Chapter 3 #2
Fucking hell. I plaster on a polite smile and press forward as quickly as I can.
A few of them follow me all the way down the paddock, snapping photos and trying to talk to me.
About halfway down, I spy Marcie walking toward me, but she has her phone aimed at me, too, and she says, “Welcome to the paddock, Jacob,” in a way that makes me sure she’s filming a short.
“Thanks,” I manage.
She walks backward to keep her camera on me. “Are you ready for the day?”
I try to think of something clever to say, but all I can come up with is, “Yep.” I’m acutely aware of the reporters still following us, and of the fans with paddock passes glancing over to see what all the fuss is about.
Marcie must see something in my face, because she puts her phone down and says, “Sorry.”
“No, it’s all good,” I lie. “I’m just—not good at social media stuff.”
She smiles. “You’ll get used to it. And if you can wear a Crosswire shirt tomorrow, that’d be great.”
“Oh—right.” I flush. She told me that last night, but I completely forgot. “Sorry. I haven’t got my luggage yet.”
“It’s no big deal,” she says easily. “I’ll go grab you one. We’ve got about ten minutes till we have to be in the pen, then it’s going to be a bit of a blitz until FP3, so if you need to pee or grab food or anything, I’d do it now. I’ll meet you there, yeah?”
“Er—yeah,” I say. “Definitely.”
I know where the media pen is. I think.
The second she leaves, a random guy throws his arm around my shoulders and snaps a selfie. The lingering reporters press closer, and one of them calls, “Got time for a quick word?”
“Um—not right now,” I say, remembering Crosswire’s media rules. “Sorry.”
“How’s it feel to be back racing?” someone else asks.
“Do you think you have a shot at Clayton’s seat next year?”
“If Matty Wright’s spot opens up, would you consider driving for Harper?”
I try to walk faster. “Er—I really can’t say—”
“Jacob!” A deep, commanding voice cuts through the noise. It’s vaguely familiar, and I turn toward it instinctively.
My stomach plummets to the ground as soon as I see who it belongs to. It’s one of my dad’s work associates, Stephen MacIntosh. He’s with two other men whose faces I recognize but can’t put names to.
“How are you, son?” Stephen says, grasping my hand and squeezing it tightly. He’s a heavy, red-faced fellow with sweat stains on his expensive suit, and I have never liked him, not even when I was a little kid.
“Fine,” I say thinly. I try to keep walking, but he and his buddies have surrounded me, and the reporters have fallen back almost politely, as if they think I actually want to talk to these jackasses.
“What a stroke of luck you’ve had, eh?” Stephen says. “Right place, right time, isn’t that the way of it?”
“Uh—”
“Your dad said you’d hook us up with some passes to watch from the garage. Cheer you on from the front row, yeah? Maybe toss a few thumbnails under Mahoney’s wheels.” He laughs at his stupid joke while I stare at him in disbelief.
“My dad said what?”
“Who do we talk to about getting back there?” Stephen asks, ignoring me. “Do you have a PA who can help us, or is there a place we can go to pick up lanyards?”
My mouth works silently for a few moments before I manage to get any words out. “I have to go,” I say tightly. “Excuse me.”
I don’t wait for him to answer me. I push past him and his friends and flee to the Crosswire motorhome, my rapid footfalls echoed by the angry thud of my pulse.
I can’t believe my dad did that.
Actually, that’s not true. I can absolutely believe it. It’s exactly the kind of selfish shit he would pull, even though he hasn’t talked to me since I walked out on him and Mom six months ago, after he told me being with Travis would ruin my career and make me a laughing stock.
He hasn’t made any attempt to get in touch, not even a cursory “Happy birthday” text when I turned twenty-four back in April.
But now that I’m racing in F1 for the first time, now that the racing world is paying a bit of attention to me, he’s promising his sleazy friends that I’ll hook them up with passes, and probably bragging to everyone he knows about his son the Formula 1 driver.
I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it. Sick, and furious, and also sort of like I might cry. Which is ridiculous, because I’m supposed to be over cutting ties with my parents. They’re not supposed to be able to affect me like this anymore, they’re not supposed to be able to hurt me.
In my changing room—Clayton’s changing room, really—there’s a Crosswire race suit waiting for me, and race shoes.
