2. TIAGO
TIAGO
MIAMI
One of the biggest rappers in Latin music slaps my back. ‘Congrats, man.’
‘Thanks, bro,’ I say, hoping he’s too drunk to notice he’s looking at the world’s fakest smile.
‘You’re going to be numero uno this year, jefe. I can feel it.’
That makes one of us.
I watch him disappear into the throng. He really must know jack shit about Formula 1, and that works for me.
‘?Felicidades, Tiago!’ calls a telenovela star with a great rack, raising a bottle of Hennessy that I’m pretty sure she’s drinking straight. She says something else but it’s lost under El Alfa blasting through the speakers.
It’s an objectively good party, if I do say so myself.
In Miami, parties are judged on their ratio of guys to girls, and there are about 80% girls here.
I watch a trio of ladies dancing together, their hips rolling effortlessly to the filthy dembow beat, asses straining against their dresses, hair flicking from side to side.
My eyes are drawn to the furthest one, butt so full I could lose my face in it.
I watch it jiggle with every thrust. I bet she’s loud. Real loud.
It’s like she can feel me watching her. She turns and bites her lip, eyes pure heat as they lock with mine, and the sight shoots straight to my—
Get it together, man! This is what got you in this position in the first place. I gather the strength to drag my eyes away.
Face it, I don’t even know why I’m throwing a party, it’s not like I have anything to celebrate.
Sure, I fly to pre-season testing tomorrow, and a new season’s always exciting as hell.
And some might even think a new team opens a sick new chapter.
But it doesn’t. Going from Volare to Martinelli’s puny development team Leone is a disaster of epic proportions.
Volare and I had something good. When I started there as a rookie, we were stuck in the midfield trap. But even with lean budgets, minimal upgrades, and power unit limitations, the whole team worked their asses off for five years and we finished last season in fourth.
I thought we’d made it. I thought this year, we’d look to rival the Big Three. Millions in prize payouts; world-class sponsorships; consistent podiums. For the first time in my career, I could actually fight for titles.
Then I got fired.
‘How ya doin’?’ asks Isa, my sister and assistant, joining me on deck.
‘Guess I don’t feel much like celebrating.’ I stare miserably into my beer. It’ll probably be my last drink in a while and it galls me that I can’t even bring myself to enjoy it.
‘I get it. It’s going to be a big change, but look on the bright side: at least you’re still in F1. Every seat is covetable. So many people dream about just having a spot.’
‘I’m at the joint worst constructor in the whole Championship, Isa.’
‘At least there’s always trusty DFK. Their averages are even worse than Leone’s.’
‘That’s true.’ I gaze out at the rows of superyachts around us, the lively dock filled with bars and restaurants, the glass skyscrapers and condo towers of South Beach beyond. ‘I guess I’m just an unlucky guy.’
Isa’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. ‘Oh sure, the son of Colombia’s biggest property conglomerate’s unlucky.’
‘I’m serious!’
She shoves me. ‘Enough already. I thought you said you were going to be “back at Volare in no time.”’
‘I will,’ I say emphatically. ‘Trust me, this is a minor setback. Give me three races and they’ll be begging to have me back.’
She throws me a look of unfiltered scepticism. ‘And how do you plan on repairing your reputation in the space of four weeks?’
The reason I was fired.
So, I like a party. So, I like women. So, I like a drink every now and then.
It never affected my driving, and I always put my job first, but apparently the headlines and malicious gossip made the team look bad.
I’m convinced they wanted to poach the hotshot F2 champion and it was an easy excuse to get me out of the picture. Seriously, after all I did for them.
The disloyalty hurts the most. And the fact that I found out online. Still, I’m taking accountability where it’s due.
‘I’m cutting cold turkey,’ I announce. ‘Drinking, partying, women—’
Isa’s laughing. Like, really laughing. ‘Good one.’
‘I mean it.’
She stops. ‘Like, for real?’
‘No women, no distractions. I have one goal: to show the world I’m a serious professional athlete.’
I imagined her a splash more enthusiastic. She had to deal with a lot of the fallout, after all. And it’s not like she has to give up pussy. My balls are going to be so blue, they’ll be the colour of pinballs.
‘That’s it? That’s your big plan?’
I don’t appreciate her tone.
‘Part of it,’ I mutter.
‘You couldn’t even stay away from women when you broke your banjo string.’
‘Isa,’ I hiss, glancing around to make sure the biggest celebrities in Miami aren’t eavesdropping. Or worse, our siblings. ‘Era secreto.’
She snorts at my beer. ‘You’re off to a great start.’
‘It begins at pre-season testing,’ I growl.
She crosses her arms and sticks her foot out, her glass of red wine tucked under her arm. ‘You won’t last one race weekend.’
‘?Holaaa, mi gente!’ Our cousin Trey slings his arms around our shoulders.
‘Did you hear this bonehead’s giving up partying? And sex?’ says Isa.
‘Of course I did. Sure, we’re not going to have as much fun on the circuit as we would otherwise, but it’ll still be baller. I couldn’t say no when T asked.’ He holds his fist out for me to pound, oblivious to the death stare I’m directing at him.
‘When he asked what?’ Isa asks slowly, cocking her ear to him.
Shut up, Trey. Shut up! She’s not supposed to find out like this – specifically, holding a glass of red wine. I like these pants.
He swallows a large gulp of beer. ‘To be his performance coach,’ Trey says with the same levity as if she asked what his favourite city is.
I should intervene. It’s the right thing to do. However, she looks on the cusp of being really mad, and she’ll go easier on Trey than she would me. It’s basic self-preservation.
