Chapter 10
Max
Today’s qualifying, and I woke up with a splitting headache. A night of tossing and turning from disturbing dreams will do that I suppose.
What’s most bothersome is that the dreams are in fact memories. My interaction with Annalise a few days ago sparked reemergence of the memories I’ve worked to suppress for years now.
The accident with Travis.
And what happened between his sister and I that night at the hospital.
“You could’ve killed him!” she yelled at me when she first saw me bend the corner toward his hospital room.
I went to the hospital to see how he was doing and to offer my apologies. Everyone from my team principal to my mother had told me not to go, that I would only make more trouble in doing so. Everyone knew how upset Travis’ entire family had been.
But I couldn’t sit in my hotel room, waiting for news on how he was doing. News I knew would never come because no one on his team would convey that type of information to me.
So I got off my arse to go see and speak to him directly.
I met with Annalise instead.
“Haven’t you done enough? My brother’s in a hospital bed because of you!” she shrieked, tears streaming down her face.
I stood there, hands shoved into the pocket of my jeans, and let her berate me because it was what I deserved. Travis did have the position, and I should’ve given it back to him. Instead, I punched it.
A haze of green fury descended over me, and I gunned it when I should’ve pulled back. My car went into Travis’ at just the perfect angle that sent his car into one of the most gnarly spins I’d ever seen on the track.
Horror mixed with a palpable amount of guilt blanketed me immediately.
The year-long suspension I received as a result of that crash didn’t touch the amount of self-hate I doused myself in over the course of those twelve months.
Nor did it compare to the pain that ripped through my chest when Annalise berated me in the middle of that hospital hallway.
Not once did I blame or fault her for the emotion. Because tucked beneath her anger and ire at me was the love she had for her brother.
And that’s what sparked my envy.
What would it be like to have someone exhibit an iota of that amount of love and care for me? Not because my paycheck feeds them, but because they genuinely care about me?
“Fuck,” I growl at the same time I land a right hook against the punching bag.
To exorcise the troubling memories from my mind, I opted to come down to the hotel’s gym. Probably not the best idea, but the alternative of tossing and turning in my bed or working on the last of my sudoku puzzles wasn’t appealing.
“What are you doing up here?”
“Jesus!” I yell and jump back when Parker’s voice startles me. I remove one of the earphones that’d stopped playing music I don’t know how long ago.
“What are you doing here?”
He grants me a confused look. “That’s my question to you. Is working out before qualifying a good idea?” Parker, a friend since year ten, asks.
“Probably not,” I admit before curling my fist and hitting the bag again with a left cross.
Parker chuckles behind me. “We missed you at the party last night,” he comments. When I don’t reply, he shrugs.
“Guess you’ll be at tonight’s. Anyway, I decided to do a workout before the day gets away from me, myself. But …” He grunts while lifting one of the heavier weights from the rack on the opposite side of the gym.
“I’m not the one who has to do laps around a track at hundreds of miles per hour to qualify to be the first to do even more laps tomorrow.”
He lays down against the bench, setting up to do chest presses.
“You’re right,” I agree. “I’m going to the sauna.”
“See ya later.”
Parker’s been a friend for a long time but that doesn’t mean I’m about to spill my guts to him. We, like most of my friends, have grown apart. Perhaps, we never had the type of friendship where I could open up to them about anything serious.
I’ve probably had one true friend in my entire life, but I fucked that relationship up a while ago. Haven’t spoken to him in too long to rectify that friendship, most likely.
So I mentally toss away the self-pity and do what’s always been best for me—push it all down and paint the picture that everything’s all good, all of the time.
Because nobody gives a fuck if that’s the truth or not.
All anybody wants is results. That’s what matters the most.
Which is what I remind myself of as I emerge from the sauna and put my T-shirt back on to return to my room to shower.
I examine race strategy in my head, recalling Drake’s instructions on how to handle the track. Which is why I don’t notice my mother, at first.
Not until I’m only a few paces away from my door.
“There you are.” She already sounds annoyed. “I was knocking for nearly an hour.”
It’s an exaggeration, of course, but meant to convey her annoyance.
“This is why I insisted I should have a key to your room.” She pushes out a breath, folding her arms and staring at me as I open the door.
“How did you find out my room number?”
Her face scrunches up, and I regret the question.
“Edwin, of course. Who else? He actually answers my calls.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Did you need something?”
“My friend, Sheila, hasn’t received her ticket for today,” she says, following closely behind as I enter my suite.
“Sheila?”
She rolls her eyes. “Dwight.”
I probably should know who she’s referring to. At least, that’s the impression she’s giving off, but I don’t.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s here this weekend, and for some strange occurrence only received a ticket for Sunday.”
“And I’m supposed to …”
Her mouth drops open but only for a beat before she closes it again. “You’re supposed to be a dutiful son and get my friend a ticket for today as well. How could you think someone would come all of this way to support you and not bother to get them a ticket for qualifying?”
The notion that her friend, whom I don’t remember, is actually here to support me is absurd. More like to be my mum’s wingwoman for the weekend.
“Edwin handles that. You should speak to him about it.”
“Edwin isn’t my son.”
Lucky him.
“And he’s not the one in the race either,” she points out. “You can speak with Drake to get her another ticket to enter today.”
“I’m not going to disrupt my team principal on the morning of qualifying for the opening race of the season about a ticket for some woman I don’t know.”
Her eyebrows spike. “You’re such an ungrateful toerag,” she throws at me.
I don’t flinch at the hurtful insult, only due to years of practiced emotion. If she sees the hurt on my face, it’ll only make her dig in more.
“All that I’ve done for you after losing the love of my life and you can’t even—”
“I’ll make a call,” I say, not because I suddenly care about her friend needing a ticket but to get to the end of this conversation as quickly as possible.
I start for the bathroom.
“You’ll do it before breakfast?” she calls to me, her voice sounding lighter.
“Yes,” I toss back right before the door slams behind me.