Chapter 12
Matt
United States Grand Prix
Qualifying
Security strides alongside me on the paddock as I head over to the garage, my lanyard swinging, eyes to tarmac, avoiding any potential interruptions.
It’s busy already. Press. Sponsors. Rich fans with VIP tickets milling around for a glimpse of their favorite driver.
Plenty of the team principals are out here too; I spot my old Rossini boss and pick up the pace.
All I want to do is see Chloe. The clouds overhead have cleared, and the bright blue Texas sky beats down on my skin. I feel like a vampire, shrinking from the light. I didn’t sleep. My mind has been swimming.
“Good luck today,” says the security guard, as I disappear into the cool darkness of the hallway.
I’m about to quip back, “I’ll need a miracle,” but I catch myself.
“Thanks, man,” I say instead, squeezing past two crew members as I make my way down to the garage.
And there she is. The first face I see across the brightly lit room. Our eyes meet briefly and she nods, her face impassive as though I’m just another member of the crew. But the little darkening of her cheeks tells a different story. I smile to myself.
“Little brother.” Archie tips his Arden cap toward me and I shake my head.
“You look a fucking mess,” I say, throwing my arms around his hulky frame and giving him a big squeeze.
“Your driving is the fucking mess,” he says, grinning, then he turns to the team and booms, “How do you pricks work with such a useless wanker?”
Laughter fills the garage, and Archie slaps me on the shoulder. If there’s one thing Archie knows how to do, it’s bringing a team together at my expense.
I finally talked to my brother three days ago. He was at some country music festival outside Dallas and was readying himself for the move. We argued, as we always do, but Archie was adamant he was coming. And besides, he told me, “The deal was fucking inked” and I had to “get the hell used to it.”
Now that he’s here, I’m mostly happy. An uncomplicated friend with whom I can be almost entirely myself with.
I watch him walk over to Chloe and bear-hug her next, lifting her whole frame off the ground as he does.
Her smile stretches across her face, and her cheeks flush pink with a mix of embarrassment and delight.
I force myself to look away. It is nearly impossible to look at her now without wanting her.
I can’t get that damn kiss out of my mind. I can’t get her out of my mind.
Where the hell did it come from? She was . . . well, she was like a kid sister. You could play out my life a million times over and I’d never have guessed I’d end up wanting Chloe Coleman. Never.
I’ve felt the shift between us these past couple of weeks, though. Getting to know Chloe again after all these years—her fiery, smart, sexy self—it was just a matter of time before that spark turned into something real. Then we lit the match.
But she was clear. “This is a mistake.” She doesn’t want to get entangled with me, and she’s right that it would be messy. But damn, how am I going to push aside these feelings? Whatever this intense thing is between Chloe and me has been snatched away before we’ve even had a chance.
It’s been a really, really long time since I’ve been able to let my guard down like that, just talking, hanging out. And then having this intense desire for her too? It’s practically intoxicating.
“Let’s go!” Archie booms across the room. “Qualifying is just around the corner.”
I chuckle, glancing at Chloe as Archie pushes her toward the pit lane, but she waves him away. “Later, later,” she says.
I keep watching her pacing the room as she talks to someone on the phone, stopping only to point at data on-screen, and then she looks over and catches my eyes on her.
She knows when I’m watching. Just like I can feel her eyes on me.
How long can this go on without relief? I turn to the car and employ some of the visualization tricks my therapist recommended for when I’m out on the track.
I need to get my head in the game and off Chloe Coleman.
The difficulties don’t begin until I’m around the third bend and on to the chicane, but when they do, I lose just enough time trying to readjust and focus on the track to drop out of the first round of qualifying. In the end, I’m seventeenth.
“It’s better than last qualifying,” Chloe says as soon as I get back to the garage and climb out of the car.
“Better than nineteenth. Wow,” I say, pulling out my earplugs.
“Better is better,” she says firmly. “We only need better every day and then the good part comes. Noah got sixteenth.”
“Good for him,” I say sharply, as someone drops an ice towel around my shoulders.
