8. TIAGO
TIAGO
SHANGHAI
‘Aaand action!’
‘?Hola, mis amigos!’ I say, doing my best to wave from inside an airtight ear of corn costume.
‘Head on down to your local Casa Verde this Grand Prix weekend to get a free corn salsa with every meal when you say the phrase: Go, Tiago, go! While I’m racing,’ I point at the camera, and a polyester leaf droops over my arm, ‘you’re winning.
’ I beam at the camera, wondering if it’s obvious I’m dying inside.
‘Casa Verde. Big flavours, bigger smiles.’
‘Cut,’ calls the director. ‘That was great. You really got it on that twelfth take. Now, let’s do the one for the Mexican market. Do you want a look at the Spanish script again?’
‘I think I got it,’ I mumble.
I know this is Leone mandated PR, and I know JC and I had a long talk about priorities, and I know no team’s going to want me if I act like an ungrateful jackass, but really? An ear of corn? I’ve had a wedgie for the past four hours but this costume’s so pumped up, I can’t get anywhere near it.
The flaccid second costume catches my eye from the far side of the stage.
What a surprise my teammate’s not here. Again.
He only shows up when Leone’s social team want to film TikToks, at which point I instantly feel one hundred.
I’m no Gen X, but I swear I’m the only person older than twenty-two, and all their super niche references go way over my head.
If I have to mouth along to one more soundbite, I’m going to lose it.
When we finally break, I waddle to a quiet corner and FaceTime my brother.
Unfortunately, Isa picks up. ‘HAAAH!’
I frown into the phone. ‘Only God can judge me.’
‘Oh really? I’m doing a pretty good job of it right now.’
‘Can you put JC on the phone please?’
‘Love your hair.’
My heart seizes. ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’ I reach up and my fingers brush synthetic fabric.
‘Calm down, Jonny Bravo, it’s tucked away safe and sound. I was referring to the little tuft of corn silk on the top of your head. It’s so cute!’
‘Isa.’
She huffs and calls for JC. From what I can see, they’re in our suite back at the hotel. Boy do I wish I was there right now. My bladder would feel a lot freer.
JC emerges in the background drinking a protein shake.
I point at the camera. ‘Dude, that’s mine!’
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You weren’t here. Finders’ keepers. Hey, why are you calling me and not acting your little leafy butt off?’
‘Har har.’
Isa mumbles something in the background and Trey’s big face fills the screen. ‘?Qué ridículo te ves!’
‘Thank you for illustrating my point,’ I say over the sound of him cracking up. ‘I do look ridiculous, and I’m going to be a laughingstock when this airs.’
‘You’re a laughingstock right now, bro.’ Trey’s wheezing as he angles his phone to take a picture.
‘?Ya basta!’ I snap.
‘This is going straight on the group chat,’ he throws over his shoulder as he walks away.
‘Hey—!’
‘Tiago,’ JC says in his manager voice, ‘we talked about it this morning. And yesterday. And the whole of last week.’
‘Remind me again how doing a Casa Verde commercial will help me become a World Champion one day. Their burritos suck balls.’
‘It’s called playing the game. Besides, you don’t have much of a choice right now.’
‘I never had to do this degrading shit at Volare.’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t make the rules.’
My notifications start pinging one after the other. Greeeat. They’re overlapping so quickly I can barely read anything, but I do catch one from my eight-year-old cousin. A long, nauseating, ‘jajajajajajajajajajaja’.
I want to sink to the floor but my suit’s too inflated and my knees can barely bend, so I slump against the wall.
‘It all feels so useless. Our car’s not looking strong on this track either. Teams are already starting to pull away from us and it’s only the second race. How am I supposed to show off what I can do if I’m way down at the back?’
‘At least there’s DFK,’ JC offers. ‘They look even worse than you do.’
That’s little comfort, a Prius could beat them.
When I leave the studio, it’s dark outside, making the illuminated billboard across the street almost blinding.
Logan Rogers, in black and white, thirty metres tall, in front of the Nike tick.
In China. How the hell do they know who this quarterback from Phoenix is?
Who watches the NFL in China? They probably don’t even know what a quarterback does!
My hands ball into fists. I’m an internationally recognisable F1 driver and I’m out here dressed like a freaking vegetable. Meanwhile, this blonde lumberjack’s modelling for the biggest sports brand in the world.
Between the sponsorship disasters and racing catastrophes, I need to think bigger. Way bigger. Rogers didn’t get on that billboard by throwing forty-three touchdowns last year; he had Jules Butler.
But she wants Tom Webber.
He doesn’t even need her. Racing for Martinelli, backed by world-class coaches and publicists, and nearing retirement. It’s not fair. Guys like that go from strength to strength while I’m down here looking like a joke. Well screw her. I can do this on my own.