CHAPTER 14 #2
Anna shook her head, and Catarina returned to her seat. She looked thoughtful. Vince seldom said sorry. She must not have heard the rumors either, or she would have reported Spencer.
“Anna,” said Vince, “I’m sorry. I was jealous of the time you spend with my brother, and I said crude and unwarranted things.
I was out of line.” His dark eyes held contrition.
“I don’t deserve it, but I’m hoping you can forgive me and give me a second chance.
I should have trusted Isaac’s judgment.”
“I accept your apology” Anna’s voice tightened, and her eyes glistened.
Isaac could tell she was emotional about Vince’s change of heart.
She picked up her ice water, the ice cubes clinking, and drank.
It was time to change the topic, though he would have to tell her about Spencer’s accusations.
She liked Catarina, but Anna wouldn’t like anyone to be there when he told her.
Besides, this was too personal to talk about in public.
She might get upset. It might even set off another meltdown.
How could he tell Anna that Spencer was spreading rumors about her?
Isaac didn’t want to cause her pain. She’d done nothing to deserve this malicious gossip.
Maybe he could take care of it without her having to know.
He would confront Spencer after the race tomorrow, before the summer break.
Isaac would let him know any further harassment wouldn’t be tolerated.
That way, there could be a fresh start when they returned in August. Anna didn’t need to be involved in something so unpleasant.
She didn’t need to be hurt any more by awful people.
The next day, during the race day warm-up session, Isaac couldn’t look at Spencer.
He wanted to punch the smug asshole in the face.
Of course, he wouldn’t. He didn’t believe in resorting to violence, but he needed to speak to Spencer privately.
It took all his willpower not to confront him.
He wanted this dealt with, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to talk to the Aussie on the grid.
He’d aim for the hotel, after the race. The sooner he warned the man to leave Anna alone, the better.
. . .
Sunday, with an hour left before the race, making sure the camera crews were around, Isaac walked out the front of his box and into Vince’s.
They’d planned this last night. His brother was dressed in his leathers and watching the tail end of the Moto2 race on the screen.
With Isaac’s arrival, Vince jumped to his feet and strode across the garage.
They stood around for a couple of minutes, making small talk about the race as they watched the last lap together on a different screen.
Veterans, rather than up-and-comers, dominated the Moto2 championship, so they knew the contenders well.
At the end of the race, the brothers shook hands.
At least one camera was aimed in their direction.
“See you on the track,” said Isaac with a wink.
“May the best man win,” said Vince with a toothy camera smile.
“Maybe that will be me today,” said Isaac. “I can’t let you steal all the headlines.”
Vince shoved his shoulder playfully.
Their banter felt so civilized after the angst of the last month.
A smile tugged at Isaac’s face as he left. A weight had lifted from his shoulders since last night’s conversation with Vince. He would deal with the Spencer issue after the race and, hopefully, leave this problem behind.
For now, it was time to get into his pre-race routine and shut everything else from his mind.
He’d never found himself in this position before.
As he put in his headphones, he grinned.
He was second in the championship before the summer break.
He’d made up with his brother, and when he shot a look at Anna across the crowded garage, his heart leaped at her answering smile.
She was happy for him. How had he gotten so lucky?
Pre-race proceeded as planned. The hum of activity washed over him, and he tuned it all out.
Today he and Vince were both starting from the front row.
The weather was sunny and warm, though not as hot as the previous two races in Barcelona and Germany.
He’d be glad for the break and time at the beach—he just needed to focus for one more race.
Then he was free for a month. Maybe time alone would be what Anna needed to open up about her past. He still had no idea what had happened to her parents. Had they died?
Isaac stared down the track at the first corner, visualizing sweeping around the corner at the front of the pack, imagining where he’d have to position his bike to get the holeshot. Vince started across the row on pole, meaning Isaac would have to cut across Fabiano’s path to shoot to the front.
All three riders on the front row typically started well, so Isaac needed to pay attention to Fabiano’s Ducati or risk crashing.
He amended the picture in his mind. He might need a couple of corners to let his tires warm up, and then he’d pass the Duc.
And his brother. The surge of adrenaline hit him hard as he waited intently on the starting grid.
The flagmen came out on track, but he didn’t watch their movements—they were irrelevant. He kept his gaze locked on the starting lights. When each one had gone out, it would be time. The bike mattered, the track mattered, but the lights were key. He needed his start to be perfect.
Isaac clenched all his muscles as the last light disappeared.
He sprang forward with faultless timing.
Fabiano’s Duc roared on his left and they left Vince behind.
Over the years, there’d been the odd time when his brother had had mechanical trouble or mistimed the start.
Not often. But today, it must have happened again. Isaac surged ahead of Vince.
Heart racing, Isaac ignored his senses that screamed to brake for the first corner as they thundered toward turn one, all twenty-eight riders on the track braking for the hard right.
Waiting a fraction longer to slow the bike, he aimed for the inside of the lane.
He leaned hard, squeaking by on the inside, sitting Fabiano up, slowing his rival for a split second. It was enough.
Isaac darted ahead and took the holeshot, rocketed around the Struben corner, powered down the back straight, flicked through the quick left-right-left-right, through the Timmer chicane, and wound onto the start-finish straight still in the lead.
His pit board registered P1, L26, and #16 0.
1. Fabiano was still the closest rider. Isaac put his head down and forgot everything in his quest to have a flawless race.
Isaac’s concentration never wavered from hitting his exact speed, angle, and braking mark for each corner, curve, and each straight.
Starting from the front of the grid and riding alone made it easier to stick to the line he wanted on the track for the best drive and to reduce the wear on his tires.
Too bad he’d never qualified well before this year.
For most of his MotoGP career, he’d spent the early laps fighting through the pack for position while the leaders escaped.
Not since his final year of Moto2 had he had this kind of clear track.
He spared only a fraction of his attention for the sounds of other bikes or the feel that another rider was close.
Vince should be on his ass, but the sound of multiple bikes not far behind grew fainter and fell into the distance.
His pit board flashed at the edge of sight each lap.
P1, L10, #16 6.5 sec. Exhilaration ran through him; he’d left them in the dust. This race was his to win.
He just needed to keep his mind sharp, not let it wander. Focus.
Every twist and turn, Isaac led, but he didn’t let up.
Lap after lap, he maintained his rhythm and groove.
He’d left the pack far behind but couldn’t afford to let his concentration waver, or he’d be picking himself out of the gravel.
Flying through the start-finish straight, this time his pit board read P1, L3.
Three laps to go. Partway around the first corner section, something broke through his intense concentration. The race had been red-flagged. Stopped.
His brain whirring, he ran through scenarios as he slowed his pace.
Would they call the race finished as they were more than two-thirds the total race distance, a rule used in the Moto2 and Moto3 levels?
Would they restart the race, a three-lap sprint?
His time advantage would be gone, though he’d start at the front.
Sitting up as he rode slowly back toward pit lane, he glanced at his dash.
Maybe there would be a team communication to explain.
Nothing came. He waved at the cameras and at the stands full of spectators as he continued the lap at a slow pace.
A few other riders cruised past, looking as confused as he felt; they too acknowledged the fans in the packed grandstands.
Nobody congratulated him because nobody else knew what was going on. Had he won?
Many of the fans stood on their feet. They weren’t looking toward the track, but staring at the gigantic screens displaying the race feed. Maybe he needed to check out the same information.
Isaac flipped up his visor and slowed further to watch one of the giant screens. The race was over, and they’d declared him the winner.