I hesitate. She’s never spoken to me like this before, firm and direct. I feel like I’ve been thrown off balance. “Aren’t you supposed to, like, make me realize that on my own through your weird thought experiments and annoying questions?”
“If we had years to do this, yes. But you just told me yourself—your sport moves on quickly. You can’t afford to spend a year wallowing in misery, afraid to try, afraid of failing. Get through yourrehab. Find a new team. Go to a lower league if you need to. There must be something below F2. F2-and-a-half, perhaps.”
I crack a grudging smile. “F3.”
“F3,” she agrees. “Go there if you need to. Hell, go to F10 if you need to. Work your way back up.”
“There’s no such thing as F10.”
She holds my gaze. “Look, Jacob. Last time, we did reverse psychology. This week, it’s time for another classic. Tough love. The biggest obstacle between you and the things you want isn’t your injuries, or your parents, or a contract. It’s your own attitude and lack of motivation.”
I let out a harsh, disbelieving breath. “You think I’m not motivated?”
“Yes,” she says evenly. “I do.”
I stare at her for a minute, fury and defiance burning hot in my chest. But when I open my mouth to argue, she interrupts.
“Am I wrong?” No longer impatient. Just a question.
I hesitate. Then, slowly, I shake my head.
She’s not wrong.
“If you want something,” she says, “and it’s within the realms of reality that you can get it, then you need to do something about it. Right?”
I swallow and say, in a small voice, “Yes.”
“Yes?”
I clear my throat and try again. “Yes.”
“Good.” She leans back, and it feels like the tension has snapped, as if she was holding me on a string and suddenly cut it.
I let out a shaky breath. “That was impressive,” I admit. “Much better than the video game line.”
She smiles. “It was good, wasn’t it?”
I would laugh, if I didn’t feel so off-balance. “So... what do I do next?”
She shrugs. “How would I know? I don’t know anything about motorsport. I told you to go back to F10.”
I snort. “Fair enough.”
“You’ve got about fifteen minutes, this time,” she says, rising to her feet. “I’m going to make a cup of tea while you think on your next steps.”
“You’re really milking this tea break thing,” I say.
She smiles, and the door swings shut behind her. I’m left alone with her words circling around and around my mind, like a horse on one of those carousel rides.
If you want something, and it’s within the realms of reality that you can get it, then you need to do something about it.
“Want some more coffee, love?” my mom asks.
I look up from my computer. “Sure. Thanks.”
She puts her hand on the back of my head. I don’t pull away, even though I want to. I hate it when she does that, like she thinks I’m five years old. It didn’t use to bother me, before the crash. Or maybe I just didn’t notice, because I saw her so infrequently.
“What are you working on so early?” she asks.
