Now #3
“Jackson,” the moderator says carefully, “would you like to clarify whether you and Miss Gillian are currently in a relationship?”
“No,” I answer immediately. “I’m not discussing this matter further.”
That only makes things worse.
“So you’ve broken up again?”
“Was the relationship affecting your performance?”
“Did she leave because of the media attention, specifically?”
I grip the microphone tighter. “I said I’m done talking on this matter.”
Another hand rises near the front row. The moderator points before I can stop him.
“Craig Mitchell, Roadtate. Jackson, considering the influence Ms. Gillian appears to have had on your career, would you say losing her may impact your future with Altron?”
A few journalists murmur at the question. Even the moderator winces slightly.
“I rescind my earlier comment,” I say. “It seems I’m a sharper wordsmith than I gave myself credit for, because none of you seem capable of understanding what ‘done talking on this matter’ means.”
The room goes quiet again.
“Alright,” the moderator cuts in quickly. “Next question. Let’s move away from personal matters and return to the race itself, please.”
But it’s too late now. I can feel it. The atmosphere changed completely. Nobody gives a shit about the race anymore. Not the strategy calls, the overtakes, or the record I just broke.
By tomorrow morning, every sports outlet in the world will have my face plastered across their front page beside some catchy headline carefully constructed to garner as many clicks or sales as possible.
Fuck.
Justine is going to kill me.
And somewhere in Colorado, Evie is probably watching this unfold in complete horror. Shit. Things were just dying down, and I threw a whole tank of gasoline back on the tiny flame that remained.
The press conference has gone to shit, so the moderator decides to end it early.
I’m the first one out, ripping myself away from the couch and storming outside before any of them can catch up.
I’m walking toward the Altron hospitality with long, determined strides when a woman shouts from behind me, “Jackson! Jackson, wait!”
Recognizing the voice, I stop in my tracks and turn around.
Justine, who was in the back of the media pen, catches up with me, trotting on her heels. “You should have told me you were going to talk about all that. We would have prepared a statement and everything.”
“I obviously didn’t know I was going to say anything, Justine.”
“Right, well, do you want Altron to say something in particular?”
“No, I think I’ve done enough damage as it is. I need to call Evie to let her know I messed up, and shit just hit the fan again.”
Justine offers me a sympathetic pout. “I’m really sorry, you know. Media attention aside, I’m a sucker for a good love story, and I really hoped you two would work it out.”
“Me too. I really fucking did.”
“I tried to contain it, you know? When things blew up after Zandvoort, and they were all asking for a statement from Altron, I tried to keep things as smooth as possible. But there was a story there, and they all fought for it, regardless.”
“Thank you, Justine. You’re a good friend.”
“Mr. Reyes!” several people call from behind her.
We both look to find a flock of journalists coming our way. “Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath.
“Go!” Justine urges. “I’ll make some bullshit statement to hold them back. Go make your phone call, Jackson.”
“Thank you. I owe you one.”
“This one’s on the house,” she answers with a wink.
Trusting that she can handle the journalists, which is her job after all, I resume my hurried walk toward the Altron motorhome. Several people try to stop me on my way there for pictures and autographs, but I ignore them, keeping my eyes forward.
Even when I enter the Altron hospitality, I ignore Wesley, who tries to get my attention. “Jackson, perfect! There’s someone for you in—”
“Not now,” I let out.
I enter the small staircase and climb the steps three by three. There’s a private section that only a few of us get to access, which is where my room is. It’ll be perfect for the phone call.
Fuck, Evie’s going to be so mad at me. She’ll have to endure headlines, scrutiny, and harassment. Maybe even more than last time. And she might have to change her phone number again.
I enter the code on the digital lock and enter the private section.
Ten more seconds and I’m at the door branded Jackson Reyes.
I grab my phone as I step in, building up the courage to call her.
If she was watching the press conference live, she’ll already know I fucked up.
But something tells me she’s trying to stay away from all this, so she might still be unaware.
I’m just finding her in my contact list when I notice I’m not alone in the room. Surprised, I look up. When my eyes meet a pair of hazel ones, shock expels the air straight out of my lungs. What the—
What is she doing here? How?!
Amused by my stupor, Evie smiles softly and murmurs, “Hi, Hot Wheels.”
And I’m so fucking shaken, I can’t think of a single thing to answer.