The shoes are still a half-size too tight, and the race suit sits strangely on my shoulders, and if I mess up this weekend, my dad is going to feel smug about it, like it’s proof he was right, that I’m not good enough to be here.
Fuck. Fuck.
My thoughts are skittering, but I don’t have time to deal with them. I have to get to the media pen.
Marcie is waiting for me with a smile and a recorder, and she leads me to a middle-aged guy with glasses accompanied by a massive TV camera.
As I step up to his mic, I see my own face pop up on the nearest track screen, so I guess that I’m live, and that everyone watching F1 right now can see and hear me.
“Jacob,” the guy says. “Welcome.”
He’s smiling cheerfully, and I force my lips up in return. “Thanks.”
“I bet you weren’t expecting to be talking to me today.”
I give a weak laugh. “No.”
“How does it feel, being thrown into all of this last minute? Do you feel ready to hop in the car? And are you nervous about driving your first F1 race at such a physically demanding track?”
“Um.” I glance at Marcie, who nods encouragingly. “I’m feeling good,” I say awkwardly. “I mean, I’m ready, yeah. And—sorry, what was your other question?”
“This track,” the guy says. “It’s one of the toughest ones on the calendar.
The heat, the humidity, the fact that it’s a night race.
Even the seasoned drivers struggle at Singapore, and here you are, being asked to jump in without any testing, only a year after such a massive, devastating crash—how do you feel about all of that? ”
How do I feel about all of what? I’ve literally forgotten his entire question.
“Um.” I glance at Marcie again. “Singapore is—tricky, yeah.”
“I’ve heard drivers can lose up to four kilos of weight during the race,” he says. “How do you prepare for a physical challenge like that, especially after everything you’ve been through?”
“Well—” I lick my lips. “I’m not, like—I mean, it’s definitely going to be challenging—”
“Do you feel any extra pressure in light of the rumors that Clayton is retiring at the end of this season?”
“Um—I mean, sort of, yeah—” I stammer stupidly.
And that’s basically how the rest of the interviews go.
I never understood the concept of media training, but now I really wish I’d had time to do some.
It’s not like I haven’t been interviewed before—I did it in F2, and I used to be pretty good at it—but that was a long time ago, and it wasn’t half as intense as this.
There are too many cameras, too many microphones, too many media rules sloshing around in my muddled brain.
Three times, Marcie has to pinch my arm when a reporter tries to lead me into talking about something I’m not supposed to, and to cap it off, the very last interviewer cheerfully asks me if my parents are here to watch the race.
“No,” I say haltingly.
“I’m sure they’ll be watching from home, though,” the interviewer says. “They must be so proud of you!”
I stare at her helplessly. I should just say “Yeah” and be done with it, but the word sticks in my throat like a gross piece of phlegm.
“I’m really excited to race,” I say instead. The interviewer gives me an odd sort of look, then Marcie steps in and leads me away.
“All done,” she says brightly. “It’s overwhelming the first time,” she adds, with a sympathetic smile that makes it clear things went as badly as I thought they did.
She takes me back to the garage, where a bright red clock ticks down the last hour before FP3. Clayton’s car looks sleek and shiny under the garage lights, and I don’t feel excited to see it like I did last night. I feel nauseous, and shaky, and hot.
Cory beckons me to his side and pulls up data on his computer screen, telling me important things about brake balance and tire temperature.
About half of my mind is paying attention, while the other half is going through a complete and total meltdown.
At some point, a mechanic pulls Cory away, and I’m left standing alone in a borrowed race suit and poorly fitting shoes, while everyone else in the garage moves briskly from one important task to the next.
I dig my phone out of my pocket, just to have something to do with my hands. As I swipe it open, a text pops up from Travis.
[5:38] Travis: Can you come to my room right now?
My pulse thuds in panic. Is he serious? FP3 starts in twenty-two minutes. And I’m probably supposed to be doing something right now, looking at data or talking to the mechanics or something.
My phone dings again.
[5:39] Travis: It’s important.
Fuck.
“I’m just going to run to the bathroom,” I tell the engineer standing nearest me. He gives me a bemused look, probably because I’m not a kindergartener who needs to ask permission to pee.
I flush and offer him a thin, embarrassed smile. Then I slip out of the back of the garage and take off at a run.