“Jacob. You’re about to do one of the hardest races on the calendar, even for drivers like me.”
I snort. “Even drivers like you, huh?”
He chuckles. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” I shift up on the bed. My neck is already sore from yesterday, and every time I rolled over in bed last night, my entire core screamed in protest. Even my fingers feel stiff, and the tiny muscles in my feet.
There aren’t many of my muscles that don’t hurt, actually.
“You nervous?” Travis asks, watching me.
“Yeah.” I lick my lips. “It’s a big opportunity.”
“You’ve already impressed everyone by taking pole,” Travis says. “No matter what happens tonight, you’ve shown Sofia you’ve got the pace.”
I nod a little. “Yeah.”
He kisses my cheek. “Yeah. Now go shower. We should head out in twenty.”
“Fine.” I climb off the bed. “But if you’re going to jerk off while you wait for your turn, try to think about me instead of Aiden Baker.”
He laughs. “No promises.”
I do a little better in the media pen this time. It helps that most of the questions are the same. Am I excited to start on pole? Nervous for my first F1 race? Hopeful that tonight’s drive might lead to a permanent contract? Yes, yes, and yes, I answer truthfully. And no, I haven’t heard anything concrete about Clayton’s retirement.
“What about Matty Wright?” the next reporter asks. He’s one of my least favorites, a pushy guy from some American network. “He’s had a rough season, to say the least. Would you take a seat at Harper, if it came up on offer?”
“Matty is an incredible driver,” I say loyally. “I highly doubt his seat will be open next year.”
“But if it is?” the guy presses. “Do you think you could compete against a teammate like Travis Keeping?”
No, I think honestly. Then I think, fuck it, and I say “No” out loud.
His eyebrows lift. “Really? You already beat him yesterday in qualifying.”
“He didn’t get to put in a second lap,” I remind him. “He was on pace to beat my time before that dog ran out in front of him.”
The guy looks disappointed. He was probably hoping I’d make some cocky statement that he could use for clickbait. “Well,” he says, “if you can keep him behind you tonight, you’ll take seven championship points from him. Crosswire will have to thank you for that.”
Marcie gives him the signal to wrap up the interview, but as she leads me to the next one, my mind is stuck on what the guy said.
If you can keep him behind you tonight, you’ll take seven championship points from him.
Obviously, he’s right. The race winner gets twenty-five championship points. Second place gets eighteen. As long as Travis finishes in front of Mahoney, he’ll leave the race with a lead in the championship, but if I keep him behind me, if I win the race and he finishes second…
That’s seven points he can never get back.
“You okay?” Marcie asks.
“What? Yeah. Sorry.”
She smiles. “One more interview and then you’re free.”
The next interviewer, a younger woman, asks the usual opening questions, then she says, with a bit of hesitation, “Jacob—I have to ask. The last time you drove in a race, it ended in tragedy. Is the crash playing at all in your mind as you get ready to race again tonight?”
I hesitate. Crosswire’s media team prepped me for this question, but now that I’m standing in front of a camera, their cheerful, eyes-forward answer doesn’t feel right at all.
“I’m not nervous about driving,” I say instead. “I mean, I’m not scared of having another crash as bad as that one. But it does feel really shitty that Ellis and Antony aren’t here. They would’ve loved to have an opportunity like this, and I’m just—I’m really sorry for their families, and their friends.”
