Chapter 8 #2
She ignores it.
“Chloe,” I say gently. “You do deserve this. You are cut out for it.”
“On the one hand I know that’s true; on the other, I feel like the impostor I am,” she says, shaking her head. “I need time to settle. Find my feet. Fire that wanker of a strategist. But time I don’t got.”
The honestly from Chloe is arresting.
Tell her. You owe her at least the truth.
Her head is still in her hands, her gaze fixed on that damn coffee. I steel myself.
“Chloe,” I say quietly.
“Yes?”
“I’m getting flashbacks,” I tell her finally, pulling my hand back across the table. “At night and on the track.”
She turns her head back to me. “The crash?”
“Yes. I have these physical reactions. Tight chest. Hard to take a deep breath. I have to slow down. I get worried I’m going to . . . well, crash again, I suppose.”
I watch Chloe absorb the information. “Shit, Matt. I’m so sorry,” she says quietly.
“Anyway. Now you know. That’s why I think it’s time to quit. Even if I really don’t want to. Even if, as Barry says, there is still some bite in the old dog. If I can’t drive, who am I? What use am I?”
“Is there really?”
“Really what?”
“Bite in the old dog?”
“Dunno. Sometimes I still feel it. For a second.”
“Really?”
“I think so,” I say honestly. “I think so.”
“We can work with this, Matt. If you want to drive,” she says. “You have a whole bunch of training and discipline issues. You need a pre-race routine, one that helps you focus. A therapist to work on the mental blocks.”
She blinks a few times, worried, I think, that she’s said too much. But I just laugh. To myself mostly, because no matter what, Chloe has been and will always be an optimistic fixer.
“What’s so funny? There’s nothing wrong with therapy,” she says quickly.
“No, it’s not that,” I say, shaking my head, not ready to share with her that, in fact, I have been seeing a therapist. “I’m just remembering how you always know what to do. Remember when you whipped me into shape back in Juniors?”
I grin, but Chloe doesn’t. Instead, her eyes flicker to the back of the room. “That was a whole lifetime ago,” she says, with a laugh that sounds almost bitter. “But really, I can help you get back to the driver I know you can be. What do you say?”
“If anyone can do it, it would be you,” I say, tipping my coffee cup at her.
She stares hard at me, scanning my eyes, searching for something.
“I’m serious,” I reassure her.
She finally nods. “Okay. Great. We can focus on those things, while you work with a therapist. We can get more help for you if we need to. We can claw back some pace in other ways.” Chloe is awake, suddenly. Excited, even. She springs up and starts to pace.
“I guess so.”
“The car has a range of upgrades coming. And we need a new head of aerodynamics, for sure—I have to pressure Barry on that. But there are whispers of promise here.” I watch her move into full leader role, right before my eyes.
“We have Austin next, then Mexico. Then Brazil. Then back for Vegas. That’s four races, around two months .
. .” Her voice trails off as she stops pacing.
“We can get a lot done. Maybe we can claw to the middle of the field. One top ten would be incredible. We could really get points, Matt. We really could.”
“You make a good case,” I say.
“Arden suffers a lot of problems, but the worst one is the lack of belief. In this fucking game of tiny, incremental improvements, you need a motivated team. Small gains beget small gains.”
I shoot her a wry smile, but her enthusiasm is infectious; her excitement is rubbing off on me. “Do you believe?”
“In the team? Yes. In myself?” She laughs. “I’m working on that.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” she replies, those eyes big and round.
“You help me, and . . .”
“And?” Chloe asks, looking impatient.
“I’ll help you with your impostor syndrome.”
“Oh, that,” she says, grimacing.
“You know, I’ve worked for two of the best ever team principals—”
“I know your impressive résumé, Matt,” she says with a huff. After a long pause, she throws her hands up. “Fine. What am I doing wrong?”
“You need to stand a little straighter. People can smell fear. In the racing world, you get scared, you die.”
“That bloody strategist,” I say, nodding.
“Be the boss,” he says. “Matteo Borelli will happily overrule a strategist he doesn’t trust. And eventually, everyone will learn how you think, and you won’t need to overrule anyone. You can let go of the micromanaging and be team principal. Talk to the press and schmooze the sponsors.”
“I hate dealing with press. I feel like it’s obvious I’m only here as a PR thing and they’re going to say it to my face. On camera.”
“Fuck it. You just focus on yourself, and your job and the respect will follow.”
Chloe nods, turning back from the window to face me.
“I’d appreciate a person by my side. Someone who has my back. Someone I can talk to if I’m unsure.”
“I can do that.”
She smiles gratefully. “Are we really going to do this?”
“We’re going to try.”
“Shall we shake on it?”
“I think a couple of old friends can do better than that.”
Before I have a chance to think it through, I am across the room, pulling Chloe into my arms. She is stiff at first, like a board, as I wrap my arms around her small frame, but then she sinks a little into me, and I can feel her body flush against mine.
Breasts to chest, her head just at my shoulder.
It isn’t a hug like we used to. Not a slap-on-the-back kind of hug.
This feels more intimate somehow, and at the same time, I’m completely at home.
Chloe sighs into my shoulder, squeezing a little harder as she does.
I tighten my grip on the small of her back with both my arms. Did we always fit so perfectly together?
She smells like fresh shampoo and sugary doughnuts, and I allow myself to drink that smell in, just for a moment.
I stay incredibly still for as long as she needs. And I need.
Finally, Chloe’s head moves back, and as she looks up at me, our eyes lock, and for a beat, for a flicker there is something more in her gaze.
Something vulnerable. Something sad. Something .
. . like . . . and before I catch it and myself leaning closer, she stiffens and looks away, springing back from me.
Whoa. What was that?
“Great, that’s great,” I say, quickly and very stupidly, looking at anything and everything but Chloe. “Just two old friends helping each other out.”
“Yes. Old friends,” she says, starting to pace. “We can do this.”
“We can.”
I realize how silly we’re being and grab both her arms and catch her eyes to try to reassure her. Everything is okay.
“Right, Bug. If we’re going to work together, first thing we need to do is get out of here.”
“Right.” Chloe looks around the room and settles on something. “Fuck it,” she says, in a hoarse whisper. “Get that screwdriver. If Barry isn’t coming for us, we’re taking down the door.”