Chapter 6
Annalise
Me: What time will you arrive?
I check the time again, even though I did so thirty seconds ago. It’s five of eleven and Travis is scheduled to arrive at the photoshoot location in another fifteen minutes. Amato has their shoot before the customary group photoshoot of all twenty drivers on this year’s grid lineup.
While his Amato team has his racing suit and helmet, I’ve brought a few other supplies he’ll need for the shoot and am here to assist the photographer in any way he needs.
Travis doesn’t answer within a few minutes, which leads me to conclude that he’s driving and on his way. Instead of staring at my phone, I head inside. When I glance up, it’s to see a few of the Formula 2 drivers entering the large hangar structure where today’s shoot is taking place.
The building and lot are owned by the FIA.
“Annalise.” Sascha, an FIA employee, waves.
“Hey,” I greet and point toward the entrance. “That’s Bree Walters, isn’t it?”
She nods excitedly. “That’s right. They all just finished their shoot this morning.”
“I can’t wait to see what she does this season,” I comment, watching Bree walk away while talking to one of the other F2 drivers. “She’s amazing to watch on the track.”
“I know! And they say that Create’s car is looking good this year, too,” Sascha confirms the news I’ve heard as well of the Formula 2 team’s chances.
“Let’s hope it’s not a lie. If Bree performs the way I think she can and has a good car to boot, her chances to reach Formula 1 are within grasp.”
Sascha looks at me askance.
Did I say something wrong? I go back over my previous comment.
“You think so?” There’s laughter in her voice as if that’s the last thing on Earth she would’ve expected me to say.
“You don’t?”
She shakes her head. “What do I know?” She throws up her hand. “I’m going to go see if they need help finishing up in there.”
I watch her go, wondering what she might know that I don’t. I mean, in the world of motorsport there’re always secrets. Teams wouldn’t be able to keep their advantage without some secrets, obviously.
But what’s not a secret is how excellent of a driver Bree Walters is.
The daughter of a French-Senegalese businessman and a Black American mother, she’s poised to leave her mark on this sport, in my opinion.
This will be her third year in Formula 2 after making the switch over from motorcycle racing.
No, there’s never been a woman with a long-term career in the history of Formula 1, and not one this century, but my money is on her to be the first.
Shaking off thoughts about Bree, I head inside to where the photographer for today’s shoot has set up. My phone buzzes with a message from Travis.
“Shit.”
My eyes bulge.
“Travis is delayed. He sends his apologies,” I tell the photographer. “He’s already let Drake and the other members of the team know.”
“That is not a problem,” the photographer says in an Italian accent. “We will just photograph Max since he is here, and then we can do the shots of both of them once Travis arrives.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, doing my best to ignore the mention of my brother’s teammate.
“Yes.” He glances around. “I can’t seem to find Max. I am certain he was here earlier. Can you look for him?”
“I …” I trail off because no I can’t go look for Max Ferreira.
It’s been a week since he moved into my building and I’ve managed to not see him since.
Save for that one time I spotted him coming out of the elevator as I entered the building.
I damn near had to do a nosedive off of the steps and around the building before he caught sight of me.
Don’t ask me why I did it.
It made sense at the time. Having as few interactions with Max as possible is my goal for the time being.
Once the season begins, we’ll both be so busy that running into one another will be virtually impossible.
I hope.
“Annalise,” the photographer calls, sounding as if that’s not the first time he’s said my name.
“Yes, I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I asked if you could go find Max for me?”
I swallow down my initial response and give a short nod.
This isn’t a big deal and it’s not like I have much to do with Travis not being here.
Though I did want to read a couple of articles and respond to a shit ton of emails.
Most of which are requests from sports podcasters and YouTubers who all want a chance for a sit-down interview with Travis.
He hasn’t done very many this off-season because he wanted to spend as much time with Alyssia and Lucky as possible.
“I don’t think that’s—”
“No need to come look for me.” Max’s voice surprises me into silence as I whip around to find him smiling down at the photographer.
I hate that I have to look up at him.
What I despise even more is the easy way his sparkling gaze slides over to me. His expression doesn’t change or reveal much but I get caught up for longer than I should. It’s one of the rare moments all of the competing thoughts in my head dull.
The silence doesn’t last long, though.
