22. Nevaeh
There’s absolutely no way to describe Adrian’s driving other than mesmerizing. He has me glued to the screens while Gillian talks to his camerawoman Fallon about the interviews they’ll be doing later.
I try to focus on them, pay attention and learn, but then Valentina overtakes Grant Irwin with so much elegance and finesse, I let out an excited ‘hell yeah!’ which earns me a cock of Gillian’s brow.
He doesn’t say anything, merely looks me up and down disapprovingly once before going back to his discussion with Fallon.
My attention slips back to the screen in front of me to watch Lincoln overtake Gabriel with one of the dirtiest moves I’ve ever seen. Dirty, but not exactly against the rules. He sped forward enough that his front tire was ahead of Gabriel’s front wing, then took most of the track space and pushed Gabriel so far off, he couldn’t recover quickly enough to get second place back.
“I was in front!” Lincoln defends after his team tells him the FIA will be investigating this incident.
“We’re handling it,” his race engineer, Alberto, says.
Then, there’s nothing but silence from Lincoln, so I check the gap between Adrian and Linc to see if my former best friend is catching up to the man in first place. He isn’t. Adrian keeps up a good pace and the gap of five seconds remains steady right until the first pitstop of the season.
Adrian goes first, and his team performs an effortless stop of two-point-three seconds. Lincoln slips into first place, Gabriel into second, James into third, and Val into fourth. Adrian takes fifth place, barely a second behind Val.
All of the people ahead of him will have to stop soon, too, but that doesn’t stop Adrian from overtaking his sister anyway.
I hold my breath as they fight it out, Valentina not making things easy for her brother. No doubt, Adrian is grinning under his helmet as he finally makes it past her a lap later. He has the faster car, for now, and he knows it.
Lincoln is creating a bigger and bigger gap as Adrian fights his way back to the top.
“Nevaeh, can you come over here,” Gillian says, his tone harsher than the lightness I’ve grown used to over the past few weeks. “Go grab us all some coffee,” my boss goes on, and I furrow my brows a little.
“Okay.” His soft features are hardened into a frown as he tells me exactly what to get all of them and to do it straight away.
“Now, Nevaeh,” he adds when I take too long to grab my purse.
There’s nothing kind about the way he speaks to me, none of his you’re not my assistant, you don’t have to get me food shit. I don’t mind getting us all a coffee, not even a little, but I mind when people speak to me the way Gillian just did.
All weekend, I’ve been running around, going from one place to another without even an hour for lunch. Gillian only gave me five minutes to inhale a granola bar. But if I’ve done something wrong, I’d appreciate it if he’d speak to me instead of passive-aggressively barking orders at me.
“Yes, Mr. Fender,” I say through gritted teeth, sparing the television one more look to watch Adrian slip back into first place after everyone else pitted too.
If I were a lesser person, I might put salt instead of sugar in my boss’s coffee, but when people go low, you have to go higher than you’ve ever gone before. Which is why I place his coffee in front of him with the biggest smile and the sweetest ‘Here you go’ that I can muster. It confuses him, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he starts telling me more and more things I have to do.
By the time he’s finished talking and turns back around to Fallon, the race is nearing the end. I almost curse at how much I’ve missed before stopping myself and staring at the wall for a minute because what the hell? When did I become interested in this sport?
I’ve always enjoyed watching Formula One, but I didn’t seek it out every weekend. Not the way I watched tennis every single day when Wimbledon was on or any of the other Grand Slams.
But now?
Now, I’m irritated because I couldn’t watch Adrian, Valentina, Gabriel, James, and Lincoln fight it out for the top five places.
“Come on,” I mumble to myself when Valentina slips into James’ slipstream and the flap of her DRS opens. There are only three laps left, and she’s trying to overtake James, who’s struggling in fourth with old tires. He’s had them on for too long, which caused a lot of degradation that’s slowing him down now. His tire strategy for this race was far from ideal.
She slips beside him, almost overtaking him when James breaks later than her and manages to stay ahead.
My lungs burn, reminding me to take a breath instead of holding it.
Adrian is shown a second later, and I barely keep from complaining that they switched the view during such an intense battle when I watch him go so wide, a cloud of gravel floats into the air from his tires.
That mistake closes the time gap he was building between himself and Gabriel to a little over a second.
Shit, that’s not good.
Lincoln is right behind them, too, his car looking like a bullet shot out of a gun, all sleek and dangerous. I’m a big fan of the dark gray they went with this year, something new the Grenzenlos team was trying out. I didn’t think I’d like it when Papa first told me about it, but they made it work.
Nothing compares to the deep red Velocità Rossa has chosen though. I like the papaya color from Spark too, and the combination of red and blue Hawke went with. Alfa Adrenalina chose a mix of red, black, and white that I’m also a big fan of.
Focusing on the colors helps me ease the building anxiety in my chest. It distracts from the fact that Lincoln is inching closer to Gabriel, and Gabriel is inching closer toward Adrian and my brain is just swimming in dread at this point.
When the last lap comes around, I debate whether turning around and not watching is the better option. It’s only the first race of the season, so in the grand scheme of things, it’s not that important, but it feels important. It feels like each of these drivers is out there proving themselves and setting the mood for the rest of the reason.
Val has already out-driven everyone in the mid-field and lower teams, her car is currently in fourth place. A wave of pride hits me in the chest for her, but it’s replaced by worry the moment Lincoln attempts to overtake Gabriel.
One lap has never felt so long in my entire life. Lincoln is relentless. He fights for Gabriel’s place, using DRS to get enough speed advantage to overtake him in the main straight and finish the race in second place.
