“Noah.He got sixteenth!”one of them shouts, with a thumbs-up.“Nearly made Q2.”
Chloe turns back to me.She drops her voice to barely a whisper, shifting her stance, trying to shield us from the eyes of the team.“Come on.Let’s talk,” she says.
But I shake my head.
“I need to make a call,” I say firmly, then I turn to one of the pit crew, who is assessing the fuel.“Don’t forget to feed the donkey before the next race,” I say, an attempt at a joke, which, by the looks of that wide-eyed mortification on his young face, I’m pretty sure didn’t land.
I need to get out of here.
“Matt!”Chloe says, her voice sharp now.
I hand him my helmet and stride out of the garage without looking back.
CHAPTER 5
Chloe
In the quiet of the long bar at the Singapore Grand Prix, I wave the bartender over for another drink.
The post-qualifying debrief was a hot mess.Nobody understands what happened to Matt out there.I certainly don’t.My heart was in my throat when he hit the gravel after a crude error out of turn six, too much understeer sending him careering off-track.And despite what he says, it wasn’t the tires.I’ve analyzed the data.His pace was all over the place, and his vitals were too.I watched in horror with the team as his oxygen levels dropped, a sure sign of stress beyond what we would expect from a driver at his level.
But Matt is not answering his phone.
And he’s not in his room.
And I’m worried that I have royally fucked up by not talking to him when he practically begged me to.
“Singapore sling?”The handsome bartender slides it in front of me.
“Xièxiè.And a chili crab with rice?I might take it to myroom.Is that okay?”I ask.It’s just after one a.m.but the kitchen is open all night on race weekend.
I find a seat at a quiet, cozy table and quickly work through some emails.Key qualifying data from the strategist.An update on regulations for next season.A sale at Saint Laurent, which distracts me for five minutes as I fantasize about ateam principallook.Then, I spot one from Barry, who always puts the entire message in the subject line.
To:CHLOE
From:BARRY
Subject:What in the name of fucking Hamilton happened to Matt out there?I thought you were better prepared.Don’t make me come back there.
Message:[blank]
I sigh.Barry does not trust me at all, and after I failed to intervene on that tire choice, he probably has a point.
The next email is from the media producer.A brief hello, plus several attached clips—rushes, apparently, of Matt doing his first publicity stint.I look at the time stamp.Jeez, Barry had that ready to go fast.And right before qualifying, no wonder he was in such a mood.
I click open the first short film.It’s a banal cookie-cutter response from Matt about how he’s “glad to be racing with Arden.”It’s the second clip, however, that makes me want to throw my phone against the wall.
The producer asks him what he thinks about working for me,a woman boss—I hate the question, the questionsucks—but it’s Matt’s response that is so...disappointing.There isa long, pregnant pause as he appears to squirm in his seat, his mouth straightening into a tight line.It takes several seconds for him to pull himself together, and then he answers as though he’s being held hostage: “It’s great.”
I hit pause and place my phone on the table, picking up my drink and downing half of it in one gulp.It’s sickly sweet and churns my empty stomach, but it’s nice to have something cool in the relentless heat.
“Shithead,” I mutter.“Stinking turd bucket.Misogynistic asshat.”
“Hey there!”
I look up to see my old racing friend Jack Sheppard.“Who are you calling a turd bucket?”he says, nodding at my phone and the image of Matt frozen mid-expression, one eye shut, his mouth gaping.I start laughing, mostly out of embarrassment.
“Mind if I sit?”
