14. TIAGO
TIAGO
MIAMI
‘This is insane!’ Isa abruptly stops. ‘You have five seconds to tell me why we’re going in circles around this creepy-ass stadium in the middle of the night.’
‘Cinco segundos, Tiago.’
For the fifteenth time: ‘I don’t know why we’re here either!’
‘You’re terrible at keeping secrets. You know something, and if you don’t tell me what it is, I’m calling our driver back right now and—’
‘Fine! Fine.’ I truly don’t know why we’re in the Crandon Park Tennis Centre either, but I know more than I’m letting on.
I wanted it to be a surprise because I’m not totally sure how she’ll react, but if it’s between her yelling and me trying to find this side path in the eerie dark by myself, it’s not a tough choice. ‘Promise you won’t freak out.’
By the light of my phone torch, she crosses her arms in answer.
‘We’re going to a marketing meeting with Jules Butler.’
She turns her ear toward me. ‘Say what?’
I try again, slower. ‘Jules Butler is my—’
‘What did you do?’ Her eyes flare. ‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing! Is it so hard to believe she chose me?’
‘After I saw you bite each other’s heads off in Australia? Yes! Tell me the truth.’
It was worth a shot. ‘She’s doing it out of the goodness of her heart.’
Isa gives me a bored look. ‘I have the power to share your DMs on the family group chat.’
I go very still. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
She juts her chin out, unblinking. ‘Try. Me.’
Urgh whatever. ‘I told Jules… I told Jules I’d get her close to Tom Webber – via an informal, non-team route. Unauthorised access, you could call it.’
‘But you don’t know Tom Webber.’
‘Shh! She could be here.’ I look around but I can’t see shit. Jules could be lurking behind a palm tree and I’d have no idea.
‘Oh, and foil your amazing plan?’ Isa says. ‘I bet you’ve never even spoken to Tom Webber outside of that time with Jules.’
‘That’s not true.’ I frown, racking my brain. ‘I said hi once. I think he heard.’
Isa drags her face down. ‘Oh my god oh my god oh my god.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘IT’S ANYTHING BUT FINE!’ Her voice echoes through the empty nothingness.
‘Chill out, I have my methods.’
Her disbelief courses through a furious deluge of Spanish.
‘Don’t do it for me!’ I butt in. ‘Do it for Jules. Be the one to help her get the man of her… sports season?’ She quietens, and I can see the idea percolating. ‘Besides, maybe you’ll become best friends at the end of this.’
‘Is this just an elaborate ploy to fuck her? Because you,’ she stabs my chest with her finger, ‘were cutting cold turkey.’
‘Of course not. This is me trying to get my career back on track, a motive you of all people should support.’
She grumbles something incomprehensible and marches off. I’ll take that as consent.
‘Why didn’t you just listen to her podcast like everyone else?’ Isa asks, apparently not done. ‘It’s literally called Main Character Energy. There are over two hundred episodes on personal branding.’
I stumble over a root. ‘I’m sorry I don’t struggle with being a Type A eldest daughter. I’m sorry I’m not halfway through my spring reset.’ I have sisters, I know things.
‘If you would’ve looked at more than one episode, you’d know they’re not all targeted at women,’ Isa says. ‘There are episodes on monetising authenticity; using your platform for purpose; growing your influence; crafting your personal voice.’
‘Ok, ok, I get it.’ Damn, maybe I shouldn’t have got spooked by the pink.
‘Hold up, I know why we’re in Crandon Park!
’ Isa exclaims as we finally locate the player tunnel.
‘Jules was brought up in tennis. She was a junior champion, and her dad’s a coach.
Did you know he coached her ex, Damian Reisner?
That’s how they met. She must’ve spent many Miami Opens here with them. ’
Of course she was a tennis champion. Nothing fits that she-demon more. ‘You little stalker.’
‘Why isn’t JC here?’ she suddenly asks.
Shit. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice.
How do I explain why my manager isn’t coming to a critical management meeting?
Obviously he couldn’t come, what with my undermining him and all.
He hasn’t made a single decent decision since December – and it’s May.
He can’t see any route except for playing by Leone’s rules.
Maybe Jules was right. I thought he was great when things were going well at Volare, but when the chips are down, it’s obvious he can’t hack the job.
‘This is personal branding stuff,’ I explain. ‘He’s more big picture. Contracts, sponsors, that sort of thing. I’ll fill him in later. He won’t care.’
It’s not a total lie. He’s never advised me on how to cut my hair, and I know Jules had something to do with Logan Rogers’ glow up. He had an eighties mullet before he met her.
I can’t tell if Isa believes me or not. She makes an ambiguous ‘hm’ noise but drops it.
The old media centre bathes us in humming fluorescent light.