I can’t help the excitement bubbling inside my chest at the sight of Adrian crossing the finish line first, Lincoln following closely behind him.
Celebrations break out everywhere, but Gillian demands my attention, telling me to get a grip on myself—yeah, fuck him—and barks at all of us to get out there and ready for the round of interviews.
We will be interviewing Lincoln, Kyle, Gabriel, and Adrian only, just as we have done the rest of the weekend, too.
I asked Gillian a few days ago why Griffin Sports decided to do this, and he said, “There are so many sports media companies out there, we needed something to set us apart. The rest of them can take the midfield teams and perhaps a few questions for the top two teams, but it’s us who get the exclusive interviews with Velocità Rossa and Grenzenlos now. It’s us that the majority of the fans will watch.”
I didn’t agree with him then, but I didn’t say as much aloud. It’s not my company, therefore it’s not my decision, but there must be another way to get Griffin Sports exclusive content from the drivers to get the fans’ attention.
It takes a while for our drivers to make it to the area where the post-race interviews are held. It’s shaped into a circle with all of the reporters behind the barriers and the drivers and their PR managers on the other side.
Gillian left me standing here by myself because he doesn’t think they’re going to be here any time soon, taking care of a problem that arose, but Mr. Romana has a way of surprising everyone, including myself.
Adrian is the first of the top three to be here, all of the reporters surrounding us calling out to get his attention.
There’s a bright smile on his full, pink lips and his hair is perfectly wet and curly. He must have just taken a shower to get rid of the champagne they spray on each other during the celebrations.
His eyes catch mine from across the interview pit, and somehow, I don’t know how but his smile gets even bigger.
I can’t help but return it.
Adrian’s PR manager tries to get his attention, but he makes his way toward me without glancing her way. He appears hypnotized by me. Nothing else seems to matter until he’s in front of me. He asks his PR manager, Fatima, to give him a second before turning back to me and clearing his throat. His smile reappears as he holds out his hand, waiting for me to shake it.
“Congratulations on your win, Mr. Romana. The car really came alive on this track,” I say, and he tilts his head at me.
“Just the car?” he challenges, smirking until a blush settles on my cheeks.
“The car and you,” I correct. Adrian places his hands against the barrier keeping us apart and nods in approval.
“There you go, mon ange, that’s better,” he praises, turning my cheeks an even darker red.
“What an impressive race,” I say to steer the conversation away from making me blush, and he beams down at me, taking pride in my words.
“Impressing you was my number one goal, so I’m glad I can check it off my list,” he replies.
“I said the race was impressive, not you,” I remind him with a teasing grin, but he’s so high on his victory, he merely shrugs.
“I won the race, so it’s the same thing,” the cocky man replies, taking a step toward me but not too close, always honoring the space I asked for in public.
“So, are you saying you won just so you could impress me?” I ask, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
My cheeks hurt, I’m smiling so hard, and I haven’t smiled this much in days.
I tried to stay away from him, to keep my feelings from growing because I can’t have feelings for him. I canceled our friendly French tutoring appointment to avoid growing closer, but it’s useless. Adrian draws me to him, and there is no escaping the pull he has on me.
“I’m saying, knowing you were watching made me want to show you that I’m the best there is. I wanted you to look at those screens and see that I’m the kind of racer you can be glad to cheer for. I didn’t fight dirty, not unlike some other drivers,” he says and pauses to shake his head at whatever he’s thinking about. “And I wanted you to be proud.”
“I am proud, Adrian,” I say, my voice cracking from all of the emotions his honesty and vulnerability brought out in me.
“Thank God because that race was fucking exhausting. My ass cheeks haven’t hurt this much since Abu Dhabi three years ago,” he says and attempts to rub them, but when Fatima clears her throat, he seems to remember we’re surrounded by enough reporters to turn his joke into something it’s not. He turns back to me with that smile of his still on his lips.
“So, Monsieur Romana, tell me, what was the fundamental reason the race went so well for you today?” I ask to switch the subject. With my notebook ready, I look up to watch his gaze gluing itself to my mouth before slowly trailing up my face.
“I am,” he says with a wink, ever the smug man. I almost roll my eyes before remembering where I am. “Alright, where’s your boss? I would have thought he’d be the first one here to grill me about my race,” he says, so I turn around to look for Gillian.
“I have no idea where he is. He was supposed to be here five minutes ago,” I reply, spinning back around to face the Monegasque. My hair flies all over the place, making him chuckle as he reaches for me to help me smooth it back down. He stops himself as he thinks better of it, so I tuck it behind my ears and clear my throat.
I’m about to speak again when my boss interrupts me.
“Pardon our tardiness, Mr. Romana. We had a small problem with our camera,” Gillian says as he rushes toward us. “But we’re here now and ready whenever you are.”
Adrian furrows his brows at me, clearly confused, but then puts on a fake smile as he turns to my boss to give his interview.
Fatima holds a telephone next to Adrian, recording the conversation while I take notes. Lincoln is the next of our four drivers to walk up to us, waiting with a scowl on his face behind Adrian. I thought he’d be happy about second place, but he looks as unhappy as if he’d just taken last place.
When he catches me looking at him, his features soften a little, but he makes no attempt to speak to me, and I’m glad he doesn’t.
As far as I’m concerned, my relationship with Lincoln is irreparable. After our last conversation, I don’t ever want to speak to him again. He hasn’t apologized for his behavior, and no matter how much it pains me to lose my best friend, I lost him a long time ago.
There is no pointing holding onto something that slipped through my fingers years ago.