Chapter 8 #3
My assistant flits about as he follows me to my driver room, dipping and ducking and trying to make eye contact with me. I pointedly ignore him.
‘I’m fine, Sami,’ I repeat for the hundredth time. I’d be more honest with him if he weren’t also my cousin, duty-bound to report my well-being back to my mother. ‘They cleared me at the medical center. It was nothing.’
The crash truly wasn’t bad. Yes, it ended a promising race prematurely.
Yes, my mechanics have intense work ahead to make the requisite repairs before the next race.
And yes, I’ll be feeling that impact for days – my neck is already stiff, my back aches, and while they couldn’t conclusively rule out a concussion, no one’s particularly worried.
I know firsthand how much worse it could have been, so why make a big deal of this when it was nothing?
Except I should be making a bigger deal of it.
I should be ranting and raving, up in arms because Axel was an impatient little shit and ruined both our chances of scoring points.
I should be fucking furious and letting the whole world know it from the media pen, yet all I did while down there was run a hand down my face, shrug, and tell the reporters, ‘That’s racing,’ all while my press officer watched me with increasing worry.
But I’m not angry. I’m just hot and tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes after the worst adrenaline rush, and it’s creeping into the spaces that once held my obsession for this sport.
I’m no longer driving because I want to.
I’m doing it because I have to. Because there are contracts that tell me this is where I’m supposed to be – where I’m supposed to stay.
Because there are people I refuse to let down.
Because I want to leave a stronger legacy for myself as the first man of color to achieve such greatness and do it in my father’s honor.
But more than anything, it’s because without it, I don’t have anything else.
This is it. This is what keeps me alive.
This is my whole life. Everything else is a distraction from the main goal of winning.
The philanthropy, the documentaries, the art gallery – they’re things I hoped I could enjoy and build on when I retired, when I could finally give my full focus to something else, but I’ll never feel the same passion for them that I once had for racing.
If I leave, I fear there will be nothing to fill the void.
I shrug out of my race suit’s sleeves, letting them flutter to my hips as I take a breath, easing myself away from the dramatics and hard choices that don’t have to be made yet. Right now, my path is still laid out for me.
‘What did Axel say to you?’ Sami asks as he grabs me a water from the mini-fridge.
I gratefully accept the bottle, dehydrated from a long, sweaty race. I chug for a moment before answering. ‘He came over to make sure I was all right.’
Sami frowns. ‘Really? Then why’d he grab your shoulder all angry-like?’
‘He wasn’t—’ I cut short, not wanting to expose myself or Axel and the memories that haunt us. ‘I’m sure he was angry about the crash, but it wasn’t directed at me. He was worried about how long it was taking me to get out of the car. Wanted to see if I needed any help. That’s all.’
‘Huh.’ Sami flops onto the love seat, considering this. ‘Press is saying he was yelling at you, blaming you for the crash. Even if he wasn’t, he still shouldn’t have touched you.’
I don’t know if I’d have snapped out of the flashback to Singapore if he hadn’t, grounding me in that moment and dragging me to the present. ‘It’s fine. I’m not worried about it.’
Sami’s lips twist like he wants to protest, but there’s a knock on the door before he can speak. We both turn as Adnan pops his head inside, one large hand pressed to the doorframe.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he says, eyes darting between us, and there’s something in my bodyguard’s gaze that makes unease creep up my neck. ‘But I have a message I’m supposed to pass on to you, Zaid.’
‘A message?’ I raise a brow. It’s probably one of the bosses summoning me for a chat, but usually they have their assistants call Sami to organize it. ‘From who?’
‘Thomas Maxwell-Brown’s wife.’
That’s unexpected. I’ve had exactly one conversation with Stella before, and that was back in Bahrain when I apologized for not being able to attend her and Thomas’s wedding – well, their second wedding, which they invited everyone to after they eloped in Las Vegas last year.
I’ve seen her in the paddock a few more times since then and offered polite greetings, but that’s all.
What message could she possibly have for me?
‘What does she want?’ I ask, completely baffled.
Adnan pulls a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I’m supposed to give you this.’
This is getting stranger by the second. Still, I take the note and unfold it, heart beating in overdrive when I spot the signature at the bottom – along with the name of the hotel I’m staying at and a room number three floors below mine.
I need to see you.
– Ava