“Right,” I say. “If we can maybe just go through the important stuff one more time?—”
“Can I steal Jacob for a little while?” a voice cuts in. It’s Marcie, the team’s social media manager. “We have to get some photos done if we want things printed in time.”
“Of course.” Cory rises to his feet.
“Any chance I can take that wheel home with me?” I ask.
“It costs about eighty thousand dollars,” he says.
“Oh. Er—better not, then.”
He chuckles at the look on my face. “Don’t sweat it, Jacob. You’re going to be fine.”
“No, for sure,” I say. “I’m not worried.”
I am seriously such a liar. And now that the initial adrenaline rush has faded, my exhaustion is starting to weigh me down again. I spend half an hour smiling awkwardly for the team’s professional cameraman, then another half an hour signing paperwork with the scary legal people, then Sofia arrives from the hospital, takes one look at my face, and orders me to go home.
I stumble back to the hotel in a daze and collapse in bed beside Travis. The last thing I remember is his arms wrapping around me, pulling me back into the warmth of his frame.
When I wake up, it’s half past two in the afternoon. My limbs are heavy and warm under the sheets, and for a few bleary minutes, I have absolutely no idea where I am. Then I roll over and see the Marina Bay Sands’ towers peeking through the curtains, and my heart gives a huge, giddy leap.
Holy shit.
I’m racing in F1 today.
Travis is already gone, but he’s left a note on the nightstand that says “See you at the track xx.” He must have ordered room service for breakfast—I’m not sure how I slept through that—and he’s left me a plateful of fruit and pastries. I make myself a coffee from the machine in the living room, then I curl back up in bed to eat.
When I swipe open my phone, there are forty-nine missed texts.
I scroll through them swiftly to make sure none are from Sofia or Cory, but they’re all just messages wishing me luck for the weekend. Most of them are from people I work with at the Crosswire factory, but there are messages from some of my old racing friends, too, and from Kelsie and Nate. That must mean the news that I’m racing this weekend has gone public. Sure enough, when I search “F1 news,” the first five articles are about Clayton and me, with headlines like “Nichols to replace Clayton for Singapore GP” and “Former F2 driver Nichols set to race for first time since tragic crash.”
It's kind of eerie seeing my name in news articles, and Instagram is even weirder. I’ve been tagged in about a hundred posts, and I’ve got nearly three hundred message requests. Most of them are just random strangers wishing me luck, but it’s the internet, so some of them are really bizarre. A girl with the username “futuremrsclayton” says that if I think I’m going to steal Clayton’s seat, I’ve “lost my tiny mind,” and some guy’s sent a message that says, “if u crash again try to kill mahony this time.”
Weirdos.
I close out of the app without responding to anyone, and text replies to Kelsie and Nate while I eat three pastries and a bowl of fruit. Then I take a shower, dress in some of Travis’s clothes, and head out.
It’s so hot it’s like stepping into a sauna, the sun blindingly bright in a clear blue sky. I hum absently while I walk, marveling at how calm and steady I feel. I’m definitely nervous, but it’s the good kind of nervous. I’ve got an hour of FP3 to get to grips with the car, and it’s not like I’m expecting to get pole in qualifying afterward. My secret goal is P3, which would prove to Sofia that I’m at least as good as Clayton, but honestly, I’ll be happy just to crack the top ten. Realistic expectations, that’s what I’m going in with. My old therapist Amanda would be so proud of me.
I’m thinking about sending her a text when a bright voice calls my name. It’s a young girl standing just outside the paddock gates, dressed in Crosswire colors. “Good luck this weekend, Jacob!” she says.
I smile at her and give a little wave of thanks. As she holds out her baseball cap for me to sign, nearby heads start to turn toward us. Then a guy hollers, “Yo, it’s Jacob Nichols!” and I’m completely engulfed by a crowd.
I’ve seen it happen to Travis and Matty, but neither of them ever mentioned how overwhelming it is. Two seconds ago, I was walking alone, unrecognized. Now, there are a hundred phones pointed at me, and people are shoving hats and t-shirts into my hands. I’m jostled from side to side as people sling their arms around me to take selfies, and one guy is trying to get a chant going, yelling “Crosswire! Crosswire!” loud enough to split my eardrums.
I’m close enough to the gates that security sees what’s happening and comes to my rescue, but it’s still a full minute before they can extricate me from the crowd. I try to keep a smile on my face, scribbling my name on things at random and saying, “Thanks, thank you” to everyone wishing me luck, but my heart is pounding hard by the time I’m finally free of them, and a shaky breath escapes me as I swipe my pass to get into the paddock.
On the other side of the gate, about fifty reporters are waiting for me, flashing rapid pictures and calling out, “Jacob! Over here!”
Fucking hell. I plaster on a polite smile and press forward as quickly as I can. A few of them follow me all the way down the paddock, snapping photos and trying to talk to me. About halfway down, I spy Marcie walking toward me, but she has her phone aimed at me, too, and she says, “Welcome to the paddock, Jacob,” in a way that makes me sure she’s filming a short.
“Thanks,” I manage.
She walks backward to keep her camera on me. “Are you ready for the day?”
I try to think of something clever to say, but all I can come up with is, “Yep.” I’m acutely aware of the reporters still following us, and of the fans with paddock passes glancing over to see what all the fuss is about.
Marcie must see something in my face, because she puts her phone down and says, “Sorry.”
