Chapter 15
Max
I get out of my car, the weight of the world hunching my shoulders as I stride toward the Amato headquarters entrance.
The day after my return from Japan, I was summoned by Drake to his office. Like a fucking school child. I know Travis will be here. He and I have barely seen one another since the accident. We were, rightly, separated, and I’m certain his wife went out of her way to play interference.
A stab of jealousy hits my chest. That’s what it is, I can admit now, I am jealous of Townsend. He’s Amato’s golden child and I’m the second driver to his great championship run. The hope most people place in me is my role in aiding Amato win a Constructor Championship.
That’s the expectation for me.
It’s what I’ve been reading online since Japan’s fuck up.
“You don’t have the heart.”
Pain sears across my chest when Annalise’s words flood my memory. I can’t get the look on her face when she said those words out of my mind. The expressive way her eyes ballooned and then narrowed, the color altering slightly as if imploring me to believe her.
“You’re the most technically skilled driver on the damn grid …”
Did she mean it?
She’d sounded forthright. And what would she gain by lying about something like that?
I’ve twisted her commentary in my mind a thousand different ways, exploring every possible meaning, each interpretation. Hot anger is the first emotion that rose in me the moment the words passed her perfect fucking lips.
That’s what I told myself. Because the anger dissipated quickly and I was left with the truth of what I felt.
Greedy.
I want to hear her tell me again.
I want her to relay all of the ways she sees my talent, the talent I supposedly obscure.
“Look who decided to show up.” Travis’ brusque voice pulls me away from thinking about his sister.
He stands there in an Amato T-shirt and a pair of jeans, arms folded, the typical glare on his face.
I casually glance down at the watch on my wrist. “I’m right on time.”
“You’re late,” he throws back. “Drake said I wasn’t allowed in his office until you showed up.” He sounds disgusted.
His words and demeanor bounce off of me. I’m too mentally consumed thinking about a certain woman with red hair, unmarred light brown skin, and freckles that decorate high cheekbones.
Travis knocks on Drake’s door.
“Is he here?” our team principal calls out.
“Unfortunately,” my teammate gripes.
I follow him inside.
“Close the door,” Drake orders, causing the dread I’ve been feeling since I landed back in Monaco to well up.
Might as well get this over with.
“What the hell do you two think we’re doing here?” Drake immediately blasts into us.
Neither one of us attempts to answer this question. Or any one of the other rhetorical questions our team principal throws our way. He’s pissed, probably angrier than I’ve seen him before.
“You two better get your shit together,” he says, pointing. “You aren’t the only ones gunning to be on that grid. We’ve got at least five guys in the academy hungry for the number one or two seat.”
He’s referring to Amato’s motorsport academy that trains young drivers, preparing them to hopefully take the reins in Formula 1 someday.
Travis and I both came up through the academy before signing with other teams in Formula 2. Back then Amato didn’t have a F2 team. The story is different now.
Travis bristles in his chair. Though he doesn’t say anything, I can hear what he’s thinking.
That won’t fucking happen.
Drake might be pissed but he’s not a dummy. Travis is the defending champion, and out of the two of us has put the most points on the board this season so far.
His words are mainly directed at me, even as Drake looks between the two of us. I hear what he’s not saying.
“We’ve got all types of bullshit rumors being spread now,” Drake continues.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them are true,” Travis says.
I pivot, looking at him for further explanation. I’m unsurprised to find him glaring at me.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, because it’s obvious he wants me to.
“It means from my perspective what you did in Suzuka was intentional. Taking me out of the race. It also means that I’ve had one teammate who tried to set me up for failure and I’ll be damned if I go the next eight months with you doing the same.”
“Don’t you compare me to that bastard,” I seethe, not liking the comparison he’s drawn between me and his former teammate, Skyland Grant. The former F1 driver who was discovered to have been delivering proprietary information to other teams in order to make Travis lose races.
He’s in prison now after the stunt he pulled that landed Travis’ wife in danger.
I’ll be damned if I’ll allow him to compare me to that disgraced driver.
“Why the hell shouldn’t I?”
“That’s enough!” Drake barks out.
We both turn to face him again.
