12. Reed
For a second, nothing happens, everyone is still holding their breath in anticipation, or maybe in utter shock, because even I cannot believe what I just witnessed.
There’s no way, not in his rookie season, and not on the hardest track of the entire league.
But then absolute pandemonium erupts around me.
He did it, he fucking did it, he came first, and he didn’t just win, he made goddamn PRI history.
Wilder Miles just became the first rookie to ever win a PRI race, and he did it in Milan of all places.
The commentators can’t speak fast enough, their words practically being screamed, as everyone else is still making it over the finish line and falling into their cool down lap.
I have no doubt that clips of this will be on every platform before we even make it back to the changing room, and I selfishly want to be the first to report an exclusive quote.
Wilder still hasn’t said a word, but I watch as the camera follows him on the screen, his window coming down and his fist pushing out of it, into the air in victory.
It’s only now I see it, the raw talent and the attitude that backs it up, it’s really something to behold.
Yes, he’s a cocky, insufferable asshole, but he just launched his entire career into the damn stratosphere, and he probably hasn’t even realized it yet.
Once he’s finished his lap, his car moves in the direction of the podiums with the two other racers who came in second and third, while all the others make their way back to their team garages.
Knox, Beckett, and Matteo are completely uncontrollable, as they come to a stop and scramble from their cars in disbelief.
“Nosotros estamos celebrando esta noche,” Matteo yells out to us all in Spanish after he rips off his helmet. He rushes past me into the garage, while I don’t even bother trying to work out what he just said.
“Did you fucking see that?” Knox shouts, jumping onto Beckett as soon as he’s clear of his car, Beckett catching him with ease.
“Fucking superstar!” Beckett shouts, their delight completely infectious, and I snap a photo of them. “I hope Cas was watching,” he adds, as Matteo runs back out toward them with three bottles of champagne. I blink back a little in surprise, before I smile and take a photo of him too.
Then Mr. Miles appears at my side and drags me in the direction of the podium. “Come on, Lamont, fuck waiting for the rest of the press,” he shouts over the crowd, who are still going wild, and I can feel the energy rolling off him in waves.
I can see how proud he is of his son.
I wonder what that’s like?
The crowd is completely deafening around us, all of them screaming Wilder’s name as he is led up onto the first place podium.
My camera is already recording every second, and I’m thankful for the gimbal that is keeping it steady, because I can’t take my eyes off him.
His hair is still stuck to his head thanks to the sweat from his helmet, and still he looks just as perfect as always.
He’s got his usual smirk in place, not looking any more delighted by first place than he would be if he came last, but I still snap as many photos of him as I can, wanting him to remember this moment as much as I will.
This right here is the moment his name will start to carry weight on its own merit.
The other two racers take their places beside him, and then the official PRI photographer steps up and does their thing.
The entire time Wilder keeps his expression the same, not bothering to widen his smirk into a smile as he poses for his picture.
I keep taking my own pictures with my camera, my other one still recording every second, not wanting to miss anything, but then his eyes flick up to meet mine.
Suddenly the deafening crowd can’t be heard, and all I can focus on is him, and the way my heart starts to race.
Only once our gazes collide does his smile widen fully, before he tosses me a knowing wink, and a strange stirring starts in the pit of my stomach.
I feel myself heat from head to toe under his watchful stare, as the photographer continues taking pictures, but Wilder’s attention remains on me.
It doesn’t break until the photographer is done and the rest of Wilder’s team and crew swarm the podium in celebration.
Each of the guys busts open a bottle of champagne, spraying him with it until he is wet and dripping, before Matteo tosses an arm around his shoulder and kisses his cheek roughly.
Both Knox and Beckett throw their arms around the two of them too, pouring champagne into their mouths until it’s spilling down their throats.
My camera is working overtime, catching literally hundreds of shots, my heart still beating wildly in my chest.
