Chapter 9
Max
There are specific races that I remember when I knew before the race started that I was going to come out on top.
Not all races, and certainly not every race that I’ve won did I have that feeling. But maybe three times, I awakened on the day of a race and just knew … before I’d gotten out of bed that morning, before I put on my helmet, before slipping into my car, it was mine to lose.
Something hung in the air, an electricity that couldn’t be seen, only felt. An energy that was all mine to harness, demanding that I take it, store it inside of me, and use it up to hit every corner precisely, to slip past every car in my way, and to demolish the clock.
Before those races, all of the expectations, doubts, inquiries happening inside of me would silence. It’s the closest thing I’ve ever felt to what my dad once referred to as drifting. I’ve never quite gotten that euphoric feeling he described, but maybe I’ve been close.
Either way, thoughts of those moments came crashing into my head as I walk past Annalise on the phone. I should’ve kept going, relating my thoughts to my upcoming race. Motivation to open my season by making pole before going on to win the damn Grand Prix.
That’s not what I do, though.
When I hear Annalise mention Formula 1, I slow down until I come to a stop. Then I continue to stare at her long after she’s hung up the phone, glaring in my direction.
“No? Then what will?” I reply to her comment about my eavesdropping.
She cocks her head to the side, and strangely my eyes drop to the slope of her golden colored neck.
Why does it match so well with her fiery red hair?
Hair that she’s pinned in a large, ivory butterfly clip, giving anyone who looks at her for too long an excellent view of the slope of her neck and shoulders.
My attention remains like a magnet to that slope. For no reason at all, the lesson I learned in my year six algebra course—that when a negative and a negative are drawn together, they create a positive—passes through my brain.
Her smile is sharp, and I know her next comment might sting a little bit.
I’m ready for the burn.
“If you haven’t figured it out by now then no one can save you.”
I raise an eyebrow, questioning.
“It’s simple,” she continues. “Remove head from sphincter then drive.”
My expression compresses into a narrowing of my brows and wrinkling of my forehead. “Is that a line from a movie?”
It sounds familiar but I can’t place it.
“It is, but I’m certain the film is above your comprehension level,” she snarks.
“I doubt it.”
“And I doubt that standing here with you is the best use of my time,” she says as if she’s made the decision to cut this conversation off and go on about her day.
Not liking the feeling of being dismissed, I say, “It’ll never happen.”
This gets her to rethink that step she’d just taken and look up at me.
“What?”
“Bree Walters. She doesn’t belong in Formula 1.”
To be honest, she probably doesn’t belong in Formula 2. Not only do I think that second part, I mention it out loud to Annalise.
It’s brief, too fleeting, but fire flares in her ridiculously beautiful eyes. I briefly wonder if they’re even real.
A princess like her wouldn’t hesitate to get some sort of work done while she cosplays as her brother’s assistant. The number of women who hang around motorsport in hopes of becoming an F1 WAG is … a lot.
My mother was one of them.
She lucked up and married one of the best drivers of all time. Her super model looks were probably what initially drew my father in.
“Who the hell are you to determine where she belongs?”
There’s that fire again in her eyes.
No. Definitely not contacts. That’s her true color. Only natural color would reflect real, genuine emotion like that.
A crack in her perfectly put together appearance.
“One of the majority,” I reply. “Since obviously I’m not the only one who recognizes the truth that women don’t belong in Formula 1. Otherwise, there would be more women on the grid. Bree Walters won’t be the first.”
The words escape my mouth before I think about them. I’ve seen Bree on the track. Who hasn’t? She came damn close to winning the title last year. But Matt Hayes out of Canada squeezed out the win.
He’ll likely be on the F1 grid sooner rather than later.
“No, she won’t.” Annalise’s words surprise me as she steps closer, hand on her hip and anger in the pinched skin between her brows. “Because Suzanne Phillips, Gina Guisseppe, and Tara Carlins all have competed in F1 races.”
I have a vague recollection of the names she mentions.