Within a beat of his appearance, I spin on my heel toward the photographer. “Looks like he’s been found. Since I’m not needed for anything, I’ll be over there.” I point over my shoulder toward the corner of the garage that looks out of the way.
The photographer stops me.
“Do you have an idea of Travis’ arrival time?”
I recheck the text he sent to make sure I read it right the first time. “He said thirty minutes. But that was ten minutes ago,” I add.
“Max’s solo shoot shouldn’t take much longer than that. Then we can set up to do the double shoot. If Travis isn’t here by then, you can stand in for him to help me get the angles practiced before he comes.”
My attention goes to a silent Max. His gaze isn’t silent, though. The glint in his eyes reveals he picks up on how uncomfortable I am with that.
“He’ll be here by then,” I assure the photographer before heading to the empty chair in the corner to respond to those emails.
It takes me absurdly longer than it should to send out some basic replies. I’ve done this type of thing hundreds … thousands of times, yet my attention keeps drifting toward the middle of the room where Max has donned his fire engine red racing uniform.
The jumpsuit fits him perfectly, a little extra room in the back, as with all of the racing jumpsuits for seating. When he takes his helmet from one of Amato’s employees, tucking it underneath his left arm, I can’t help but picture him wearing it.
There’s something about a driver in his racing suit that just—
“Annalise!”
Startled, I leap to my feet, knocking my bag onto the floor, spilling the contents out. I inhale sharply and go to pick up my tablet, hoping it’s not broken or damaged, but a hand stops me.
I peer up to see a man with dark brown hair grinning down at me.
“Allow me,” Edwin says. He rises to his full height, handing me my tablet. “Doesn’t look damaged.”
“Thank you,” I tell Max’s assistant or manager or agent or whatever the hell he is to Max.
“Annalise,” the photographer calls again. “We need you over here to help with the blocking.”
When I look at Max, his eyes are slightly narrowed, the sparkling that was apparent earlier all but faded. Maybe it’s just that I can’t see it from my vantage point. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me what’s altered his mood.
“Uh,” I glance over at Edwin. “How about Edwin handling it? He’s probably a better match for blocking than I am.”
At that precise moment, Edwin pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Sorry, important call,” he claims. “Max, this is the one we’ve been waiting for.”
Max nods and waves him off to take the call.
“Annalise, we don’t have much time.”
I squeeze my lips together, wanting to blatantly refuse, but none of the other drivers have arrived yet. And all of the Amato employees present look engaged in one form of work or another.
After placing my bag and phone on the chair, I go over to the staged shoot.
“Where do you want me?”
The photographer’s grin lets me know I’m about to regret what I’ve just said.
“That’s exactly what the woman I had last night asked me.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “It was a very good night.”
My stomach churns and I’m about to tell this guy to keep it cute or else this shoot is about to get very uncomfortable for everyone.
This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered this guy, and though he’s gotten better over the years, every now and again I have to remind him to keep his comments professional.
“Keep it professional or we can get someone else to do the shoot.”
My eyes widen at the sharpness of Max’s tone. When I look at him, he’s glaring at the photographer, who immediately capitulates.
“M-Mi dispiace,” he stutters out. “It was a joke.” He tries to laugh, which only pisses me off because of how quickly some men are to correct their behavior in the face of another man when confronted. It wasn’t enough that I’ve told him about his comments before.
But I don’t allow myself to get swallowed up by resentment. This photographer is frequently used by the FIA and the last thing I want to do is make trouble for anyone, especially not my brother when he shows up.
Yet, when I cast my attention on Max, his glare continues to drill holes in the side of the photographer’s head. He suddenly found his camera very interesting, fiddling around with it, avoiding eye contact with Max.
Clearing my throat, I move closer to the set up. “Where should I stand?” I ask, choosing my words more carefully this time.
“Just over there,” the photographer states, his voice changing to a more serious tone. “Can we have her hold Travis’ helmet?” he asks one of the Amato employees.
Someone brings over the red and white helmet. It always surprises me when I hold one of these how light they actually are despite their size.
I peer inside the empty helmet and my mind all of a sudden flashes with all of the things that could go wrong if I were to put the helmet on my head.
What if it’s bad luck to wear someone else’s helmet?
What if I break it?