Abbe had gone and returned with two red passes that said STAFF up the lanyard.Salihathrew hers on and nodded for me to do the same.
I wasn’t staff. I may have used my lastpaycheckto get here, but the job wasn’t set in stone. Not until the team directorgave me the nod.
“Armasis showing off,” Abbe said, jerking his chin towards one of the screens over the bar. There, the motorcyclist pulled the new bike up into a wheelie, waving at the crowd. There were cheers far off in the distance. “I’ll take you down to the pit once the testing starts.”
“It might be nice for Olivia to meet those she’ll work with and see how the testing works,”Salihasaid.
Abbe cocked a brow and looked me up and down. “You a new grid girl?”
I blinked in surprise. A grid girl? The equivalent of a ring girl? He thought that could be me?
“No, PR,” I said and offered him my hand to shake. “Flattered, but not a grid girl.”
“Oh, good luck,” he scoffed, but he had turned to his iPad, not paying me any attention.
“Abbe,” Saliha scolded.
He gave a lazy shrug and gestured to the chefs. “You sure you don’t want some real food before we hit the pits?”
She only took a final pointed bite of her hot dog.
“You, sunshine?”
“Thanks, Abbe, but I’m just eager to get started.” If they’d still employ me once they knew who I was.
“Fine,” he grumbled and led the way down a spiral staircase and onto the road busy with motorbikes, people and tools. The pit lane. The atmosphere was electric, with excitement and cheers all across the tarmac.
“TheCiclatiteam is just down here,” he said as we brushed past some of the racers and entered the pit box. It was essentially a large garage, with a garage door that led to pit lane where the riders would drive off to thegrid for the race. Four bikes stood waiting, the rest of the room in the team colours. There were comfy seats on one side and screens along one of the walls. My dad had loved theStormSprintchampionship. From watching, I knew the rest of the team would watch the race from the screens, their reactions displayed on the TV when their rider crashed or won. Sundays watching the races were as ingrained in my childhood as church the hours before.
Seven men were in the room, some tinkering with the bikes, some watching the screens, some in deep discussion.
Abbe cleared his throat.
The oldest of the men, Hispanic and greying, looked up from the bike he’d been toying with. When he sawSaliha, he straightened with a smile. “Thought you weren’t with us until the first race?”
“Couldn’t keep away,” she laughed and they hugged. “Also, I wanted to introduce your new media manager.”
His smile faltered as he saw me and he released her.
“Olivia Quinn,” Saliha introduced me. “Olivia, this is Cris Bacque. The Ciclati StormSprint Director.”
“Lovely to meet you,” I said, taking his extended, grease-marked hand. My dad had taught me to have a strong grip; I used it now. “Though, please call meLivie.”
He went back to tinkering the bike. “What do you know aboutStormSprint?”
I was ready for this. I knew an onslaught of questions would come my way. I inhaled deeply, ready to share my newfound knowledge. “I’ve researched about the championship, the players, the team—”
“Theplayers,” he muttered and shook his head, eyes rolling back. A look my dad gave me when I’d been in trouble.
Fuck.Fuckety-fuck. I knew they weren’t players, it was just a slip of the tongue—
“Do you know the difference between a factory and a satellite team?” When I didn’t respond immediately, he asked, “And why we might use soft tyres instead of hard tyres? Do you know how many points you need to be champion?”
My face heated. Two years ago, this wouldn’t phase me. Yes, question me. I’ll prove myself.
But I’d never been desperate like this.
I plastered on a smile. “Satellite teams lease the bikes, so they don’t have the most up-to-date model.Ciclatiis a factory team. I’m sure I still have a lot to learn, but as for your other questions—”
