Someone touches my arm and points me to James Riley, the TV reporter who was there when this whole shitshow started. He’s waiting for me with a camera and microphone.
“Travis, congratulations,” he says. “Another pole position—your first in Austria, and your tenth, I believe, overall. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I say.
He looks surprised by my curt tone, but after a second he recovers. “Hard to celebrate after yesterday’s awful news, I’m sure.”
He’s giving me an easy out. He must know what it’s like to have a mic shoved in your face when you don’t feel like talking. Still, that’s not how most drivers feel after landing their tenth pole position.
“Hard to celebrate,” I repeat.
“How do you feel about your chances for a win tomorrow?”
I couldn’t give a shit, I think.
“Alright,” I say out loud.
James hesitates, studying my face. I’m sure he has more questions to ask, but after a moment, he gives a small shake of his head and says, “Well, congratulations again and good luck tomorrow.”
Mahoney from Crosswire Racing comes forward to take my place. As I walk away, I nearly collide with Josh Fry. He must’ve finished P3, an impressive feat in a midfield car. He doesn’t look very happy about it. In fact, he looks as miserable as I feel, and I remember he was friends with Antony.
“Good drive, man,” he says, offering me a thin smile.
All the anger rushes out of me as I look at his face. “Yeah, you too,” I mutter. “Sorry about Antony.”
He shrugs stiffly. “I guess Jacob’ll be next.”
I can’t think of anything to say to that. James Riley beckons him forward for his own interview, and I melt away, grateful to be out of the cameras.
Somehow, I get through the press conference afterward, then Heather the PA drives me to my hotel and escorts me up to my room. I’m annoyed at her presence, until it occurs to me that she’s the one who kept people away from me all day.
“Thanks,” I say before she leaves, trying to inject some gratitude into the word.
Her mouth crooks into a smile. “I’ll come get you tomorrow morning. Get some sleep.”
It’s good advice, but I don’t even try to follow it. Instead, I sit on my bed and watch F2 videos on YouTube. There are some tribute videos for Ellis and Antony, and I watch all of them, even the poorly made fan videos. F2 is not as publicized as F1, so a lot of the videos use the same clips. There’s one of Ellis Parrot getting a second-place trophy on the podium. Jacob’s standing next to him in first place, and even though the clip only lasts about two seconds, every time I watch it my heart clenches.
Dawn arrives, and I still haven’t slept. I watch the sun rise, sipping coffee from Jacob’s mug, heavy-limbed and empty of emotion. When Heather arrives, she looks at the bed, my clothes, and my face, and grimaces.
“Come on,” she says bracingly. “We’ll get you a coffee on the way.”
She hands me off to Brian at the track, who’s back from his brief illness looking like someone who’s been lying on a beach all day, and who raises an eyebrow at my coffee and tells me caffeine isn’t good for me. Somehow, I manage not to punch him in the face.
He and I join Matty at a table in the Harper cafeteria. A murmur of whispers follows us to the table, and Matty looks up a little guiltily from his cell phone.
“Did you see this?” He slides the phone toward me. It’s open to some trashy-looking news site calledThe Weekly Starz. There’s a grainy picture of me leaving Hôpital Nord below the caption “Star F1 driver Travis Keeping—mourning secret lover’s death?!”
My blood runs cold—I think it might actually stand still in my veins—then a sickly heat spreads over my flesh as I read the poorly written, sensationalized article claiming I was dating Antony Costa.
“It’s just some garbage tabloid,” Matty says. “None of the legit networks are running it. I think Stefan’s already on top of it.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s fine,” I mutter.
“That’s such bullshit,” Brian says, pulling the phone toward him. His face creases in disgust as he reads it. “You should sue them or something, seriously.”
Matty frowns at him but says nothing. When Brian gets up to get more food, I look up and find Matty watching me with an uncharacteristically thoughtful look on his face.
“Keeping,” he says.