Her eyes thin to mean little slits. ‘What do you mean, his performance coach?’ The cogs are visibly turning in her head. ‘You’re a soccer player. You already have a job.’
I knew she’d take issue with that. She, like many people, think Trey’s a loveable idiot – the emphasis here being idiot. But he’s family. There are no better qualifications than that. It worked out for her, didn’t it?
‘I hurt my ankle last season and I need to take some time out,’ Trey explains, ‘and boss man here gave me this job for the year.’
She turns her furious gaze at me. ‘But you have a performance coach.’
I shrug casually. ‘I let her go. Who’s better than our cousin?’
‘Los profesionales,’ she counters immediately.
‘How hard can it be?’ says Trey. ‘I worked with a performance coach when I played for The Earthquakes, and I know tons of, like, stretches and stuff.’
She twists her gaze to me like I’m the idiot. ‘This is without a doubt the biggest season of your career, where you have to make the most impact.’
‘I know.’
‘How the hell are you going to do it with a coach who’s never coached?!’
‘That’s not strictly true,’ Trey pipes up. ‘I coached my brother through Little League.’
I shut my eyes and inhale.
‘Your brother’s now twenty-one,’ Isa retorts.
He lifts a shoulder. ‘Still counts.’
I know he’s my blood relative and I love him, but I really wish he’d shut the fuck up and stop making things worse.
Isa looks at the night sky in despair. ‘We’re so screwed.’
I give her a side hug. ‘Nah, you’ll see. Families stick together. It’s the best way.’
She pulls out her phone with a noise that’s somewhere between a growl and a grunt.
‘It’s going to be awesome,’ Trey’s saying. ‘Travelling, races, parties—’
I raise a disapproving finger. ‘No parties.’
‘Right, no parties.’ He nods solemnly. ‘Or… we can party, and you can… stay in the room and watch TV.’
‘That’s so boring. It’ll be like I’m thirteen ag—’ I’m interrupted by Isa sonic squealing.
‘Oh my god, Jules’ best friends Minnie Roberts and Asha Chakravarty have been pictured leaving her home in London.’ She turns to shake my shoulders. Pretty sure I’ve now got wine down my back. ‘Do you know what this means?’
I stare vacantly at her.
‘Could it be F1?’ She has to know she’s talking to herself. In a language no man can understand. ‘I mean, Minnie’s presence alone doesn’t mean much – she’s an F1 reporter and she’s dating Jack Bowden, but they’ve been friends for years.
‘But the simultaneous presence of both Minnie and Asha suggests they’ve just had Reveal Day, indicating Jules has chosen her man and she’s about to make her move. The timing certainly checks out with the F1 calendar.
‘And even more than that, as they were leaving, a girl in the bushes overheard Asha say “koala”. Where are koalas? Melbourne, where the Australian Grand Prix is happening next week.’
Trey swigs his beer. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s this influencer Isa’s obsessed with,’ I say, stifling the urge to yawn. ‘Don’t pay attention, it’ll only encourage her. I’m pretty good at blocking her out.’
Isa smacks me in the stomach, squeezing the air out of me. Not that she cares. ‘Jules is amazing. She gives life advice, fashion guidance, beauty tips, she has a podcast on how to build your personal brand, she shows her life—’
‘You mean that British chick, right?’ interrupts Trey the Traitor. ‘I know who you mean. Great rack.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Show me her profile.’
Isa ignores us. ‘She’s perfect. She’s the literal perfect woman. She’s the reason I got my bangs like this.’
‘Wow.’ I widen my eyes. ‘Profound.’
She cuts me an icy look. ‘I’m going to check the poll.’
‘What poll?’
‘If you listened to anything I say, you’d know she dates a different sportsman every year.
She gives him a huge glow-up and they become the year’s ultimate power couple,’ Isa explains at rapid speed.
‘The choosing period is all anyone on Instagram can talk about for months, and there’s currently a poll running on Jules’ Jewels’ fan page anticipating which sport it’s going to be.
I voted, obviously, for F1. You voted for F1 too. ’
My eyes bug out. ‘I did what?’
‘I voted on your account. We’re so likeminded, it’s scary sometimes. Oh my god, basketball’s at the top again. They’re only choosing that because she wore Jordans last week, but if these morons thought about it for a nanosecond they’d know she’d never go for an American again.’
‘Why not?’ asks Trey.
‘Because she dated Logan Rogers last year. You know, the 49ers’ quarterback? It was a weird fit. I didn’t think the NFL was her thing. She’s very European: chic, classy.
‘I say he’s going to be from Australia,’ she blabs on. ‘Last night, I went down this rabbit hole of theories, like she wore a red racing bomber jacket to the Chiefs game in November. There’s no current red team in F1, but the traditional colour of the sport is red.
‘Then, on the same weekend as the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix a few weeks later, she went to Monaco, wore dark blue shoes, and took a story of herself walking around the Fairmont Hairpin – a significant corner for a certain team.’ She’s staring at us like a mad scientist. ‘Which team is dark blue?’
I back away. ‘You’re possessed.’
‘Martinelli!’ Trey yells triumphantly, like he’s just proven his performance coach worthiness to her. I’m so proud.
‘Correct. Is there a driver for that team who’s single and from Australia? Why yes, there is: Thomas. Andrew. Webber.’ She claps hard and we both start. ‘I’m a freaking detective. The FBI should hire me.’
‘Will you shut up about her already?’ I snap. ‘She’s a talentless nobody who makes money duping idiots like you into thinking she’s relevant.’
‘I’m right, I know I’m right. You’ll see.’