Chapter 2 #2
"Look," I finally say, "I know it's not my place, but... at least go to a therapist or something. To ease a bit of that burden, talk with them."
Felix raises a brow. "A therapist?"
"It helps. I’ve been going to one since then, and I’ve noticed the difference, Felix." Even if it doesn’t help me completely forget what happened that time, I live a bit better with it.
"I don't need one," Felix says, but there's no bite in it.
"Don't bottle it inside you," I press on. "You're a good man, an amazing friend. It'd hurt seeing you hit rock bottom."
I don't tell him just how well I know rock bottom. No one should have to experience it. How it opened beneath me after the F4 crash, after Nicholas took me out, after countless nights staring at the ceiling wondering if I'd ever feel normal again. As drivers, we negotiate with death in every single race. It’s not all about winning or getting points—well, that’s the main thing—but it’s also about doing something I love and returning from each race alive.
I don't tell him about the times I've pulled over on country roads because I couldn't breathe. About the sleeping pills I sometimes take just to quiet my mind. About the nightmares where I'm trapped in a stalled car, screaming for help that never comes.
Instead, I say, "Talking helps. Having someone who can give you tools to manage it."
"Tools," Felix repeats, skeptical.
"Yeah. Like ways to ground yourself when everything feels like it's spinning out of control."
My therapist taught me the 5-4-3-2-1 technique: five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste. It sounds simple, even stupid. But it works when the panic starts rising.
"I'll think about it," he says, which we both know means probably not.
"That's all I ask." I lower the ice pack. My eye has gone from a throbbing pain to a dull ache. Progress, I suppose.
"Is it that obvious?" Felix asks after a moment. "How messed up I am about all this?"
I consider lying, then decide against it. "To me, yeah. But I know what to look for."
"Because you've been there."
I nod. Not exactly the same place, but close enough to recognize the landmarks of despair.
"I never thought it would end like this," he says, voice barely audible. "Not with a press release on a Tuesday morning."
"It's not the end," I tell him. "Just a detour."
He tries to smile but doesn't quite make it. "Easy for you to say. You're living the dream."
The dream that sometimes feels like a nightmare. The dream that comes with a side of panic attacks and insomnia. But I don't say that.
"You helped me get here," I remind him. "Now let me help you."
Felix smiles—a real smile this time, not the forced one he's been wearing all night.
"Thanks, Will. Seriously." He clears his throat, discomfort with emotional sincerity kicking in.
"Though if your idea of helping is getting your face smashed in at concerts to make me feel better about my life choices, maybe I should look elsewhere. "
I snort, wincing as the movement jostles my swollen eye. "Hey, it worked, didn't it? Got you talking."
"By scaring the shit out of me." He leans back in the chair, tension visibly draining from his shoulders. "Your team's going to love this look for testing. Very professional."
"I'll tell them I was defending someone's honor. Chicks dig scars."
"One specific chick in mind?" Felix asks, eyebrow raised.
I throw a couch pillow at him, which he catches easily. "Shut up."
While we laugh together—me wincing more than laughing—an idea comes to me. "Colton Racing is on the rise. Which is why..."
I hesitate, suddenly uncertain how he'll take this next part.
"Why what?" Felix prompts.
"I'm going to suggest you for the reserve driver seat at Colton Racing."
His face freezes. "What?"
"You heard me. There have been talks. The team needs an experienced reserve driver, especially with EJ racing alongside me. Someone who can step in if needed, help with development, mentor him if I'm tied up."
"That's"—Felix stands abruptly, pacing across my living room—"a terrible idea."
"It's the best idea I've had in months," I counter.
"Will, I was a Baretta driver for seven years. I've won races. I can't just... become a reserve at a midfield team."
"Former midfield team," I correct. "Soon-to-be frontrunner."
He scoffs. "You're delusional."
"And you're unemployed," I point out, not unkindly. "Look, I get the pride thing. I do. I was the most prideful motherfucker a couple of months ago. But this is a foot in the door back to F1."
"As a backup. A spare part."
"As someone with valuable experience and knowledge." I stand, too, facing him. "Felix, the sim work alone would be worth it—helping develop a car that's actually improving. Not to mention you'd stay race-ready if another seat opens up elsewhere."
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not simple. It's a step back to take two forward." I move closer, dropping my voice. "Colton Racing is in a good spot, Felix. Growing, improving. The environment is welcoming—warm, like a family. Nothing like the corporate bullshit at Baretta."
His shoulders slump slightly. "Violet Colton doesn't even know me. Why would she want me on her team?"
"That’s where you’re wrong. She knows plenty about you.
She keeps tabs on all F1 drivers—and other categories as well.
You're one of the smartest drivers in the paddock, your technical feedback is worth its weight in gold, and you can help develop their car in ways most drivers can't even understand.
" I place a hand on his shoulder. "And she’ll consider you because I trust you. That means something to her."
He studies my face, searching for signs I'm bullshitting him, but finding none.
"You really believe in this team, don't you?"
"I do."
And I meant it. For all my initial skepticism when I first signed, Colton Racing has become more than just a paycheck; it's become something I genuinely want to fight for.
Felix lets out a long breath. "I don't know, Will..."
"Just think about it," I urge. "Better yet, come with me to Colton Racing next week. Before the HQ and factory closes for the holidays. We'll talk to Violet, no pressure. Just see the place, meet the team."
He hesitates. "And if I hate it?"
"Then you can tell me 'I told you so' and we'll look elsewhere." I grin, careful not to stretch the skin around my injured eye. "But you won't hate it. Trust me on this."
Felix shakes his head, but the ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "You're relentless, you know that?"
"It's why I made it to F1," I remind him. "And it's why you're going to make it back."
For just a moment, something akin to hope flickers across Felix's face—faint but unmistakable. Like the first rays of sunlight after a storm.
"Fine," he says finally. "I'll come. But I'm not promising anything."
I resist the urge to pump my fist in victory. "That's all I ask."