Chapter 8
After he won the championship last season, Travis was featured on the cover of Vogue.
He muttered and complained and sulked about doing it, but he’d already blown off five or ten similar offers, and Harper—or, more to the point, Heather—insisted.
The photos turned out really well, a bunch of shots of him looking effortlessly handsome on track and lounging in expensive clothing he would never wear in real life.
The article, on the other hand, was a little bit abbreviated.
The poor writer had to bend over backwards fleshing out Travis’s monosyllabic answers, and most of what he did say was—not a lie, exactly, but not entirely accurate, either.
Like when she asked him what his race day routine was.
Whatever’s on the press schedule, he said.
I could imagine the poor woman stifling a sigh. Anything in particular you like to do besides that? she pressed.
Get up early, he said. Listen to music. Think about the race.
The interviewer was probably hoping he’d tell her about some secret routine he always used, but that’s just not how Travis operates.
And while he usually does get up early, and sometimes listens to music, I’m not convinced he ever spends much time thinking about the race.
Like, before the race in Silverstone this summer, which he won in a brilliant recovery drive from P12, he spent the morning helping me install a new dryer in our laundry room.
And right before he got in the car in Suzuka to secure a brilliant win from pole, he was on the phone with his credit card company ordering a second card with my name on it (which I objected to, by the way, and have never once used).
Today, before the race in Singapore, he sets his alarm to wake us at two.
The race doesn’t start until eight p.m., and neither of us are scheduled for press until four, so we order room service and laze around in bed, watching a replay of the latest MotoGP race.
More than once, Travis has described MotoGP as the world’s best motorsport—Heather has begged him never to say it in an interview—and I’m convinced he has a crush on one of the riders, Adrien Baker.
“I do not,” he says, when I point it out again today.
A smile tugs at my lips. “Cheer for someone else, then.”
“He’s the only Canadian,” Travis says. “I have to cheer for him. It’s patriotic.”
“Patriotic,” I agree. “Of course. Nothing to do with the fact that he walks around with his suit unzipped half the time.”
He grins. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Looks like he’s taken, though,” I say, as the camera shows Aiden kissing a gorgeous dark-haired girl after winning the race.
He pokes my side. “I guess I’ll have to stick with you.”
“Speaking of which…” I trail my fingers up the side of his leg. “Shower with me before we head out?”
He laughs. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” I complain. “We’ve got time.”
“Jacob. You’re about to do one of the hardest races on the calendar, even for drivers like me.”
I snort. “Even drivers like you, huh?”
He chuckles. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” I shift up on the bed. My neck is already sore from yesterday, and every time I rolled over in bed last night, my entire core screamed in protest. Even my fingers feel stiff, and the tiny muscles in my feet.
There aren’t many of my muscles that don’t hurt, actually.
“You nervous?” Travis asks, watching me.
“Yeah.” I lick my lips. “It’s a big opportunity.”
“You’ve already impressed everyone by taking pole,” Travis says. “No matter what happens tonight, you’ve shown Sofia you’ve got the pace.”
I nod a little. “Yeah.”
He kisses my cheek. “Yeah. Now go shower. We should head out in twenty.”
“Fine.” I climb off the bed. “But if you’re going to jerk off while you wait for your turn, try to think about me instead of Aiden Baker.”
He laughs. “No promises.”
I do a little better in the media pen this time.
It helps that most of the questions are the same.
Am I excited to start on pole? Nervous for my first F1 race?
Hopeful that tonight’s drive might lead to a permanent contract?
Yes, yes, and yes, I answer truthfully. And no, I haven’t heard anything concrete about Clayton’s retirement.
“What about Matty Wright?” the next reporter asks. He’s one of my least favorites, a pushy guy from some American network. “He’s had a rough season, to say the least. Would you take a seat at Harper, if it came up on offer?”
“Matty is an incredible driver,” I say loyally. “I highly doubt his seat will be open next year.”
“But if it is?” the guy presses. “Do you think you could compete against a teammate like Travis Keeping?”
No, I think honestly. Then I think, fuck it, and I say “No” out loud.
His eyebrows lift. “Really? You already beat him yesterday in qualifying.”
“He didn’t get to put in a second lap,” I remind him. “He was on pace to beat my time before that dog ran out in front of him.”