“Your arguing is giving me a headache. It’s only the end of March and I’m sick of you two already. Listen up,” he says, pointing at us as he stands.
“You two will get along. You don’t have to like each other, but you both know there are too many people who’ve worked damn hard in this office to have our chances fall apart just because both of your egos are the size of the damn racetrack.
“This will be the last time I have to drag either one of you into my office because your emotions got the better of you. Am I clear?”
When we both nod, he dismisses Travis but tells me to stay behind.
I huff out a harsh breath. “You were the one who thought my working so closely would Townsend would be good for me,” I snark, tossing his words from weeks ago back at him. As if to say ‘see where you fucked up?’
I keep my gaze pinned on the shelf behind Drake as he retakes his seat in the leather chair.
My eyes remain on the gold trophy cup. The plaque reads Severino Ferreira “2004 Driver’s Champion.” Next to the trophy is a photo of my father, on the podium, laughing as he’s sprayed with champagne.
My throat and chest tighten.
“You know I’m going to have to fine you for that stunt in Suzuka.”
Drake’s words enter my mind, and I nod but don’t say anything as I stare at the shelf.
“We’ll keep this all internal. No release of the details of the fine.
Our spokesperson has already drafted a release to the press letting them know we’ve handled it internally and that both of our drivers have reflected on their actions over the weekend and are working to make sure it doesn’t happen again. ”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all settled.”
Drake narrows his lenses in my direction. “Is that all you have to say?”
No.
“Apparently.”
A clicking sound fills the room and my gaze drops, seeing the pen in his hand.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The din from the pen fills the air like the steadiness of a heartbeat, rhythmic and telling. Drake’s glaring. I don’t meet his eyes because the last thing I want to see there is the disappointment in them.
I know it’s there. I’m certain he wants to lay into me about how disgusted and disappointed he is in my career so far. How ashamed my father would be.
Drake was best friends with my father for many years. They came up through the ranks together but were fierce competitors on the track.
“How’s Harry?”
The two-word question is the one I was least expecting to fall from his mouth. My eyes widen, and now I look directly at him.
He stares back, knowing he’s touched on the one sore spot I wasn’t expecting.
“Fine.” I guess.
“When’s the last time you spoke to him?”
I swallow the thickness that suddenly fills my throat. My words stutter on my tongue because I don’t want to admit that not only am I a shite driver, but a shite friend to boot.
“A while,” I answer, evasively.
Drake nods knowingly and rises from his chair. After coming around the desk, he takes a half-seated, half-standing position on the corner of it, arms folded.
“The last I heard he was recovering well.”
If well is never having the use of your legs again, then yes, Harry’s recovering just fine.
“We all still hurt over what happened to him.”
I adjust my body in the chair, glancing to my right, out of the window of Drake’s office. It looks down onto the parking lot filled with bright, shiny Amato cars, some of which are the latest models, some are vintage. Each model represents another notch in the history of Amato’s legacy.
In the distance I can see the garage where the F1 cars and parts are kept. It includes the training facility I come to when I need to train using the simulator.
The same facility my dad trained at throughout most of his groundbreaking career.
“You don’t have the heart.”
Annalise’s words assault my consciousness, and my chest tightens to the point of pain.
“Maybe you should go see him,” Drake says.
For a second, I’m confused since my thoughts were just on my dad. But he’s not talking about Severino.
He’s referring to Harry. My once best friend who was a few years behind me in the same racing academy.
“Right,” I say. “Perhaps.”
His words drop like an anvil between us. Heavy,
“I have a session with my trainer,” I lie. A white lie. I do have a training session scheduled but until much later in the day.
“Get to it. And, Max …” He stops behind his desk again, tossing the pen on a stack of folders.
I’ve reached the door by this point, but I pause with my hand on the knob.
“I never said which Townsend I was referring to,” he says, not even looking up from his desk.
I’m paralyzed for an indeterminate amount of time. The conversations Drake and I had one on one and with our lawyers and team to sort out the details, roll through my mind.
You lack the heart.
Annalise’s wors which repeated in my head like a mantra all morning, sounded again.
A different Townsend.
