Chapter 8 #2
“Travis knows you’re rooting for him,” I console.
“Besides, Chloe needs you guys and Tristan. Trav has me, Alyssia, and Lucky.” My sister is in her final year of undergrad and her last season as a competitive fencer.
She has a huge competition coming up this weekend, otherwise my parents and the rest of my siblings would be here.
“Chloe got the flowers you sent,” my mom tells me. “She loved them.”
“She texted me.”
My mom and I talk for a few more minutes about the upcoming events for my siblings and how busy we all are. Despite the upset tone that lingers in my mom’s voice, my heart smiles. My parents are the best people anyone could ask for.
There wasn’t an extracurricular we participated in, a sport we played, or a cause we stood up for that they didn’t support.
It’s no wonder that one of my brothers has gone on to be the top of his sport, my other brother is in his final stretch of obtaining his Ph.D.
in astrophysics, while Chloe is not only one of the best fencers in our state but has also set her sights on getting her Ph.D. in economics.
And what are you doing with your law degree and all of the energy your parents put into you?
I shake loose the thought in order to refocus on what my mother’s saying. She’s bringing up the changes to the grid that’ve been made since last season. That makes me think of something.
“Hey, Mom, is Dad around? I want to ask his opinion on something.”
“Sure. Hang on, baby.”
A few minutes later, my dad’s voice welcomes me.
“Hi, baby. No one’s bothering you down there, are they?” Anyone hearing my dad’s question might think he’s being playful.
I know better.
“No, Dad. Why would anyone bother me?”
“I don’t like you being far away by yourself.”
I roll my eyes toward the sky. “I’m not by myself. I’m working. Travis and Alyssia arrive tomorrow.”
“You should’ve waited to go with hi—”
“Anyway,” I interrupt. “Dad, what do you think about women in sports?”
There’s a pause.
“Well, I’m going to watch your sister kick ass this weekend, and my voice is always the loudest in the room, so I’d say my thoughts are decently positive.”
I snicker thinking of the many times my dad’s embarrassed my sister and all of us with his effusive cheers and chants at our events.
He almost got into a fight with one of the judges at my state debate competition for being too loud.
“No, that didn’t come out right,” I correct. “I mean F1 specifically.”
I fill him in on my view of the Bree Walters situation.
“She deserves to be a Formula 1 driver,” I finish.
“No one deserves it. They earn it,” he tells me.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do …” He trails off.
I stare out at the beauty of the lake, adoring the way the sun makes the water sparkle like tiny diamonds dancing across the top as if it was a dance floor. Stupidly, I’m reminded of the last time I danced, and Max’s masked face comes back to mind.
I still kick myself for not immediately picking up that it was him.
How could I have not known?
“It’s too risky,” my dad finally answers.
My stomach becomes leaden with guilt. Here I am on the phone with my parents, thinking about a dance I shared with their son’s biggest rival.
Where’s the loyalty?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I force myself to center on my dad and this conversation. It takes a beat before I can reconcile what he’s just said.
“Don’t all athletes take risks?” He’s a retired NFL quarterback for goodness’ sake. The man risked serious injury every week when defensive players twice his size aimed to take his head off.
“Yes, but it’s different.”
“So if a female football player had designs on playing in the NFL you would be opposed to it?”
“Yes,” he answers directly, shocking me. “There are already leagues for women football players. Same as soccer, basketball, fencing, etc., granting women and girls plenty of opportunity to play at a competitive level.”
“Except motorsports,” I remind him.
“Maybe they should.”
My shoulders deflate.
“It’s different,” I insist. “In motorsport, the vehicles are the drivers of the competition not individual bodies, so comparing something like soccer or football to F1 isn’t a one to one.”
“You do have a point,” he acquiesces. “I still think it’s risky. This Bree Walters doesn’t sound like she’s ready for the added pressure of being the first woman in a sport like F1 would bring,” he says. “You said she’s had four agents in two years.”
“Three,” I hastily correct as if that’s any better.
An odd sensation comes over me as I run my free hand over the back of my neck. I can’t help the feeling of being watched. There are people strolling back and forth, some sitting at tables, not too far from me engaged in their own conversations.
Why would anyone be watching me?
I start to think it’s yet another intrusive thought, threatening to take form in my mind, but the hairs on the back of my neck suggest this might not simply be a figment of my imagination.
One look over my shoulder confirms it.
Standing there with hooded eyes and something between a smirk and a frown playing at what I can only imagine are soft lips, is Max Ferreira.
“That’s not a good sign,” my dad continues. “Maybe I’m wrong, and perhaps this Bree will prove the naysayers wrong this season. Honestly, though, I don’t see it happening.”
My lips part to respond to my dad but my eyes remain glued to Max. He hasn’t said anything, but he also hasn’t made any effort to turn away or acknowledge that I’m engaged in a conversation.
“Th-Thanks for your input, Dad,” I say. “I have to go. I love you.”
“You know I love you more than the sun, the moon, and the stars combined.”
His usual parting words make the corners of my mouth rise before I disconnect the call.
“Eavesdropping isn’t going to win you any races,” I say, glaring at Max.