Chapter 53
ALARIC
“Focus and push, Heath. Focus and push. You’ve got this.” I rise from my stool, headset on, and grip the edge of the pit wall.
Qualifying is an important part of every grand prix, but it’s exponentially more important in Monaco. It’s one of the tightest, most unforgiving circuits in the entire championship. There’s almost no room for overtaking. Where a driver starts on the grid is typically where they place in the race.
I hold my breath as Ferris finishes his flying lap.
“Yes.” I pump my fist when his time hits the board.
1:10.143
That’s provisional pole.
Eleanor, Ferris’s race engineer, throws both hands up beside me. Monique hops off her stool and squeezes her from behind, then leans over and punches my arm.
It’s unlikely we’ll hold on to P1 for long, but in this moment, it’s ours.
Too bad I’m too distraught to truly enjoy it.
I’ve spent the last four days moving through the world on autopilot.
I’ve thrown up several times. So many, in fact, that for a while, I worried I’d caught a virus.
I can’t sleep, which isn’t entirely novel for me, but I can’t read or hold a conversation or do anything else required of a functional human, it seems. Getting out of bed the last two mornings has been nearly impossible.
I’ve worked from home as much as I can, not even coming to the paddock until today’s qualifying session.
Mia finishes her flying lap with an impressive 1:10.190.
Prince and Matty cross with times of 1:10.002 and 1:09.998.
Heath is next, nailing a 1:09.968, placing us back on provisional pole.
Lincoln is the last to finish. As we collectively hold our breath, the yellow livery of the Helios Racing car flies by, and Lincoln sets a new circuit record with a time of 1:09.500.
Damn. So close.
But P2 and P5 are still fantastic positions and our highest spots on the grid so far this season.
My colleagues hug and carry on. As they should. Accomplishments like this should be celebrated. We’re in excellent position to score major points tomorrow.
I should be elated.
But right now, all I feel is utterly, hopelessly defeated.
On instinct, I stick my hands in my pockets, feeling for the fidget Evangeline made for me. The shape and texture are a familiar balm, soothing my nerves. There’s even a shiny spot, smoother than the rest of the plastic, where I tend to rub the most.
But every time I clutch my lucky token, it makes me think of her.
The chaos and celebration continue around me. This is what the team has worked for. This makes all the grueling hours of preseason development to testing and refining these machines for peak performance worth it.
Yet I can’t even bring myself to crack a smile as I take it all in. I’m not worthy of happiness or enjoyment. Not after what I did to her.
Walking out on Evangeline as she crumpled was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was disgusted with myself in the moment, and I’m still sick about it now. I instantly regretted my declaration. Like a coward, I couldn’t even look her in the eye when I told her we couldn’t be together.
I’ve never known a pain like this.
And if I’m reeling, I can’t imagine what she’s feeling.
I hate myself.
Why does it feel like what’s best for her is the worst option for us?
Sighing, I turn on my headset and feign enthusiasm.
“Fantastic work, everyone. P2 and P5. I couldn’t be prouder to be the leader of this team.”
I also couldn’t be more heartbroken. Because I’ve sacrificed everything—love, my happiness, a future—to be in this position. I yank my headset off my head and hand it to Quinn. “I’ll be in my office, but I don’t want to be disturbed.”
For hours, I find excuses to remain at the paddock rather than heading home.
Despite barely leaving my condo over the last few days, now that I have, I don’t know that I can step back inside. I’m not ready to be assaulted by the heartache again. At least when I’m here, I can distract myself with work.
I spend quite a bit of time tinkering with the MeyerModel stats app.
It was created in part by one of the co-owners of SC Cornelia, the team that replaced Mulligan’s Racing several years ago.
It was originally an American football stats program but has been modified for F1.
It’s a genius piece of technology that allows me to run scenarios and derive statistical probability based on grid placement, expected track and air temperature, and simulator data, among other things.
