Chapter 6 #2
That moment was enough to make me ask around about her, curious to know who the beautiful girl terrorizing Omid Farahani was.
The discovery that she was his daughter didn’t stop me from stealing more glances at her over the years – all right, sometimes more than a glance – but it always kept me from getting too close.
I’m certain her father warned her away from me back then.
Who wouldn’t have? I had a playboy reputation and a penchant for recklessness – any parent’s nightmare.
But Omid wasn’t the only one with warnings.
My own father once caught me looking her way, and while his lips never moved, his expression said it all. Don’t make trouble for yourself.
Well, I’ve gone and made trouble anyway, unable to keep myself from following the trail of my youthful infatuation, still harboring a crush on a woman I should have stayed far away from, especially after turning her life upside down.
And I should still stay away. Yet here I am, thinking about how nice it would be to bump into her in the paddock and pick up where we left off. It pains me to admit it, but even after years and a night that will only live on in my memories, Ava Farahani still has a hold over me.
But this isn’t the time to be fantasizing about dropping to my knees and tasting her again or how her laugh alone puts a smile on my face. I need to focus on what lies ahead, because it’s coming up fast.
I spare a glance at Dev, pulling on a thread I’ve been marginally curious about over the past few months. ‘So you’re saying you didn’t throw those races so Reid Coleman could win the Drivers’ Championship?’ I ask casually. ‘It was just you getting used to the car?’
His head snaps in my direction, brown eyes wide. ‘What?’
I might not have been on the grid for the last few races of the season, but it doesn’t mean I was oblivious to the rumors.
The loudest talk concerned Dev’s performance and how, even after multiple pole positions and leading nearly every lap of several grands prix, Reid beat him to P1 week after week.
Dev and Reid are friends, or as friendly as lifelong competitors can be.
They came into F1 in the same season, along with Axel and Thomas, but as Americans who grew up in the same karting circuits, they’ve always been more familiar with each other.
Everyone knows Reid hasn’t had the easiest go of it at Scuderia D’Ambrosi, the Italian constructor that was also Lorenzo Castellucci’s team, and after five years of inching closer to the top, he finally got his chance to win the Drivers’ Championship after his teammate took Axel and me out of contention.
Reid wouldn’t have won without those factors – and without Dev continuously being the runner-up when he could have easily taken the top step of the podium.
Dev doesn’t need me to repeat myself, so I wait for his answer as I follow the directions of a traffic marshal guiding me toward the VIP car park.
‘Do you—’ He cuts off, shaking his head once, dark hair falling into his eyes. ‘Do you actually believe I’d do that?’
The question has rattled him, and I’m inclined to think that he might have done it. ‘What I believe is that I don’t care either way,’ I tell him as I pull into our designated parking spot. ‘Mascort still won the Constructors’ thanks to your help.’
Dev isn’t pacified. ‘I—’ he says, but this time he’s interrupted by a knock on the window, the smiling face of Mascort’s lead social media admin appearing. When I spot the phone in her hand, already recording us, I know this conversation is over.
Like a switch has been flipped, Dev is back to full muppet, all bright eyes and beaming smiles as he opens his car door. There’s no trace of his worry left, nothing to hint that I might know his secrets, but there’s a deep well to be explored.
‘It’s showtime,’ Dev says, glancing back over his shoulder at me. ‘Smile for the camera, buddy.’
——
I’m the first up to drive.
Testing days are split into two sessions – morning and afternoon – and each team sends one driver out on-track per session.
Sometimes it’s the same driver for both sessions that day.
Sometimes it’s split between the two. And today, I’m the miserable sod who’s climbing into the cockpit bright and early for the inaugural go-round.
There’s no observing Dev behind the wheel first, no hanging back with the team, no getting my bearings or having time to force myself off the ledge.
My chats with the engineers, the pit crew, and our team principal are finished.
I’m fully zipped into my race suit, boots on my feet, balaclava near to suffocating me.
I’m warmed up and physically ready for what’s about to be thrown at me. All that’s left is to just . . . drive.
‘Want a hand in?’ my trainer asks, drawing my attention away from the black-and-silver carbon-fiber beast in front of me.
It’s an innocent question. I’ve requested help before, an elbow to hold onto or a higher step stool to aid in clearing the height of the halo. But that’s not the help I need.
‘I’m all right,’ I make myself say.