The guy looks disappointed. He was probably hoping I’d make some cocky statement that he could use for clickbait. “Well,” he says, “if you can keep him behind you tonight, you’ll take seven championship points from him. Crosswire will have to thank you for that.”
Marcie gives him the signal to wrap up the interview, but as she leads me to the next one, my mind is stuck on what the guy said.
If you can keep him behind you tonight, you’ll take seven championship points from him.
Obviously, he’s right. The race winner gets twenty-five championship points. Second place gets eighteen. As long as Travis finishes in front of Mahoney, he’ll leave the race with a lead in the championship, but if I keep him behind me, if I win the race and he finishes second…
That’s seven points he can never get back.
“You okay?” Marcie asks.
“What? Yeah. Sorry.”
She smiles. “One more interview and then you’re free.”
The next interviewer, a younger woman, asks the usual opening questions, then she says, with a bit of hesitation, “Jacob—I have to ask. The last time you drove in a race, it ended in tragedy. Is the crash playing at all in your mind as you get ready to race again tonight?”
I hesitate. Crosswire’s media team prepped me for this question, but now that I’m standing in front of a camera, their cheerful, eyes-forward answer doesn’t feel right at all.
“I’m not nervous about driving,” I say instead.
“I mean, I’m not scared of having another crash as bad as that one.
But it does feel really shitty that Ellis and Antony aren’t here.
They would’ve loved to have an opportunity like this, and I’m just—I’m really sorry for their families, and their friends. ”
I don’t add that it must be really hard for the people that loved them to see me racing tonight.
But I know that it is. Travis texted a lot with Antony’s mom, Mrs. Costa, yesterday.
She’s become something of a surrogate parent for him over the past year, and she told him to tell me that she wished me luck tonight, and that she’d be cheering for both of us.
But I doubt that she’ll watch the race. When Travis invited her to a race earlier this season, she told him she couldn’t stand to watch him race live.
She watches the race highlights, and sends him texts praising his best overtakes, but if she tries to watch live, she spends the whole time sick to her stomach, waiting for the worst to happen.
“Thank you, Jacob,” the interviewer says. “And good luck on the race.”
“That was really good,” Marcie says, as we walk back through the paddock.
“Thanks.”
“Although you’ll owe the team a few grand for saying ‘shitty’ in an interview.”
“Fuck,” I say. “I forgot.”
“I’m kidding.” She smiles. “Well, mostly kidding. Please try not to say ‘fuck’ on anything live.”
I grin. “I’ll do my best. Hey, do I have to be anywhere right now, or can I disappear for a couple of minutes?”
“Sofia and Cory wanted to talk to you,” Marcie says. “But I can ask them to wait, if it’s something important?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”
I don’t think Crosswire would count “I need to see my boyfriend” as something important, especially not compared to a meeting with Sofia and Cory. I don’t know what I’d say to Travis, anyway, or how to put this weird feeling inside of me into words.
The remaining hour before the race dwindles by alarmingly quickly.
I meet with Sofia and Cory, who talk about car settings and pit strategies until my head starts to spin, then I say a quick hello to Anne, Ben, Trevor and Jonathan.
Anne kisses my cheek and tells me she’ll be proud of me wherever I finish, and Trevor tells me if I don’t win the race that the offer to stay with him and Jonathan in Italy will be rescinded.
“Give me strength,” Ben groans, rubbing his fingers against his forehead. He’s wearing a Crosswire t-shirt, but he’s crossed out Clayton’s number and written mine on, instead. It reminds me of Travis’s alteration to my race shoes, and I look down at the smudged Sharpie for comfort.
“Seriously, though, good luck,” Trevor says. “I’ll be cheering for you, even though Travis is hotter.”
Behind us, Samuel splutters out a laugh.
“Sorry,” he says, chuckling. “It’s time to get in the car, second-hottest driver.”
“Third hottest,” Trevor corrects. “Second is that Cole Milton guy.”
“I’ll see you guys after,” I say, chuckling at the horrified look on Samuel’s face.
I’m still smiling as I drive my car to the grid, but as I see Travis pulling into the grid spot beside me, my nerves rise up again.
He gives me a thumbs up as we climb out of our cars, but he’s accosted by a TV camera before I can get to him.
As my stomach twists unpleasantly, I duck away to find the nearest bathroom.