“If I recall correctly, only two out of the three have scored more than five points in their entire F1 careers, one failed to ever finish a race, and precisely none of them ever made a podium, much less became contenders for the championship. In the past fifteen years there hasn’t been a female driver who’s come close to reaching Formula 1. That won’t change any time soon.”
Her lips fold and eyes narrow. “Sexist prick.”
My head juts backwards, a thrill coursing through me.
“Sexism isn’t the same thing as telling the truth,” I contend. “Your tendency to throw around such accusations proves my point. Women are highly volatile and emotional. There’s nothing wrong with that.” I hold up my hands in a surrendering motion.
“That’s simply how it was meant to be. Women are to be protected, cared for. Not on a track going two hundred miles an hour. They belong in the stands or in the paddock rooting for those of us doing our job.”
By the time I stop talking, Annalise’s eyes have ballooned to twice their original size, her cheeks are stained red, and the clenched fists at her sides lead me to believe that she is seriously debating not if but where to punch me.
I don’t move.
Not one muscle, leaving me exposed to her potential attack.
When she takes a step closer, I brace myself for the contact. But it doesn’t come.
Disappointment, like that of a false start at the beginning of a race, overcomes me.
“You’re not worth it,” Annalise claims, tersely, practically spitting the insult at me. Those are her final wounding words before she spins on her heels and leaves me standing there.
They shouldn’t rattle me.
But when they collide with words she’s said about me in the past. Things like, “He’s a joke, not good enough,” they magnify other comments I’ve heard over the years.
“You’ll never be as good as your father.”
“He would be so disappointed in you.”
“I don’t know why your team principal even wastes his time with you.”
I watch Annalise as she disappears behind the doors of the restaurant. The comments circling the drain of my mind cause a stiffness in my neck. I turn my head left and right, cracking my neck, but that doesn’t do shit to discard the unease running through me.
I’m no longer in a position to be here.
I pivot to head toward the lot in search of the car that brought me, but run directly into Edwin.
“Good, I found you. William Cole is inside and he has a few minutes to meet with you.” That reminds me of why I even showed up today. Edwin set up some meetings with sponsors.
I’m not particularly fond of the luggage brand William Cole represents, but it is a well-known brand. Still, I’m not in the mood to put on my usual smiling and joking facade.
“We can do it tomorrow.”
Edwin stops me with a hand to my chest. “We can’t, mate. Cole’s busy for the rest of the weekend. As are you,” he reminds me. “You have a shit ton of press starting tomorrow, not to mention warm up laps, qualifying, oh and there’s the actual fucking race.
“Plus, Rodney, Jake, and Parker arrive in the morning.”
“You never told me they were all coming.” My surprise isn’t logical.
It’s the first race of the season, of course our mates want to show up for it.
However, in preparing for opening weekend, I’ve avoided calls and text, redirecting most communication to Edwin to handle it while I focused on training.
“Didn’t I?” he asks and shrugs.
I’m not in the mood right now.
“I’m going back to the hotel.”
“What? You can’t. Cole will only be available for a little longer. We need to pounce on this opportunity. You’re the one who said you wanted to up your sponsorship deals this season.”
Edwin confronting me with my own words has the same result as pouring petrol over a lit match.
“I’m not bloody meeting him now,” I say through clenched teeth.
Edwin rears back, eyes shifting between surprise and then curiosity.
“What’s the matter, mate? Stressed about this weekend? If there’s anything—”
“I’m fine. I just had a terrible flight and I need to get some rest before everything ramps up tomorrow.”
“Right. Right.” He nods, not mentioning that he was on the same flight. Which right now I’m grateful for.
“I’ll speak with Cole for you. You don’t need to be there. Go back to your room and work on those sudoku puzzles I just bought for you. I’ll handle everything here.”
I think about the book of puzzles I left sitting on my bed in my hotel room. I finished half of the book on the plane. I’ll need another one soon.
“Yeah,” I say and then stop, grasping Edwin’s shoulder. “When my mother contacts you, don’t tell her my room number.”
He gives me a quizzical look.
Rarely do I make this kind of request from him, but as off kilter as I’m feeling right now, I don’t want to deal with her. Not until I’m ready.
“Sure thing, mate.”