Chapter One
Kian
‘What do you mean he’s got a broken leg?’
I should be packing for Bahrain when my agent, Will, and the team principal, Anders, decide to drop an absolute shitstorm into my life.
‘I’m not sure what more I can say, Kian, other than that it was a freak accident and Elijah slipped on the side of a pool. His leg’s broken in three places, the muppet.’
Hearing the story a second time doesn’t settle the riptide of stress my brain releases into my body.
It’s a no-brainer at this point. My teammate’s out for at least the first six months, maybe more, of the season and everything is truly about to go to shit.
I look down at my suitcase lying open on the bed.
All the packing cubes in the world aren’t going to make me feel better.
And that’s saying something, because I bloody love sorting my life into tiny, organised squares of neatness.
Elijah Gutaga and I have been teammates for the last five seasons and we’ve developed a bond not only on the track, but off the track, too.
I’m godfather to his three-year-old. He’s my best mate in a world where it’s hard to find people you can trust. In one of the most dangerous sports in the world, there has to be a level of trust within your immediate circle and within the wider team too.
That bond, especially for the Constructors’ Championship, is vital.
Without this trust, everything falls apart.
It takes me way too many seconds to realise that I’m sitting in silence whilst the two people who hold my career in their hands wait for me to respond.
I don’t quite know what they expect me to say.
Holding my nerve is one of the most important skills in this sport and it feels slightly shaken right now.
Racing isn’t exactly a team sport, but Elijah and I have been training together for years and we’ve always worked really well together.
With Elijah out, well, I don’t know what that means for me.
Jeez I can’t afford to think about it like that. There are already whispers about this being my retirement season – I’m thirty-three and I’ve been world champion four times, most recently last year. Even so, I need this to be a spectacular year in order to shut the press up.
‘Okay.’ I move away from the phone mic to take a calming breath. ‘That’s fine. It’s not the end of the world. I’ll give him a call. I did wonder why he hasn’t returned my texts in the last twenty-four hours.’
Anders immediately pounces on my words. ‘You’ll be fine, Kian, and we’ll make sure Elijah gets the best care. He’ll definitely need surgery so we’ll get Harley Street’s finest surgeons on the case. We want him back and fighting fit as soon as possible.’
‘So you think he might return before the end of the season?’ I ask hopefully.
That would be something, at least.
‘Best not to count on it at this point. We’ll have to play it by ear. It depends first on how the injury heals and then his recovery. All you can do is focus on your own game plan and let us work with Elijah to support his recovery.’
‘Okay, well, I’d best finish packing, then.’ I survey the mess I’ve created whilst trying to organise myself. It’s probably going to take all night. At least I can sleep on the jet.
And I can sleep well knowing we’ll have London, the team’s back-up driver, taking up Elijah’s spot. He’s come on leaps and bounds in the last year.
‘Good man. That’s what we wanted to hear. We’ll see you and Harper on the runway first thing tomorrow.’
‘Tomorr— Hang on, what?’ Did he just say Harper? ‘Did you just say Harper? As in, Harper James?’
‘The one and only. We’ve called him up from the lower category to take Elijah’s place whilst he’s out. I dropped him a line before we called you.’ Anders sounds completely calm about this, like it isn’t the worst possible news he could be giving me right now.
Through gritted teeth I say, ‘Of course. Makes sense. See you tomorrow.’ The line drops and I have to resist the urge to lob my phone at the wall.
Harper bloody James.
I could write you a list of about twenty other drivers I’d rather share a podium with than Harper James.
Face like an angel but an absolute devil on the circuit.
He’s better known for his partying and seduction techniques than his skill on the track.
Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, because he did win the lower category last season, but his antics captured on social-media and in the press overshadow anything else he’s achieved in his career.
He makes the headlines every other day even in the off season and I’ve seen more of that guy’s body than I could ever wish to.
If there’s a scandal in the sports pages, chances are his name is attached to it.
I’m surprised that Anders is willing to put this aside and risk pissing off the sponsors – Harper James is good but he’s not that good!
That’s the only thing we’ve got in common, actually.