I looked at Drake but his eyes were on a stack of papers in front of him. He’d dismissed me with those parting words. As if he knew something about me that I had yet to discover.
I exit his office without another word.
On my drive home, a myriad of emotions war for dominance in my mind, creating a mess inside of me. I barely hear my phone ring over the noise in my head.
An audible groan escapes me when I see who the caller is. The last person I want to speak to right now.
“Mum,” I answer, not bothering to disguise the solemnness in my voice.
Not that she notices.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
My own thoughts are so dark that I barely register the scathing nature of her words. They don’t sting like they normally would.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I goad, feeling drained as I plop my body onto the couch.
“That mess in Suzuka. You rammed your car into your teammate’s. What the bloody hell?” she screeches.
The volume of her voice tells me that wherever she is, she’s alone. My mum doesn’t yell or talk like this when there are other people around.
“It was an accident. An unfortunate accident, but they tend to happen in races.” My voice is as dry as the martinis she orders because she won’t dare lose her figure by consuming too much sugar.
“Don’t sass me, Max. I know you did that stunt on purpose. You’re bloody jealous of Townsend because he’s the better driver.”
Thank you for the vote of confidence, Mum.
“The least you can do is to be a good teammate and help put bloody points on the board since we all know you have no chance at a real championship.” She emphasizes the word ‘real’ as if a Constructor’s Championship isn’t worth the trophy that’s created for it.
The Driver’s Championship, the one who separates the drivers from the teams and highlights who’s who on the track.
One season at a time.
“I’ve already been dressed down by Drake and received a fine for what happened. Are you happy?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. I rarely give her this much attitude back but I’m bloody tired of talking.
“I’m coming to Bahrain.”
Now I sit up. “What?”
“You heard me. If you can’t be trusted not to embarrass your father’s legacy on your own, then it’s up to me to come and supervise to ensure you stay in line. I’ll need you to get Edwin to book my ticket.”
“That’s not Edwin’s job.”
“Then make it his job. And I expect you will cover the cost of my flight and accommodations?” She phrases it as a question but it’s not one.
Mum typically shows up to the first race of the season and then most of the European races, but rarely the ones in the Far East or the Americas.
I can’t remember the last time she’s attended a race in Bahrain.
“If you want to come to Bahrain, you contact Edwin yourself to schedule it.” I disconnect the call before she can reply. I know that’ll make her angrier, but I can’t muster the energy to care.
I can’t remain on the phone with her another second.
Before I can discard said phone from my grasp, it rings again.
“I told you to contact Edwin,” I say without looking at the screen.
“Bloody hell. What’s the matter?” Edwin asks.
I push out a heavy breath, fighting to calm myself down.
“Contact me for what?” he asks. “Are those wankers on about the Brazilian race and driving your father’s car again?”
“What?” I ask, confused. “No. It’s Mum. She’ll probably call you soon. Did you need something?” I ask to change the subject.
“Have you spoken with Drake? Did he give you a lot of shite for Suzuka?”
“It’s settled,” is all I give Edwin, not wanting to go over it all again.
Edwin’s quiet for a while, something that never happens.
“No big deal. Water under the bridge. Anyway, the most important reason I called was to remind you about this party in Nice tonight. I’m in France now, but will have a car pick you up at about—”
“I’m not going,” I cut him off.
“What? This has been planned for weeks. They’re expecting you.”
“Cancel it.” Neither my head nor my heart are in it.
“You don’t have the heart.”
I don’t understand why those specific words keep rounding the bend in my mind, but they do, and all I know is that the last place I want to go is a party with a bunch of sycophants who will use their proximity to ask for free race tickets or to set up a meeting with the owners of Amato.
“The only place I’m going today is the gym and then to bed early,” I tell Edwin. “Make up whatever excuse you have to.”
“Are you sure, mate? Natalia, that beautiful Russian girl you spent time with months ago, says she’ll be there.”
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Cancel it.”
I hang up and toss my phone to the opposite end of the couch before rising to my feet. By the time I reach my bedroom, my shirt is halfway over my head. I quickly change into a grungy T-shirt and a pair of running shorts.
It’s time for a workout.