“White wine for me,” he said. “I’ll be having fish for sure.”
“I’ll take water.” I opened the leather-bound menu and scanned the options.
A few minutes later, the waiter served our drinks and took the rest of our order.
“To your new season with Forward Racing!” Alejandro raised his glass. “May it be the start of a successful career.”
“Thanks. We’ll see.” I downed half my water. Dad had set the bar impossibly high, and I didn’t want to jinx anything by sounding confident. If I wanted to win the opening races the way he had, I needed to stay sharp.
Dawson chuckled. “It’s okay to be optimistic, you know? You’ve got what it takes.”
“You definitely do, Ash.” Ale rubbed his palms together, then glanced toward the sliding doors. Our server was heading over with the codfish we’d ordered. He claimed it was cooked from an old Portuguese recipe, and while I doubted it would taste the same, Ale and Dawson’s expectations were sky-high.
Ale tried it first. “Prueba.” He nodded at my plate. “No está mal.”
I forked a piece and tasted it. He was right. Not bad at all. The salty flavor reminded me of the cod I’d had in Portugal during races there, served with thinly sliced potatoes just like this.
“I miss Portugal,” Dawson said, eyes on the horizon. “And Spain.”
Ale chewed, then set his fork down. “Me too. By the way, you guys want to go out tomorrow? Someone mentioned Starlit—apparently, it’s the most popular club in Stetbourg.”
Dawson took a sip of wine, hiding his smile behind the glass. “Nice of you to ask, but I’ll pass. Got a few movies waiting.”
Ale sighed. “You’ll never meet anyone if you keep staying in, old man.”
“Who said I’m looking? I’m good. But you two go have fun.”
Ale wanted me distracted from the articles about my father and me. One presentation with the team and already the press had churned out a stack of nonsense. It got under my skin more than it should and piled on pressure I didn’t need.
After we ate and ordered coffee, Ale stood, phone in hand. “Give me a minute, guys. I got an email from a gear brand about a possible sponsorship. Might be interesting, Ash. I want to see what they offer.”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Sure.”
As he stepped off the terrace, I breathed in the briny air, buying time to gather my thoughts. It was my chance to ask Dawson what had been clawing at the edges of my mind.
“Did you see the latest articles about me?” I asked. Dawson always kept up with racing news. So did Ale, but I didn’t want to make him worry more than he already did.
He set his glass down. “Yeah. They’re comparing you to your father. It’s inevitable. Sergio was a legend. Admired and envied in equal measure.”
“Even though some say he made an amateur mistake that cost him his life?”
“Don’t overthink it. They just want clicks.” Dawson lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug. “Even the best fail. And that’s okay. No athlete’s invincible.”
Breathing felt like a chore. I traced invisible lines on the white tablecloth. “Is there a chance the post-race inspection missed something critical?”
Dawson shook his head. “Not at his level. Custom bikes go through rigorous checks.”
My chest tightened. Why couldn’t I let it go? Dawson hadn’t told me anything new. If Dad had highsided because of a mechanical issue, someone would’ve caught it. But still, something didn’t add up.
“Guess I just didn’t think he’d make that mistake.” I pushed my empty glass in slow circles. “He knew better.”
“Listen.” Dawson sighed, the weight of it heavy. “I know a thing or two about losing someone you love. You don’t get over it easily.”
His wife had died seven years ago, but I sensed there was more he wanted to say.
“But?” I pressed.
He toyed with his napkin. “Sometimes there is no answer. Accepting that is the only way to heal.”