Having been raised in the public eye from the second I was born, I’ve made enough headlines to last me a lifetime.
The stories about you as a kid – and the awkward, unflattering helmet-hair pictures that accompany the lies – follow you around forever. He could do with learning that.
I shoot Elijah a text asking him to call me as soon as he has a moment.
I’m sure he’s devastated, and things at his end must be utter chaos right now.
I can’t even imagine how hard a season-ending injury has to be just days before we jet off again.
I want to make sure he’s okay and let him know I’ll be by to visit as soon as I can.
As I hit send, my phone pings with a news blast, containing a press release I was sadly already privy to.
‘Elijah Gutaga out for Hendersohm. Harper James in, with the new season just around the corner.’
Well. It’s official.
The article quotes not only a tweeted statement from the team, but also an Instagram post from Harper himself announcing his call-up. Of course he’s tasteless enough to announce it shirtless in just a pair of Hendersohm shorts and baseball cap.
It’s not enough that I’ve had to mingle with him at the occasional Hendersohm party in the past, now I’m going to be stuck with him every day for the best part of a year.
All the excitement for the new season starts to drain from me.
Normally, at this point I’m buzzing with energy for pre-season testing, but not anymore.
In the most insane way, I find peace from doing this sport, despite the intense pressure, and now Harper James is about to shake that all up with his bullshit attitude and recklessness on the track.
I’ve had first-hand experience of his type and I don’t need, or want, that kind of chaos in my life.
He’s a reminder of all that is wrong with this sport.
A few hours later, I park my packed case by the front door and pull on a jacket. It’s time for my least favourite pre-season ritual – saying goodbye.
* * *
When I let myself into my mum’s house, I’m instantly hit with a whiff of freshly baked apple pie.
That smell used to soothe my soul as a child.
Once she’d stopped touring, there was nothing Mum loved more than baking.
Now, though, it’s my sister who stress-bakes and it’s always a sign that it’s not been a good day.
A familiar niggle of guilt creeps into my stomach and I force myself to step over the threshold for the last time for the next nine months.
Cartoons are playing on the TV in the front room, which I quickly bypass, heading for what is now Mum’s bedroom, downstairs.
Peering in, I find her fast asleep, a contorted, distressed look pulling on her face.
There’s a fragility to the way her cheekbones protrude so sharply and I have to take a couple of seconds to watch the blanket on her chest rise and fall to reassure myself that she’s breathing.
Not wanting to disturb her, I gently pull her bedroom door shut and find my sister amongst a mess of pots, pans, and plates in the kitchen.
‘Hey, sis.’ She jumps slightly, but nothing prepares me for the bloodshot eyes that meet mine as she turns to face me.
Wordlessly, I pull her into a hug, soft sobs ricocheting off my shoulders as I hold her close.
Four years ago, Elise was in the final year of her nursing degree when she found out in the same week that she was pregnant with my niece, Cassie, and that our mum had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.
Both discoveries changed her, one for the better, the other not so much.
She gave up her nursing degree and when Mum started to lose more of her faculties, Elise became her full-time carer.
Elise and her husband, Grant, rented out their house and moved into Mum’s farmhouse set in several acres of land in Norfolk. Their first child, Cassie, and their second, Jesse, have been raised here for the last three-and-a-half years. I can’t imagine them ever leaving now.
I admire everything about my sister, but the way she’s taken care of our mum is truly something else.
Especially as I haven’t been here to pull my weight anywhere near as much as I wish I could.
Elise would never say a bad word about that.
She’ll tell you she’s grateful that I get to keep my career, that she more than appreciates the trust fund I’ve put aside for her kids to go to university or travel the world or whatever they want in the future.
I wish it was enough. I wish I could do more than just pay for the best equipment and doctors and visiting support workers to make Mum’s remaining time in this world comfortable.
I’m not sure how many minutes pass with us just standing there, me holding Elise up, but we never get too many undisturbed moments like this. And then Cassie is screaming her head off, causing the baby, Jesse, to cry, and we have to break apart before either of us are ready to let go.