Wilder lets them have their fun, before shoving them away playfully and shaking out his now champagne-soaked hair. Everyone is still celebrating around him, but his gaze comes back to mine, as he looks me dead in the eye and shouts over the crowd, “Are we even now, Lamont?”
A laugh bubbles out of me in disbelief, as he calls on that moment in the cab the other day, and I can’t help but shake my head. “Not even close, Miles,” I yell back, knowing I shouldn’t be baiting him, but finding I can’t help myself, and the smile he gives me makes my knees a little weak.
“And here I thought you liked it fast,” he tosses back with a wink, and my blush is instant.
“How about an exclusive quote on your win?” I dare to ask, and he shakes his head with a laugh, as if he finds my question utterly unbelievable, but still he cocks his head to the side as he contemplates a response.
Finally with a smirk, he replies, “Not bad for a rookie, right?”
I smile as he is pulled away to prepare for the skills race, as Matteo finally notices me and moves to collar me instead.
“We’re getting that boy so wasted and fucked tonight,” he tells me, patting my back, before offering me some champagne.
I shake my head and he shrugs, pouring the remnants into his own mouth, and shouting to no one in particular. “Let’s fucking go!”
Wilder earns the most points in the skills race too, and by the time I upload his post race update, his notifications are utterly insane.
Ignoring them all I select the best photos I took of him, pairing it with a clip of him winning the race.
Then I choose the song Applause by Lady Gaga and write the six words he gave me.
It gets a million likes in less than five minutes, and I know only one thing for sure, the rest of this season is going to be nothing like I have ever experienced.
Of course to no one’s surprise, Matteo managed to find the most exclusive club in all of Milan, and secured us a booth in the VIP area.
I’m sitting here now enjoying a glass of Monfortino, which is one of my favorite Italian red wines, watching all the racing guys lose themselves in their celebrations.
Matteo has his tongue down some beautiful woman’s throat, openly grinding against her in the middle of the dance floor without a care in the world, while Knox and Beckett have another woman sandwiched between them.
I’m pretty sure they are recording videos of themselves to send to Wilder’s cousin.
Apparently the three of them enjoy sharing a girl from time to time, if Matt is to be believed, which must be true given the display I am witnessing currently.
I wish I could be as free as them, that I could relax and just enjoy myself, but my father’s voice is firm in my head, reminding me to represent the Lamont family name. It’s what’s keeping me rooted in place, rather than finding my own form of entertainment, not that anyone here has caught my eye.
Well, that’s not exactly true, considering my gaze keeps straying to a certain first place winner, but I can pretend it’s just because I have gotten used to having to watch him over the last month.
I followed him around during what I now call the four core race days.
Thursday for prep, Friday for training, and Saturday and Sunday for racing.
I spend most of that time pretty much glued to his side, with him basically pretending I’m not even there.
We definitely haven’t become friends, but he has learned to at least tolerate me.
Well about as much as Wilder Miles tolerates anyone.
He looks effortlessly hot tonight, like always, and has been fielding more attention than I can even fathom or keep track of.
Both men and women have been hitting on him since the moment we arrived, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to be entertaining any of them beyond a little conversation.
Still, even at his rejections they are still just as keen and obsessed, drooling over the confidence that oozes from him with an ease I will never possess.
I expected the version of him tonight that I met on that balcony, that cocky, insufferable, and most definitely down to fuck side of him, but he honestly looks like he would rather be anywhere else but here.
I can’t say I blame him, I’m not exactly in the mood to be here myself, and tried every excuse I could think of to try and get out of it, but Matteo shot them all down with ease.
I just find it hard to relax and have fun when I don’t really feel like myself, and it’s hard to let loose when Prescott Lamont is the one sitting here, not Reed.
I’m wearing a white silk shirt that I have paired with beige trousers, ones I know my father would still curl his lip at, but that’s as far as I let myself go.
There is no makeup on my face, no color in my hair, and no desire to be here in my heart.
Hence why I am sitting at the table alone, away from the crowds, quietly drinking my wine.
Maybe if I drink enough it will make me forget what a shit show my real life is.