Chapter 10 #2
“Don’t worry about it.” Righting herself, she takes my hand under the table. “I want to hear all about your first day, too,” she says quietly, her eyes darting over my shoulder and back to me.
At the end of our table, Flynn and Kenji are having a heated debate and Shelby is showing Lincoln and Ren a video on her phone, their attention fixed on the screen.
“Later,” I promise Mia.
We’re both going to be busier than ever this year.
She was a reserve driver last year, always ready in the wings, but rarely ever in a car.
I flew out to several races throughout the season, both to be with Luca and to visit my friends, but working full time for a Formula 1 team won’t be anything like being a guest in the paddock.
Bea dives into a story about an ex who tried to gain access to the paddock this afternoon by showing the security guards pictures from their prom. As she goes on, I angle in, doing my best to focus on her.
When the server arrives to take orders, Saint leans into my space, the rich, smoky scent of his cologne infiltrating my senses. “Can I order for you, love?”
I nod, grateful for the offer.
Going out to eat with my friends without feeling like a nuisance is pretty much impossible. More than once I’ve panicked and blurted the name of a random item on the menu, only to spend the entire meal pushing food around on my plate.
Ordering and then asking for modifications is stressful and overwhelming for me.
Michelin Star chefs hate to see me coming.
When Luca and I would go out, I sucked it up and ordered the cheapest meal on the menu. It was easier to avoid the possibility that he’d tease me about my eating habits, and honestly, there was a likely chance I was paying anyway.
Last season, when the Eleven went out, Saint and Kenji, without prompting, started ordering for me.
The purest form of relief hit me each time, the simple gesture freeing up so much bandwidth.
They’re both so effortlessly charming that servers rarely have a problem when they make special requests.
That, and the very nature of the patriarchy means it’s easier for a man to make a demand than it is for a woman to ask for a modification.
I studied the menu on the ride over, so I already know what I want. “I’ll have the fried cauliflower appetizer, extra hot sauce, and the soba noodles without the eggplant or peanuts.”
“I’ve got you,” he assures me, sliding his arm along the back of my chair and resting his hand on my shoulder. “Okay?” he asks under his breath.
My nerves flare again. I appreciate the support. But with his hand on my shoulder like this, are we asking for trouble from Luca and his buddies?
“I don’t want to antagonize him,” I admit with a shrug.
Scoffing, he tilts my chin toward him and ducks so we’re eye to eye.
“I intend to spend the entire season antagonizing him on your behalf, love.” He gently squeezes my shoulder.
“We all know what he did, Ev.” Lips pressed together, he shakes his head.
“He’s never been worthy of you. He’s a selfish wanker, and I’m glad he’s out of your life.
I meant what I said earlier: I’ve got you.
But the support doesn’t end with me.” He scans the table. “We’re all here for you.”
Trying to fight back my tears is a lost cause. With a watery smile, I mouth thank you.
With a dip of his chin, he shifts his attention to Lincoln. The two of them chat about the fan stage appearance they’re doing together this week, but Saint keeps his arm where it is, his fingers still brushing my shoulder.
A few tears fall before I can pull myself together. Head bowed, I wipe under my eyes and take a deep breath, eager to distract myself with a fun night out with friends.
Once we’re finished eating and most of the plates have been cleared, I shift in my seat and survey the group. Then, grinning, I use a leftover spoon to clink my glass.
“Present time,” I announce, holding up the small bag I stashed under the table.
Without much fanfare (because as much as I love giving gifts, I don’t love being in the spotlight) I pull out the first of the custom fidgets I made for each member of the Even Better Eleven.
“This one’s for Flynn,” I say, passing down a green clicker, “and this one is Ren’s.
” I hand over the red and blue fidget with their name and number on the side.
“Pass this to Shelbs,” I instruct Saint.
From there, I continue until everyone around the table—including those of us who aren’t drivers—has a custom clicker fidget in their possession.
“It’s a new design, made with a super soft filament so it’s whisper quiet.” I hold up my own Granata-red fidget to show it off. “It functions like a regular clicker, but if you press and hold in the center, it compresses even farther before springing back.”
