“No. In the media.”
His brows lowered. “Don’t care for that.”
“Well,Ciclatidoes. You should, too.” I chucked him the file I had put together. Strong, independent woman. Nomanwas going to weaken me. “You are the most reportedracerin all ofmotorsport. The only other person is PedroVelazco, but he hardly counts as anex-racer.”
It was damning that the only other man reported on as highly as Nixon was a corrupt ex-racer gone sports analyst, who had worked forCiclatibefore being found guilty of using the sport and the transport that came with it to ship drugs across the world.
His name had become a headline special as he was expected to be released from prison in the coming months.
Armas’ eyes sharpened in anger, narrowing at the mention of his ex-co-worker. “But not by much—”
“You take up 63% of the media coverage. Have a look.”
Begrudgingly, he picked up the folder and started to flip through it. “Yes, but that’s because I won the last—”
“And, again, nope,” I said, shaking my head. “There were 112 articles about you in the last quarter, bearing in mind that it was out of season, and 87 of those were about your, er, personal life. Guess how many were positive?”
“What does it matter?” he asked, chucking the file back on the desk between us. “It’s no one’s business.”
“Three of them were positive,Armas. Three.”
I was baffled when I went through them. After so much coverage, it was beyond shocking that so few were positive.
“That’s ridiculous,” he snapped, brows lowered and glancing at the folder again. “That’s not true—”
“Look. They are all there.” I pulled out my tablet from my bag, opened the photos app and started swiping through.
Knowing this role was unique and nothing like my last PR job, I found anything and everything onArmas. I’d spent hours scrolling through Twitter, Reddit forums, and comments on articles.
Nazminhad made it clearAlvarowould need to be managed when it came to statements and interviews, but nowhere near as much as Nixon.
He watched eagerly. “I never google myself,” he said, but it didn’t sound like he was talking to me.
“You shouldn’t. That’s my job now. I’m only showing you so you realise how much you need my help. You just need to stick to the racing and less of the…” The what? The drugs, partying, the openly bitching about those that ran the sport or the facilities they went to? “To be frank, the shit.”
“The shit?” he repeated, sitting back in his chair with a cocky smile.
Clearly, my statistics had not been enough for him to take this seriously.
“Drugs, gambling. Your bad-boy image is taking some of the seriousness out of the sport. The sport you love.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We clean you up a little.” When he only raised a brow, I continued, “We show your good side. Vulnerability. Something other than the guy who spends all his money on cocaine.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Is this how you speak to all of your clients?”
“Not all,” I said honestly, a hint of regret in my voice. I was truthful when it came to my clients, but not normally so blunt so soon. “But I’ve never had a client so unwilling to see the problem. Or so against good publicity.”
“I thought the saying was any publicity is good publicity,” he said and sipped through his straw with a brow still cocked.
I couldn’t help but be impressed with his fluency. AlthoughStormSprintwas an international sport heavily dominated by Europeans, most people knew some English.
And he spoke it very well.
I’d read that his mum was originally English but had spent most of her adult life in France.
Still, I glared at him. “Only fools say that. And for you, no. At this point, no publicity would be better than anything. You do realise that the CEO ofStormSprintcommented on more drug testing when speaking directly about you. I wouldn’t be thrilled about that.”
