in the evening debrief with the rest of the team, he contributes nothing to the discussion. It’s like he doesn’t trust himself to speak and it makes me sad, because normally he has really useful feedback.
They cater dinner for us in the garage, but Johannes is long gone.
Nils sticks around to eat with everyone and talks excitedly about the weekend.
The buzz of consistent point weekends has filled him with so much more confidence.
It’s great to see, but I’m still watching the door, hoping Jo might return.
‘Is Johannes okay?’ I ask Nils, catching him slightly off-guard.
‘Why?’ he asks, like I’m a head teacher about to get his friend in trouble.
‘I just … I’m worried about him. Don’t you think he’s a bit…’ I try to search for an appropriate, professional word, but Nils beats me to it.
‘All over the place? Fucked up? Man, I wish I knew. You should try living with him. It’s not a fun time in the villa right now. Lots of moping, no partying, no hook-ups, just him locked in his room.’
‘Has something happened?’ I ask, but Nils only shrugs and shakes his head, and unfortunately, that’s not enough for me to work with.
‘Look, I’m not asking you to break a confidence.
I’m trying to prevent another Spielberg and Silverstone.
He’s not himself. He’s not performing. He’s not …
happy. I just want to help him. Please?’
‘I don’t actually know anything, man. We’re friends but he doesn’t tell me anything. And I don’t think Harper knows either.’
It has to be bad if even Harper doesn’t know.
‘I’m close to shaking him, too,’ Nils continues. ‘He earned us both a talking-to from Nathan yesterday after he was rude to one of the social-media girls.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Johannes at all.’
I hope it’s not worse than I’ve been imagining.
‘If you find out what’s going on, will you please let all of us know? Because he refuses to talk about it and it’s beginning to piss off his friends.’
‘Yeah, of course. Have a good rest of your evening. See you tomorrow.’
Thinking about Johannes keeps me awake. I toss and turn, trying not to ruminate on his issues. They aren’t mine and I should not be this worried about him, but I am. I can’t help it. I don’t want whatever it is to eat him up inside and leave nothing but bones. I couldn’t bear that.
But what more can I do without invading his privacy or crossing a line he’s clearly drawn around his personal life?
The next day, I watch him complete his third practice. He finishes sixth in the standings, but he’s 1.2 seconds off Harper at the top, which is a big gap for Hungary. He can’t perform like that in qualifying if he wants to be anywhere near the front row.
He’s whisked away to do some media before I can even check in with him.
‘I need a coffee. These triple headers aren’t for the weak.’ Ian groans as he stretches himself out next to his pit wall.
A big cup of coffee sounds very much needed right now.
Coffee.
Coffee.
His face in that café… The way his eyes lit up as the barista described the different kinds of beans they used… The pure relief on his face as he cradled the cup at his lips…
If a coffee was all it took to put a driver on top of the podium, they’d all be doing it. But it’s not about the coffee itself. It’s about what the coffee represents – how it might make him feel to have someone notice him, care about him, do something nice for him.
I’m hotfooting it out of the garage before I can stop myself. I don’t have any free time, but my job is to make him perform better, and if this could help, then I have to try.
I summon a car and while I wait for it to arrive, I google independent coffee shops and check the reviews.
I choose one that’s a little further away because it has the best customer feedback.
When we get there, I ask the car to wait.
I have no idea what it’ll cost, but it’ll be worth it to get back to the track quickly.
Inside, I scan the menu, struggling to decipher what’s what.
Thankfully, the barista speaks English and I tell her about my friend and his coffee preferences and what I saw him order last time.
She recommends something and I agree, because I know absolutely bugger all about roasts and blends and syrups and foams and whatever.