Chloe frowns at me.
“Sorry. It is good for him. I’m happy for him,” I say quietly. Then I raise my voice across the garage. “Nice one, Noah.”
Noah looks delighted and shoots back a thumbs-up, while Chloe whacks me in the arm with her iPad. “That just sounded sarcastic,” she says scoldingly.
“I can’t fucking win,” I say.
Archie comes bowling across and he grimaces as he pulls down his headphones. “Chicane?” he guesses.
I nod. “But only there,” I say.
“Chlo, mind if I take little bro out back for a chin-wag?” Archie says, covering the mic on his headpiece.
“She knows about the issues,” I say, nodding toward Chloe.
Archie looks around; some of the pit crew are listening in. “Fuck it,” I say, pulling my gloves off, deciding then and there not to make a secret out of it anymore. “Everyone else may as well know. At least then you can all work with it.”
“Brave of you,” says Chloe quietly.
I tip my head a little in thanks, avoiding those eyes in case I see pity. I don’t want to see pity from Chloe.
“Well,” Archie begins. He pulls out his iPad and starts to swipe through some of the numbers. “Before that, we got a pretty good gauge of the car speed. You were fast in turns six through nine. In fact, third fastest.”
“Third fastest!” Chloe can barely contain her delight.
“I was?” I frown in disbelief.
“Yeah, but ahh . . . on the straights the speed just falls apart,” Archie says. “And it isn’t because of your . . . troubles. We really need to look at the drag,” he says, turning to Chloe.
“What we need is that head of aerodynamics!” Chloe says, raising her voice a little so it’s loud enough that Barry can hear. “Someone to bring in all the ideas and make them cohesive.”
“Tell your driver to accept the fucking sponsor!” replies Barry from the back of the room, feeding his dogs strips of chicken from a paper bag and then stroking their heads.
“I’m not wearing a fucking hot sauce logo on my forehead.”
Barry waves us over, and after a brief glance between me, Archie, and Chloe, we head to the little desk at the back of the garage to join him.
“I don’t know really what a head of fucking aerodynamics does,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. I roll my eyes toward Archie like, Why the fuck does this guy even own a racing team? “I can take a guess. But I trust Chloe when she says she needs one.”
“Thanks, Barry,” Chloe says, looking surprised by the frank admission.
“See these beautiful little guys?” Barry says, stroking the head and neck of Ginger and then Roger. “You know where I found them?”
He looks at me, pointedly.
“No,” I say slowly. “Where did you find them, Barry?”
I cross my arms over my chest, ready for some grand and pointless tale about god only knows what.
“They were racing dogs. Ginger there was kept in a cage. Too timid, they never let her race. And Roger? He was lame. Front leg was septic after an injury no bastard saw to. He was about to be shot,” Barry says, wiping his hands on his trousers and looking over to me.
“I snuck into the yard with my mate Reg, and we stole both of them.”
“You rescued them, Barry?” Chloe asks, looking at Ginger and smiling. I have to admit, I’m surprised by this.
“You’re fucking right I did,” he says. “My parents raced dogs. And horses. My grandparents too. But I hated it. It was a cruel sport. But I had the racing bug. So, I broke from my parents and bought a dirt bike to race instead. I couldn’t be in the business of racing animals.”
Archie and I exchange a look, both of us seemingly wondering where this is going.
“I’m not the smartest of blokes, Matt. I don’t really know how the hell your team makes a fucking multimillion-dollar road-ready spaceship. But I want to give you what you need. I want you to do well. I want you to win.”
“I’m not a dog,” I protest.
“Oh, but you are, Matt. You’re lame. And someone was going to eventually pull the trigger. And like Ginger, Chloe is afraid to put herself out there.”
“Good grief,” Chloe mutters under her breath as the analogy becomes crystal clear.
“I don’t want rescuing. I want to race,” I counter.
“You want to race?” he says, with such ferocity I nearly jump backward. “Great. But I’ve taken all the risk here on a dog with a limp, so what are you going to do for me?”
