Chapter 3 #3
Zaid, on the other hand . . . I know they’ve been hounding him more than they did before the crash, which almost seems impossible.
I wouldn’t believe it if he weren’t a top headline every time I opened a newspaper or scrolled through social media.
If he were just a Formula 1 driver, I might not understand the obsession. But Zaid Yousef is more than that.
He’s a humanitarian, the face of several high-profile sponsorships, an art gallery owner, and even a movie producer.
He’s taken the millions he’s made and not just put them into mansions and jets and yachts like other athletes, but reinvested them in people and projects, even creating his own junior karting team and young driver management agency.
His namesake foundation, dedicated to getting more girls and marginalized kids around the world into STEM and motorsport, is unrivaled.
Hell, the most recent documentary his production company financed about asylum seekers won an Oscar.
He’s bigger than the sport, and the limelight follows him wherever he goes.
And from what I’m sensing, he’s sick of it.
‘It would be nice if the press didn’t care about me too,’ he says, and there’s that flash again, like he can’t believe he’s admitted it. He covers the slip with another swig of whiskey before asking me, ‘What have you been doing since you left Specter?’
‘A little of this, a little of that,’ I say vaguely, because nothing I’ve done could ever be as impressive as his accomplishments. ‘Moved back to the US, bought a house, started doing freelance graphic design. Nothing all that special.’
‘Is it what you want to be doing?’
I swallow back the not really threatening to bubble up and try to keep my smile light and easy. ‘It is what it is,’ I answer.
The reality is that I miss F1. I miss my old job and my life in England.
I even miss all the back-to-back travel that left me wishing for a month of hibernation at the end of each season.
But I know the slower pace of life now is what I need to move forward with my dream of motherhood.
Besides, it’s not like I can take a baby from race to race and work at the same time.
The happy medium would have been working at Specter Energy’s headquarters, like I did when I first came to the team, before the marketing department grew and my talents were needed trackside instead of just in the office.
But Dad made it clear I wasn’t welcome anywhere near the team any more, and no other constructor would have welcomed a competitor’s daughter with open arms.
My time in F1 is done, no matter how much that reality hurts sometimes.
Zaid looks like he wants to challenge me on my answer, but he stops short, holding up a hand in apology before reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone.
Whatever he sees on the screen has his expression shuttering and posture stiffening.
I don’t have to spy over his arm – though I do anyway – to know that it’s from someone wondering where the hell he’s disappeared to.
He’s pulling away without physically doing so, retreating in on himself and shutting me out after a brief peek behind the curtain. I shouldn’t push to see more, should just let him go brood in a dark corner somewhere, but watching him shut down makes my chest ache.
‘Hey, are you any good at darts?’ I blurt before my brain can catch up to my mouth.
Zaid’s eyes drag back up to mine, brow once again dipping in the middle. I hop off my barstool and back toward the dartboard on the screaming-eagle wall.
‘Because I’m fantastic,’ I push on. ‘And I’ve yet to meet anyone who can beat me.’
That is, in fact, an egregious lie. I’m terrible at darts, more likely to take out someone’s eye than hit a bullseye, but I’ve never met a racing driver who turned down a little competition.
And right now, I’d do just about anything to get Zaid out from underneath the storm cloud that’s soaking him through.
‘Think you could be the first?’ I coax, glancing at him over my shoulder as I grab the darts from the board.
He’s still as he stares at me, but he’s considering my offer.
What I can’t tell is which way he’s deciding – the man is so wildly unreadable that I don’t think his book is even open.
When he finally stands, tall enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him, I’m almost convinced he’s about to turn and walk back upstairs without saying goodbye.
But to my surprise, he shrugs out of his tuxedo jacket and tugs at the knot of his bow tie, letting it hang around his neck as he pops the top button of his shirt.
I swallow hard and watch, biting my tongue to keep from requesting that he undo a few more buttons.
He then gestures toward the darts, turning his palm up for me to place them there. Our fingers brush as I hand him his set, and I swear electricity arcs up my arm, sending sparks through my chest. Shaking off what was certainly a hallucination, I grin cheekily up at him and get a smirk in return.
‘All right, princess,’ he says. ‘Let’s see how good you really are.’