8. Reed #2
His entire expression is screaming fury, and for some reason it gets under my skin more than it should. The only thing I can think to do is bring my camera up and snap a picture of him, one he looks annoyingly perfect in, and it only makes his frown deepen.
“Pay attention, Wild,” his father snaps, clicking his fingers in front of his face and pulling his son's attention back to Sid.
Once I am no longer under the weight of his heavy stare, I position myself out of their way, listening to them talk as I take a few photos from different angles. I also shoot a few videos between my phone and one of my other professional cameras, ensuring I have both horizontal and vertical clips.
It’s a heightened experience being on the inside like this, and I can feel a buzz beneath my skin as the excitement only increases in the air.
It’s almost suffocating, but the second Wilder pulls on his helmet, it’s like everything around me melts away.
I watch as he carefully climbs into his car and secures himself, while his crew runs through their last checks.
I’m still snapping pictures, but my focus is only on him.
On how calm he looks, on how in control he is, and how he just commands everyone around him.
Wilder Miles might be a hot guy, but he’s a damn beautiful racer, and he’s not even started.
Unfortunately, all too soon I am being directed back to the team garage, and then all I can do is watch from the monitors.
I pretend I am taking it all in, watching everything, learning, but my focus is only on Wilder.
He runs through his inside vehicle checks while his wheels are fitted, and then it isn’t long before I hear the roar of engines.
All the racers slowly start up, doing their final checks, before they slip into their formation laps.
After that, time seems to fly by, as the deafening roar of the crowd and engines mix together, drowning everything else out.
I try to stay focused, but the second the first race begins, my heart lodges itself firmly in my throat.
Now I’m not naive, I’ve attended plenty of large sporting events before, and have even watched some PRI races, but watching them on TV, and living them in real life, is an entirely different experience.
I basically hold my breath the entire time, barely able to keep up with how fast the cars are going, my eyes fighting to track the now familiar black car.
My mind can’t comprehend that the cocky prick, who fucked me better than anyone ever has, is now controlling such a powerful machine with more ease and control than I have ever seen.
It’s both mesmerizing and infuriating, in typical Wilder Miles fashion.
My hands are gripping my camera just for something to hold onto, as time ceases to exist, and though the laps aren’t long, they feel like they last a lifetime.
I ignore the echoes of cheers from the crowd, and yells from Wilder’s team, trying and failing to keep my breathing steady.
Suddenly all I can think about is the speed the cars are going, and what would happen if they didn’t take a turn properly, or crashed into one another.
Nothing like that happens however, and Wilder ends up coming 5th in the first qualifying race, and 3rd in the second.
Matteo joins him in the top 12 with a 9th and then 7th place finish, whereas both Beckett and Knox place in the bottom twelve.
There are a mix of responses from the team and pit crew, but the atmosphere when Wilder makes it into the top three during his second race turns crazy.
I slip away to find myself a good spot on the press court, knowing it will be a fight considering the results, and I’m not wrong.
It’s like a swarm of vultures the second the racers start preparing themselves for interviews.
To no one’s surprise, Wilder is one of the first to be thrust in front of us all, and the questions start instantly.
I ready myself to take notes about the races, but the questions are about anything but.
“Wilder, do you think your brother watched the race wherever he is?” The first one calls, sarcasm dripping from his tone, making me frown in confusion. “Have you heard from him today?” Another asks, starting a steady flow of questions that are all about his brother and his whereabouts.
Wilder to his credit, doesn’t immediately lose his temper, staring sternly at each reporter as if memorizing their faces for a later date. I see him ready to speak, before his eyes flick to his dad and his jaw tightens, then he plasters a fake smirk across his face.
“Damn, it’s starting to sound like a broken record up in here,” he jokes, his entire demeanor appearing relaxed, but I’m close enough to see the cracks in his flawless facade.
His hands are interlocked so tight that his knuckles are white and one of his thumbs is strumming against the back of his hand rapidly.
He’s anything but relaxed and carefree right now and I know it’s not because of anything as fickle as nerves.
There is something bothering him, something that has him ready to snap, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t stop my arm from flying up into the air, pulling the focus to me.
“Speaking of broken records,” I cut in loudly, drawing Wilder’s and everyone else's attention, not waiting to be called on. “How does it feel to know you outranked both your father and grandfather in your first PRI races, and set a new Miles family record?”
Wilder tilts his head in my direction, a look in his eyes that I can’t quite decipher as he takes in my question.
The crowd around us finally quietens down, keen to hear his answer to a real question, but I don’t take my eyes off him.
His own eyes are darker than usual, more intense but the second they collide with mine, it’s as if I am the only person in the room.
He continues to stare me down, ignoring the flashes of multiple cameras going off around us, as I fidget with my own camera in my hand, trying not to lose my nerve.
I know he is probably wondering how the hell I know his family stats, but I did my research, and when he finally smirks, I can’t help but feel like I have won something.
“Feels like my hard work and determination is paying off,” Wilder finally responds, an air of confidence still clinging to him firmly. “In fact, I plan to break all their records, so make sure you keep their stats on hand for every race, Lamont.”
There is a teasing lilt to his tone, but I achieved what I needed, because when he calls on the next person, they also question him about the race.
I take a few more notes before excusing myself, feeling Wilder’s stare on me as I go, but I want to get back to his changing room before him, so I can grab one more quote before he disappears for the night.
Once there, I can’t help but think about the questions he was bombarded with at the start of the press hour.
I didn’t find much about Jason Miles online when I was researching Wilder, it was mostly just some meaningless articles about his up and coming football career that ended too soon.
His social media presence gave more of a socialite vibe rather than a serious athlete, showing him at all the right parties, but that stopped abruptly months ago.
I couldn’t find anything else about him anywhere, but that doesn’t mean anything. My family has had their own share of scandals, and my father easily paid to make them go away.
Is that what's happening here?
I’m not sure, but I do know it’s irrelevant right now, and Wilder shouldn’t have to be batting off questions about his brother on the biggest weekend of his life.