“Nazminsaid the analogy is that you’ll be his live-in nanny,” she warned as the screen changed to NixonArmasstraddling the bike and starting to cruise along the track.
“The joys,” I grumbled.
That was the one thing I wasn’t looking forward to so much.
“Tell me about his team.”
“The other rider forCiclatiis his best friend, the only one that seems to keep Nixon on side —”
“Armas,” she corrected. “When you talk about him in public, it’sArmas. We’re not playing tennis now.”
Ouch.
But if I could depend on anyone to be real with me, it washer.
I’d lost so many friends over the last few months, but she had always been there. We hadn’t been the closest since university — in the last few years we mostly sent each other memes — but she’d been a rock recently.
“The one that keepsArmason side isAlvaroMendes. Number 86, thefaceofMotorsport. That was, he kept him in line until the end of last season.Armasseemed to go overboard and there was footage of them arguing outside a club. This event — the pre-testing for the season — is the first time they’ll be seen together in two months. Mendes has been racing for the last seventeen years and has a massive fan base. His younger cousin,Luca—”
“Liha!”
She had been nodding away but froze, mouth open, bringing her hot dog to her mouth.
In the aisle, three rows down from us, a man around 40 in theCiclaticolours of red and green hovered and smiled, a slow wave aimed at my friend. “Saliha!”
She waved back and rushed to chew her mouthful. “Abbe,” she said, turning in her seat. “Wasn’t expecting you here.”
“Well, that’s a lie,” he laughed, squinting in the French sun that shone on his dark skin. “I’m always here. You weren’t expecting mehere.” He pointed down at his feet. “And you shouldn’t be here either. Come on, bring your friend. Down to the pit box.” When she didn’t budge, he sighed. “At least to VIP.”
Abbe. He was a member of theCiclatiteam; an ex-rider turned sports analyst. My dad had been disappointed when he’d crashed and damaged his elbow irreparably. He’d been furious when Abbe received racist abuse across social mediafor letting his team down.
My dad had adored these men.
And I’d be working with them.
Salihashook her head and lifted her food. “They don’t serve these down in the pit or in the lounge.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I wanted to see the reveal through the eyes of the public,” she said, but based on his frown, he wasn’t having any of it.
“Come on, quick. I’ve got to get back beforeArmas.”
Salihasighed, took my hand and dragged me to follow Abbe. Before I knew it, we were in an underground tunnel, the revving of the bikes far away.
Until we started to incline and suddenly, everything was very, very loud.
Cheers, cries, shouts. The petrol fumes were overpowering.
Salihawas smiling next to me. “I love the smell.”
Abbe pushed open the doors to a very different side ofStormSprint.
A large bar of high stools, tables and a buffet with chefs at hot skillets awaited us. The smell of cooked meats and cheeses filled the air, stronger than the fumes.
Thewaitstaffstood with champagne on trays, eager to supply the alcohol to those in the VIP Lounge. The people varied from those in linen suits, cargo shorts and tee-shirts.
I’d worked at Wimbledon and, still, this was impressive. Organised.
