Chapter 6 #2
Would Travis want me to wear his helmet?
My eyes drop to the inside of the helmet, seeing my brother’s name.
The ‘what-ifs’ don’t stop, and I think to tell the photographer that this is a bad idea again.
“Relax.”
Max’s voice pulls on my awareness, bringing me back into focus.
“I’m probably the last person you want to stand next to, but this won’t take long.” There’s a bite in the words he says only loud enough for me to hear.
The photographer, now on the other side of the room, is changing his camera’s lens.
“I wasn’t thinking about you,” I say honestly. I refuse to tell him that my brain tried to take me down what could’ve turned into a long and endless thought tunnel.
Max doesn’t need to know how my mind works.
“I find that surprising,” he retorts.
I open my mouth to give him a scathing reply—because why would I be thinking about Max Ferreira of all people—but the photographer intervenes with a request for me to take a seat on one of the square pieces draped in a gray sheet they’ve chosen for the shoot.
I sit in the requested position and do my best to focus on the photographer and his directions and not the heat emanating from Max’s body behind me.
The task is easier said than done when I find my eyes drifting to the top corner of the hangar.
What if Travis got into an accident?
The thought appears out of nowhere, and I can’t stop the next thought that reminds me of the time when I was late getting to one of Travis’ races.
The race where he got into an accident so bad it broke his arm.
Should I text him again?
But that would distract him if he’s driving.
“Annalise, could you stand face to face with Max?”
The photographer’s words give me something to do instead of going down another spiral.
“Sure.” I inject false cheerfulness into my voice. As long as I can pretend I’m unfazed by all of this, I will be unfazed.
“Shouldn’t be too much longer that you’ll have to put up with my unbearable presence,” Max says while the photographer pauses to check something with his camera.
I roll my eyes. “Once again, I wasn’t thinking about you. You are a non-factor,” I not so kindly remind Max.
“Ouch.” He doesn’t appear the least bit wounded by my reply. “You should hope your brother doesn’t take the same attitude. I love being underestimated. Blink and it’ll be me you watch being crowned as the king of motorsport this season.”
I snort. “Don’t count on it.”
He raises an eyebrow and inches, almost imperceptibly, closer. “Would you like to wager on that, princess?”
The final word is a sneer.
“Why wager when it’s almost a guarantee you’ll lose?” I shrug before turning away from him. I glance at the clock and then the photographer in hopes that he won’t read the truth in my expression.
There are no guarantees in Formula 1, and just because you were at the top last season doesn’t mean you’re guaranteed a repeat or to even finish in the top three. The cars and drivers, for that matter, can undergo multiple changes from one season to the next.
Another look at the clock has me wondering where Travis is.
“Max,” someone calls, drawing both of our attentions.
It’s a young man wearing a red Amato Racing shirt. The wide grin on his face and stars in his eyes speaks to his excitement at just being a part of this world-class team. The fact that I don’t recognize him likely means he’s a new hire.
“I found one of Severino’s old shirts back at headquarters.” He thrusts out a hand, holding the folded shirt. “What if you wore it for the photographer to take a few photos?”
Silence answers the guy.
I turn to look up at Max, whose gaze is glued to the shirt. His eyes have become hooded. Max typically wears an aura of a light-hearted playboy. He’s the partygoer who can stay out all hours of the night and show up for a race the next day.
And sometimes win.
Most don’t take him seriously, which leads them to believe he doesn’t take himself all that seriously.
But viewing his profile from this angle as he wordlessly stares at his father’s old shirt, it makes me wonder about things I have no business thinking about. Like, what is it that gets underneath Max’s skin?
Why did he make the leap from Kr?mer to Amato?
Does staring at that shirt bring back memories from a trauma that no child should ever experience?
“He’s not wearing that.”
Edwin’s declaration acts in the same way as someone pressing their finger on the play button of a paused video. Max does a tight shake of his head.
“I told you earlier when you asked about it, mate.” Edwin’s voice is harsh, his movements slightly aggressive as he approaches the younger man.
“Edwin, drop it.” Max’s voice is low but controlling enough that Edwin halts the tirade that looked to be in the tip of his tongue.
They share a look for a second before Edwin takes the shirt and says something I can’t hear to the young Amato employee.
His shoulders droop but he doesn’t say anything and turns to head back toward where the other Amato employees gather.
When I look back at Max, that easygoing expression has returned.
“Let’s go through a few more poses,” the photographer directs.
The minutes tick by and I try my damnedest not to let my private inquiries run wild. I tell myself the only reason the questions are mounting is because of how much I’ve read about every F1 driver on the grid this year.
As a fan of the sport for years and the sister turned assistant of one of the best drivers in racing, I do my research and can’t help it if I read an additional article or listen to a broadcast that details the entire careers of one or more drivers.
That’s it.
I’m just a curious fan with a little more access than most. Anyone would be curious to wonder about the inner-workings of Max Ferreira, son of the late, great Severino Ferreira who literally changed Formula 1 for the better.
“We don’t have time for your daydreaming in the middle of a photoshoot, princess.”
My stomach muscles clench in anger. My eyes meet Max’s closed off gaze.
“Don’t. Call. Me. That.”
I hate the way he says it. It makes me feel like he perceives me as some stuck-up airhead who couldn’t possibly relate to anyone or anything real.
“Testy,” he replies.
“I got your—”
“You’re standing too fucking close to my sister.”
I whip around to find Travis glaring at his teammate.
“Nice of you to show up,” Max tells Travis. “Wondered if you were going to have your sister drive for you this season, too.”
“You son of a—”
“Trav, we don’t have time.” I go over to my brother.
“Don’t let him get under your skin,” I tell him under my breath.
The men in my family aren’t known for their long tempers, and given the contention between Travis and Max already, the last thing I want is for this to turn ugly before the season has even started.
Which, given how uncomfortable he seems with people bringing up his father and knowing Travis is already Amato’s number one driver, begs the question, why would Max even decide to sign with Amato?