“No, it’s all good,” I lie. “I’m just—not good at social media stuff.”
She smiles. “You’ll get used to it. And if you can wear a Crosswire shirt tomorrow, that’d be great.”
“Oh—right.” I flush. She told me that last night, but I completely forgot. “Sorry. I haven’t got my luggage yet.”
“It’s no big deal,” she says easily. “I’ll go grab you one. We’ve got about ten minutes till we have to be in the pen, then it’s going to be a bit of a blitz until FP3, so if you need to pee or grab food or anything, I’d do it now. I’ll meet you there, yeah?”
“Er—yeah,” I say. “Definitely.”
I know where the media pen is. I think.
The second she leaves, a random guy throws his arm around my shoulders and snaps a selfie. The lingering reporters press closer, and one of them calls, “Got time for a quick word?”
“Um—not right now,” I say, remembering Crosswire’s media rules. “Sorry.”
“How’s it feel to be back racing?” someone else asks.
“Do you think you have a shot at Clayton’s seat next year?”
“If Matty Wright’s spot opens up, would you consider driving for Harper?”
I try to walk faster. “Er—I really can’t say?—”
“Jacob!” A deep, commanding voice cuts through the noise. It’s vaguely familiar, and I turn toward it instinctively.
My stomach plummets to the ground as soon as I see who it belongs to. It’s one of my dad’s work associates, Stephen MacIntosh. He’s with two other men whose faces I recognize but can’t put names to.
“How are you, son?” Stephen says, grasping my hand and squeezing it tightly. He’s a heavy, red-faced fellow with sweat stains on his expensive suit, and I have never liked him, not even when I was a little kid.
“Fine,” I say thinly. I try to keep walking, but he and his buddies have surrounded me, and the reporters have fallen back almost politely, as if they think I actually want to talk to these jackasses.
“What a stroke of luck you’ve had, eh?” Stephen says. “Right place, right time, isn’t that the way of it?”
“Uh—”
“Your dad said you’d hook us up with some passes to watch from the garage. Cheer you on from the front row, yeah? Maybe toss a few thumbnails under Mahoney’s wheels.” He laughs at his stupid joke while I stare at him in disbelief.
“My dad said what?”
“Who do we talk to about getting back there?” Stephen asks, ignoring me. “Do you have a PA who can help us, or is there a place we can go to pick up lanyards?”
My mouth works silently for a few moments before I manage to get any words out. “I have to go,” I say tightly. “Excuse me.”
I don’t wait for him to answer me. I push past him and his friends and flee to the Crosswire motorhome, my rapid footfalls echoed by the angry thud of my pulse.
I can’t believe my dad did that.
Actually, that’s not true. I can absolutely believe it. It’s exactly the kind of selfish shit he would pull, even though he hasn’t talked to me since I walked out on him and Mom six months ago, after he told me being with Travis would ruin my career and make me a laughing stock.
He hasn’t made any attempt to get in touch, not even a cursory “Happy birthday” text when I turned twenty-four back in April. But now that I’m racing in F1 for the first time, now that the racing world is paying a bit of attention to me, he’s promising his sleazy friends that I’ll hook them up with passes, and probably bragging to everyone he knows about his son the Formula 1 driver.
I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it. Sick, and furious, and also sort of like I might cry. Which is ridiculous, because I’m supposed to be over cutting ties with my parents. They’re not supposed to be able to affect me like this anymore, they’re not supposed to be able to hurt me.
In my changing room—Clayton’s changing room, really—there’s a Crosswire race suit waiting for me, and race shoes. The shoes are still a half-size too tight, and the race suit sits strangely on my shoulders, and if I mess up this weekend, my dad is going to feel smug about it, like it’s proof he was right, that I’m not good enough to be here.
Fuck. Fuck.
My thoughts are skittering, but I don’t have time to deal with them. I have to get to the media pen.