I’m squinting at the model on screen, the data showing the likelihood of Lincoln not starting, resulting in a single front-line start for Heath, when there’s a hard knock on my door.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell the person in the hall that I can’t be disturbed. Though when I realize it’s well past ten, I sigh and acquiesce. If someone’s stopping by this late, it can’t mean anything good. “Come in.”
“Hey.” Mick strides in, a to-go container in one hand and a six-pack in the other.
I zero in on the beer, noting it’s my favorite import from Stellatoria.
“Noticed you didn’t come down for lunch or dinner,” he says, placing the to-go container on my desk in front of me. “Thought you might be hungry.”
Without invitation, he sits in one of the plush chairs across from me and helps himself to a bottle of beer.
He uses the edge of my desk to pop the cap.
Then, casually, as if he’s just here to hang out, he settles in, making himself comfortable.
Alarm bells blare in my head, the urge to tell him to leave me alone to wallow the strongest of the warnings.
“You know who else hasn’t eaten today? Or yesterday, or the day before, according to swipe records?”
My gut cramps. Of course I know. I’ve checked the records myself. Many times.
I scrub one hand down my face, sighing.
“Your girl hasn’t responded to any of my emails either,” he goes on. “I had that local chef come in and teach my staff how to make soccas like you requested, and she hasn’t even tried them.”
Was it extreme to hire Evangeline’s favorite street cart vendor to show the team how to make a dish she’d like? Most definitely.
Pathetically I mutter, “She’s not my girl.”
He snorts. “You sure about that, boss?”
I’ve asked him to not call me boss a hundred times over the last year. We’ve been colleagues and friends for more than two decades. But he continues. Probably to get under my skin.
“Damn sure. She’s Luca’s ex-girlfriend.” I reach for a beer and crack it open on my side of the desk.
He raises both brows and tips his bottle to his lips once more.
“She’s also my employee,” I remind him between swigs.
He shrugs.
It’s infuriating, honestly. He’s worked for this team for as long as I have. He understands what’s at stake here.
I slam my bottle down harder than necessary and angle forward. “After what Bolton did to all those employees, after getting away with harassing young women for years—”
Mick scoffs and takes another casual sip of his beer, then straightens. “Is that the big concern here? That being in love with a woman who happens to work for this team is somehow comparable to that scumbag sending dick pics to the social media interns?”
The air escapes my lungs. When he puts it like that…
“You’re not him. This isn’t then. And everyone who’s ever worked with you knows you’re nothing like Bolton fucking Reynold.”
A wisp of hope drifts into my consciousness, but I quickly bat it away. Even if Mick’s statements are valid, his assurance does little to quell my anger. The comparison and potential reputational damage aren’t what I’m most concerned about anyway. All my concern revolves around Evangeline.
“You, my friend, are the most respectful, thoughtful, considerate man I’ve ever met,” he presses, the veneration in his tone making me squirm. “There’s not a single person in this motorhome who would question your integrity or professionalism.”
I fall forward, the fatigue of the last few days shrouding me as my shoulders cave in on themselves.
While I appreciate his assessment, it changes nothing.
With my head in my hands, I groan. “It doesn’t matter.
A relationship with Evangeline is too risky.
I’m too well known, as is Luca. The media would destroy her. She’d never work in Formula 1 again.”
My friend keeps his focus fixed on me as he takes a slow sip. “And you’re sure that’s important to her?”
Confused, I frown. “What do you mean?”
He shakes his head and huffs. “She just started working for Granata. On a new team. As a late hire. Some people spend years trying to break into this sport, but that doesn’t seem to be her angle. Are you sure a career in Formula 1 is some big dream for her?”
It’s not.
She told me so point-blank.
Yet I was so overwhelmed and blinded by the fear of causing her more harm that I ignored her pleas and dismissed her when she told me what she wanted and needed.
Heartache and regret swirl into a cyclone of misery as I tip my bottle up and finish off my beer.
Fuck.
What am I doing? And more importantly, why?