“Just... writing an e-mail to Porteo.” That’s the name of my old team.
She looks alarmed. “Why? Did they reach out to you?”
“No. I just thought I would let them know I was getting better. They wanted me to stay in touch.”
“Didn’t they hire someone to replace you already?”
“Yes,” I say stiffly.
“Well, okay,” she says warily. “I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”
“It’s just an e-mail,” I mutter.
She touches my head again, and this time I do lean away. Her words are like poison, seeping into my skin and making me rethink this whole idea. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this e-mail idea is stupid.
But then I hear Amanda’s voice in my head, talking about my attitude and motivation.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say through my teeth. “I’m just going to get back to this.”
It’s about as polite a dismissal as I can manage. My mother sighs heavily, but after a moment, she wanders off. I take a sip of coffee and refocus on my e-mail. I’m trying to find the right tone, somewhere between apology and self-defense. I stare at it for about ten minutes and then delete all the self-defense. The team boss, Carl, is a bit of a hard-ass. He won’t want to hear my excuses.
A few hours and a hundred drafts later, I hit Send, then I slam my computer shut and drive to the gym. I get on the treadmill and tell myself I’m not going to look at my e-mail again until after dinner.
I last about an hour before I open my e-mail on my phone. I’m not expecting anything. Carl is a busy guy, he’s not going to be sitting around checking his e-mail.
But there is something.
My fingers go numb as I click on it. As I read it, my stomach sinks lower and lower.
To be fair, he isn’t a dick about it. He says he appreciates my reaching out. He admires my dedication to motorsport. He hopes my recovery continues to go well. But, no. There isn’t a place for me on the team right now.
I’d offered to come back in any capacity, even as a reserve, but he doesn’t even acknowledge that. And at the end is the worstpart—a polite note that he’ll connect me with the team lawyer to arrange a release from my contract.
My heart twists painfully. If he thought I had a chance of getting back in F2, he wouldn’t be offering to release me. The fact that he is... it means he knows I don’t have a chance at any other team.
My hand drops heavily to my side. I’m trying to stay positive, but there’s a painful lump in my throat.
Fuck.
Somehow I get back on the treadmill, just to have something to do, and I end up walking another five miles, staring off at the wall, trying to feel nothing. My physiotherapist is going to tell me I pushed myself too hard, but I’ll deal with that tomorrow.
I go home and shower and stare at my reflection in the mirror, and I say it out loud. “Porteo doesn’t want me back.”
Then I crawl into bed and have a stupid cry in the dark.
In the morning, I make a list of all the other F2 teams, and start hunting for contact information.
25
A New Classic
I never thought I’d say it, but it’s a good thing I have a therapist now.
For weeks, I’ve done nothing but send e-mails and make phone calls. I have a list in my phone of all the F2 teams, and every few days, I delete a few more names off of it. Everyone sings a different version of the same song. They’re so happy I survived the crash. They’re so glad I’m working on my recovery. They’re so sorry they don’t have a place to offer me, but maybe I should check back again next year.
I feel like I’m living in a cycle. Send an e-mail. Get my hopes up. Get rejected. Feel like shit. Find another team. Send another e-mail. Get my hopes up. Get rejected. Feel like shit.
Over and over and over.