My friends all mess with their fidgets, murmuring among themselves.
“Very cool,” Saint praises.
“I love it,” Mia confirms.
With a happy heart and a full belly, I sit back and let this moment sink in.
I’m here. I made it. Pride swells within me. This wasn’t an easy decision, but I put my ego aside and made the most of this opportunity.
A few minutes later, Lincoln stands, stretching his arms overhead. “I’ve got to get going if I’m going to make curfew,” he explains.
Every team has their own rules and expectations during race weekends.
Helios Racing has a very no-nonsense, law-and-order type of team.
It works well for Lincoln. He’s the quietest of all the guys and struggles with the social demands of Formula 1.
He and I are similar in that way, both requiring a lot of downtime to decompress and tend to our mental health.
Others rise, the group doling out hugs and goodbyes.
“Wait, hold up,” Kenji says before Lincoln can walk away. “What’s the plan for Sunday night?”
Sunday night, a.k.a. our first post-race ritual of the season.
It’s rare that we can all make every one of these because of travel schedules, but after each race, the Even Better Eleven try to get together for what we call “Sweatpants and Chill.” The only rules are that those in attendance have to arrive in sweats or pajamas and we have to stash our phones while we’re together.
Typically, we hang out and watch movies. Sometimes the drivers help each other stretch. The host ensures we have plenty of snacks.
It’s a great way for the drivers to unwind, and it forces us to disconnect from our phones and stay off social media when fans and commentators are eager to shout their opinions into the void.
“Prismatum is booked up at the Ritz,” Saint says. “That means Stefan wants to host us in his suite, right?”
Stefan sighs. “Fine, fine.”
He’s often the moodiest after a not-so-great day on the track, so we gently force him into hosting more than the rest of us so we can ensure he doesn’t shut us out or end up alone when he’s struggling.
“I’ll send details to the group chat tonight. Everyone’s welcome,” he adds, pushing in his chair.
My muscles lock up and renewed doubt nags at the back of my mind.
Stefan is genuinely kind, and he tends to avoid drama.
He was the one who encouraged me to come out tonight, but Prince Marceaux, who’s currently dining with Luca, is his best friend.
I highly doubt Prince will sit out and not attend Sweatpants and Chill on Sunday.
I don’t want him to anyway. He’s one of us, and he deserves to be there just as much as I do.
That fact, unfortunately, doesn’t assuage the renewed trepidation rising in me.
Because he’s just spent the last several hours with my ex.
He wouldn’t invite him along, would he? What if they’re better friends than I realized?
One by one, my friends file toward the doors.
Yet my feet are cemented to the floor.
As a warm hand finds my low back, I snap my head to one side and discover Stefan hovering close.
“Almost everyone is welcome.” He darts a look at Luca and breaks into a scowl. “That invitation is not extended to him. Not now or ever again.”
“I’ll fucking fight him if he tries to crash Sweatpants and Chill,” Flynn declares. Stepping up to my other side and wrapping one arm around my shoulders in a side hug.
“Same,” Shelby adds over her shoulder as she passes.
“You’re one of us,” Lincoln tells me softly as he rounds the table. “What Luca did was shameful and unforgivable. We’ll pick you over him every time.”
Emotion catches in my throat, and to the surprise of no one, fresh tears well in my eyes.
It was one thing for Saint and Kenji to have my back—they’re both tough as nails, ruthless by nature, and always itching to go to battle with an adversary.
But having Stefan, Flynn, and especially Lincoln on my side adds an extra layer of encouragement I didn’t know I needed.
My heart aches from the cascade of support.
Probably sensing the need for some comic relief, Flynn gestures wildly across the room, his voice a little too loud. “We’ve got no tolerance for saggy condom energy in this group. Even Better Eleven until I die!”
Bea whips her head around, glaring at her rowdy brother.
Mia wedges next to me, pushing Stefan back a couple of steps, and loops her arm around my middle. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before Flynn gets us kicked out. Or worse—starts a social media trend.”