It’s a relic of the early 2000s with a sun-bleached outline of the old Sony Ericsson Open logo, murky low-pile carpet, and stale air.
It’s a shame they don’t host the Open here anymore.
The view of Miami’s skyline from the upper reaches of the stadium is nothing short of extraordinary.
It’s giving secret lair, perfect for our alliance, which would be super cool if I wasn’t allying with the Wicked Witch of the West. Speaking of, Jules is sitting at the press conference table at the front, consumed by her laptop, an ancient pull-down screen behind her.
She’s in a white top which manages to show none of her ample cleavage.
Her claw clip’s holding her hair as tight as the stick up her ass.
It takes me a second to realise Isa’s not beside me. When I turn around, she’s gaping from the door.
‘Jules,’ I announce tiredly, smiling on the inside when she jumps, ‘this wax model is Isa, my assistant. Also my sister. She’s your biggest fan. Apparently, you’re the reason she got bangs. Make sense of that if you can.’ I take one of the mismatched folding chairs in the front row.
To my shock, Jules nods meaningfully. ‘Organic facial balancing. A great choice. It suits you.’
If Isa’s grin was any bigger, her face would rip. She scurries over to Jules and takes her outstretched hand with the same devotion Abuela does her rosary beads. I already know I should’ve brought Trey instead.
‘Where’s your manager?’ Jules asks as Isa sits beside me.
‘That’s not important,’ I brush off, trying to ignore how good every word sounds coming out of her British mouth.
We hate her. She humiliated us. She made us get on our knees and beg.
‘Why are we in this dusty media centre? I get you don’t want anyone to know, but couldn’t we have saved the theatrics and just done it in your hotel room? ’
Jules’ gaze turns lethal. ‘You will never be in my hotel room. You shouldn’t even think about my hotel room because it’s so far out of your realm.’
‘It’s your home Grand Prix weekend,’ Isa chips in before I can shoot back, taking a notebook and pen out of her bag that I don’t have time to question. ‘You’re the only driver from Miami, and the only Hispanic driver period. The city’s crawling with press and fans.’
‘But—’
‘Before we begin,’ Jules interrupts, ‘have you signed the contract?’
She means the most bogus thing I’ve ever skimmed. ‘Yes.’ I reach for my back pocket. ‘Even though—’
‘You didn’t say anything about a contract.’ Isa’s tone is simultaneously cautious and accusatory.
‘It’s essentially to ensure we both keep to our ends of the deal in a timely manner,’ Jules explains as I hand the crumpled ‘contract’ to my sister.
Timely manner? Who does Jules think she is, the Queen of England?
‘It’s missing a clause about no one falling in love with the other,’ I say, throwing in a chuckle to prove I’m semi-joking.
‘That won’t be a problem,’ says Jules immediately.
Isa grimaces at me. ‘Why would you even say that?’ she hisses in Spanish.
‘I’m a catch.’ And if Jules is half as good as she sounds, I’ll be an even bigger catch in a matter of weeks.
‘You’re twenty-six and live with your parents,’ Isa deadpans, looking over the contract.
‘That’s a choice—’
‘Did you read this?’ she whispers, even though I’m 99.9% sure Jules doesn’t have a clue what we’re saying. ‘Like, really read this?’
‘Sure.’ I shrug. ‘It’s not like it’s legally binding.’
‘I kinda think it is.’
Wait.
What?
‘Deliverables,’ Isa reads in English, ‘Tiago agrees to: facilitate a minimum of two legitimate opportunities per Grand Prix weekend for Jules to interact with Tom Webber in an organic setting.’ Isa shoots me vicious side-eye, and I pray Lex Luthor’s diverted by her laptop.
I grin with a hard stare. ‘Very doable since we’re such old friends.’
This can’t be real because then I’d… I mean, I was always going to try my best – a deal’s a deal – but trying my best and legally binding aren’t the same thing.
I haven’t given the logistics any thought.
What if Tom’s a tough nut to crack? What if Martinelli go all Men in Black on my ass?
What if I’m simply not capable of doing this?
It wouldn’t be hard for Tom to expose me as a total stranger – I’m not the best liar, and I can’t say I know much about him. All it would take is one—
Stop it. That’s Future Tiago’s problem. Or maybe it won’t be a problem at all. Everything could work out exactly how I want it to and this could all be a funny story by Christmas. Yeah, let’s go with that.
Isa tongues her cheek for a long moment before reading on. ‘This arrangement will remain in effect until the end of the Canadian Grand Prix, six weeks from the signing date, allowing for five Grand Prix events to complete the agreed evaluation period.’
‘Easy peasy. Plenty of ti—’
‘The Parties agree not to create, encourage, or allow any perception that they are romantically involved or otherwise exclusively connected beyond the scope of this Agreement.’ Isa looks up at me, features contracted in disapproval. ‘Why would it say that?’