Chapter 28
ALARIC
The race was shit. Pure and utter shit.
Despite it all, I made a note to text my friends from Abrams-Rhea and Kelly to congratulate them.
Now I’ve got post-race responsibilities to take care of. One of the most banal and humiliating parts of this sport is speaking to the media after a lousy performance. Reporters all want to talk to the winners, but they really want to chat with those of us who have had a bad day.
As I stalk toward the garage, I pull in long, calming breaths to prepare myself. I spot Ferris first, clapping him on the back, congratulating him on powering through and securing the point for tenth place.
I check in with both sides of the garage as well. The engineers, tire technicians, and mechanics all play vital roles in the success of this team. They fought hard today, and I’m sure they’re all exhausted, especially after the five pit stops on Heath’s side.
I catch the eye of my chief mechanic and longtime friend Carlos and tip my head toward the back of the garage.
Wordlessly, he follows. “Hey, boss,” he greets, the exhaustion clear on his face. “Tough one out there today, eh?”
I appreciate his attempt to soften the blow. Calling today’s shit show a “tough one” is akin to casually stating the Eau Rouge corner at Spa is a bit tricky to navigate. Understatement of the fucking century.
“Could you hustle the crew along and get everything packed up? I’d like you to take the garage out for a nice dinner on me. Let’s give them a chance to unwind and blow off some steam tonight rather than leave Spain on a sour note, yeah?”
His face lights up. “Any budget, boss? Okay to buy them a few rounds?”
“No budget.” I fish my credit card out of my wallet and hand it to him. “But cut them off after three rounds and ensure they all get home safely.”
“You got it,” he confirms, pocketing the card. “This’ll mean a lot to them.”
“Just trying to keep morale up,” I admit, though his response eases my foul mood a bit.
There’s no race this coming week, but the week after, we’ll be in Monaco.
The Monaco Grand Prix may be iconic, but it’s both challenging and boring for most teams. It’s the shortest race of the season, yet it requires the most laps.
The city circuit is tight, with sharp, winding corners that make it practically impossible to pass.
Based on our performance so far this year, we’ll be lucky to qualify in the top ten and even luckier to finish in the points.
I leave Carlos to share the news with his crew, dodging people as I head through the corridor that leads to the drivers’ changing rooms.
Outside Heath’s door, I stop and knock softly.
Sandro cracks the door open, and the wince he gives me tells me right away that his driver isn’t doing well. He inhales sharply, surely ready to tell me as such, but I hold up both hands, stopping him.
“I wanted to check on him. Apologize for our shitty Swiss cheese strategy out there today.”
The performance coach’s expression softens. “Appreciate that, boss.”
“I also wanted to see how his stomach was holding up,” I add on a whim.
“Who the hell—”
Heath rips the dressing room door wide open. He’s still in his base layers, with his race suit unzipped down to his hips, the top half of it shucked off and dangling. His cheeks are ruddy with color, a scowl marring his face.
When he sees me, his anger wanes. His face is still etched in frustration, but he no longer looks like he’s about to chew my head off.
“Just stopped in to check on you,” I tell him, my words apologetic.
He crosses his arms across his broad chest, leveling me with a glare. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with my stomach.”
I raise both brows. “You’re sure? I could have sworn you weren’t feeling well and couldn’t participate in media interviews as scheduled.”
His eyes light up, and he chuckles, his shoulders lowering and his posture relaxing. “Now that you mention it…”
He exchanges a look with Sandro, the two of them having a silent conversation.
“I’ll take care of everything.” I pull out my phone to alert Amira to the change of plans. “Rest up and take it easy tonight,” I say, taking a step back. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do better by you today.”
The Canadian driver blows out a long breath. “Appreciate it, boss. We’ll get them next time.”
With a grateful smile, Sandro closes the door.
I turn on my heel and pound out orders via text, making sure that the team understands that Heath has a medical excuse for missing media obligations. I’m finishing up an email when I round a tight corner and bump into someone.
I throw my arms out to steady the other person. “I’m so—”
The apology dies on my lips. In my arms isn’t a member of my staff or an F1 photographer as expected. Standing before me, looking beautiful although slightly rattled, is Evangeline.
Air catches in my lungs. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” she says with a soft laugh. “Were you hoping for someone else?”
“Never,” I say, the word rushed. “Clearly, I wasn’t expecting anyone. I should have been paying better attention. How are you?”
Forget the race or the obligatory press conference I’m already running late for. My world is lighter—better, brighter—now that she’s standing before me.
“I’m okay,” she assures me, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips as she peers up through thick lashes.
Her makeup is done, and her chin-length hair is wavier than it was this morning.
The urge to run my fingers through the blond strands consumes me.
I tighten my grip on her forearms, just to keep myself from doing something even more stupid than touching her in plain sight.
“Just okay?” With a glance over my shoulder, I confirm we’re alone, then angle closer.
She shifts, her eyes darting from side to side, and tugs slightly to pull herself out of my hold.
Unable to let her put space between us, I tighten my grasp and bow my head so we’re even closer.
The fire flashing in her eyes is salacious.
This is pushing the limits, and we both know it.
“I’m more than okay,” she whispers. Then she scrunches her nose in the most adorable way. “But it doesn’t feel right to boast about how blissed out I still am, knowing the team struggled so much today.”
Pride fills me, my chest inflating. She’s blissed out. Because of me.
“What are you doing tonight?” I haven’t thought beyond getting through this godforsaken press conference, and I’ll be exhausted by the time this day is done.
But the promise of seeing Evangeline has my outlook flipping on its head.
Spending the evening with her in my arms is everything I didn’t know I needed until this moment.
That is, until she gives me an apologetic half smile. “I have plans,” she states simply, tucking her hair behind both ears.
Disappointment crashes over me with a heftiness I didn’t expect. I remain silent, waiting for her to explain.
She doesn’t have a live stream tonight. By now, I practically have her schedule memorized, and this is an off night.
My disappointment transforms into embarrassment as she remains quiet.
She’s not going to give me any details. Fuck, I’m actually jealous.
Of what, or whom, I don’t know. Is she meeting up with friends?
Or a person she recently met? She’s in a new city, surrounded by people her own age. What if she has a date?
I have no claim on this woman, and yet I’m filled with the carnal desire to know exactly what she’s doing tonight and who she’s doing it with.
My mood sours further, this sensation ten times worse than the lousy mindset that had me in a chokehold after today’s race.
“Right. Okay, then. Take care getting back to the hotel when you’re done,” I say. It’s pathetic. Am I really putting it out there to the universe that I hope she ends up back in her hotel room tonight instead of winding up in someone else’s bed?
“Alaric, I—”
My phone dings, reminding me once more about this damn press conference.
Scowling, I hold it up by way of explanation. “I’m running late for a media event.” I release my grip on her side but pull my hand away with a gentle caress.
It takes all my strength to walk away from her for a second time today.
Regretfully, I tell her, “Have a good night, Evangeline.”