I drop my arms and nod slowly. “The sponsor.”
“I can’t do this if you don’t,” he says, the most truthful I’ve ever seen him look.
“And if I do, can we look into bringing in a drag expert?” I say, glancing over at Chloe for the briefest of moments.
“Sure.” Barry stands up, slipping a lead around Ginger’s neck and then doing the same to Roger. “Yes, Matt. You wear the helmet, and Chloe can go find herself a head of aerodynamics.”
“That’s the one,” says Chloe, looking thrilled.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll wear the damn logo.”
“Yes!” Chloe blurts out, standing up. “Thanks, Barry. And Matt.”
“I’m not giving you much,” Barry says. “You’ll be able to afford a fucking grad student, but it’s not nothing.”
“It’s a start,” Chloe says. “Thank you.”
“Let me know if I can help with my helmet design or anything,” I say, unable to stop my smart-ass mouth.
“I gotta go,” Barry says, then he shoots me a wry grin. “Helmet’s already done.” He kicks a large crate under his desk.
After Barry leaves, Chloe pulls the box out and drops it onto the desk.
“I never thought to ask about the dogs,” Chloe says, using a wrench to force the lid of the crate open.
“Barry has hidden layers,” I say, grinning.
“Guys, I’m going to fire up the team,” says Archie, thumbing toward the strategists. “Looks like there’s some press waiting for you, Chloe?”
She glances over his shoulder toward the waiting crew, and then shakes her head at Archie. “No. Tell them to go away. Nicely.”
“You’re going to have to get out there and do these press interviews, Chloe.” I pause for a minute, then continue, “Think of it as the next step to overcoming your ‘issue.’ And by the sounds of it, you need a fucking agent.”
“I hate the press stuff, though,” she says, lifting the lid and pulling out the helmet. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll do a press interview, if you finish above fifteen tomorrow.”
“Unfair,” I say, laughing.
“There it is,” she says, spinning the helmet around so I can see “Mind My Hot Rear” emblazoned across the back.
“I can’t believe he already went ahead and approved it,” I say, snatching the helmet from Chloe. “That whole speech was just to remind us to be grateful.”
“Nah,” she says, smiling. “I think he wants us to know he actually cares.” She holds the helmet toward me. “You gonna wear this for the race tomorrow, then?”
“Yes,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“And are you speaking with the therapist later?”
I nod and take the helmet from her, turning it around to inspect the bright yellow-and-red logo.
“Here,” she says, tearing the plastic seal off the strap. “We better make sure it fits.” She grins.
I let her do it. I let her move in close to me and reach her arms up toward me. I try not to watch her breasts rise as she reaches above me and then pulls the helmet down hard over my head.
She flicks up the visor and we stare at each other for a moment. Chloe quickly smiles, but I can see the worry behind her eyes.
“Are you okay?” I whisper through my helmet, and then quickly add, “About last night? I’ve been trying to get in contact with you.”
She nods quickly, her cheeks coloring a little again.
“I’m sorry. I can’t open that door, Matt.
This job is too important to me to throw it away on something that’s just too .
. .” She stumbles, her big brown eyes burning into me as she clears her throat.
“Disruptive. To the team.” She was going to say dangerous.
She’s afraid of what would happen between us, and I’m not sure I understand why.
Still, she’s making it clear she wants me to bury it. Keep things professional. “Are you okay?” she says, her eyes hopeful.
I’m no liar, but I tell her what she needs to hear in this moment to keep going.
“Focusing ahead,” I reply.
Chloe nods, looking to the floor. Is she sad? Relieved? What I wouldn’t give to be in her head right now. Then one of the strategists calls out to her, and she’s off to join Archie.
On my way back to the hotel, alone, I decide to send what feels like the hundredth text to Stavros over the past few months. All of which have gone unanswered. It takes several versions of Hi again and I’m sorry before I settle on what feels like another empty message.
How are you getting on?
It is read right away, but by the time my head hits my pillow six hours later, there is still no reply.