“You sure do.”
I look at my big brother, pleading with him.“Archie.I don’t know how to move forward.”My eyes sting a little, and I blink a few times, the weight of everything finally crashing down on me.
He grabs my shoulders and pulls me up.“Dude, something had to change,” he says as he squeezes me lightly.“You don’t train.You eat shit.You’ve been drinking too much.”
“Say what you really think, asshole,” I mutter, laughing weakly.
“One thing at a time, Matt.Pick yourself up.You need to or it’s over, for fuck’s sake.Maybe a new team, a newcar, will help with all the problems from the—”
“I doubt it,” I say, cutting him off.I don’t want to talk about that.
“Well, a familiar face running the show just might.Someone you can trust.You can’t deny Chloe always gave you good racing advice.”
Archie is right on that, at least.As I recall, she did have this uncanny ability to spot minor imperfections.She helped me improve my race on more than one occasion.
I think about her back then, picturing her in her scuffed trainers, with the oversize T-shirts and wild red hair, sticking her tongue out as she raced ahead of me in her go-kart.Those big brown eyes always wide with energy and nerves.What did I used to call her?Bug-eyes?Bug?The memory makes me smile.
“Fine.I get your point.”
Archie knows better than to push.Instead, he ruffles my hair like I’m still five and he’s fifteen, and turns away, scanning the room.
“Have they delivered a new kit already?”He finds the two zip bags hanging over the back of an armchair, liberating a new racing suit and undershirt.“Is this it?”
“It’s so...green,” I murmur, pulling off my white T-shirt.
“Come on, mate,” Archie says, tossing me the undershirt.I look at the little logo.No more iconic silver wolf of Rossini.Instead, I see what looks like a barking yellow dog above off-the-shelf Arial font readingarden racing.Below that, a big silver square of gaffer tape covering a sponsor patch.I try to peel the edge of the silver tape.
“Don’t pull it off,” says Archie.“Could be a reason it’s covered.”
“Christ,” I say, recoiling.“Save me.”
“This is what you’re gonna do, baby brother,” he says.“You’re gonna go out there and do the stupid little social media clips talking about how excited you are and whatever the fuck.Then you’re going to head to the track and make the best of the rest of this season.Success is revenge.”
“Okay,” I say.
“We could build something there, you know,” Archie says, heading toward the door.
“We?” I stop following him, aghast.
“Yes.”He beams at me, motioning for me to hurry.“I was always more of a dog than a racehorse.”
“Christ, don’t willingly leave Rossini, Archie.”
“Of course I’m coming.I’m your race engineer.You think I’m going to stay and work with someone else?”
“But for fuck’s sake.It’s Arden.”
“We started this together.Where you go, I go,” he says firmly.
I stare at the ceiling.“Promise me you won’t do anything right away.”
“I won’t,” he says with a grin.“Now get out there and be your handsome, charming self.”
I sit impatiently as the makeup artist dusts a light film of powder across my face.I hate this part of the job.The press and publicity.Or the “media,” as they call it now.I’ve always hated it, despite the fact that I’m good at it.It’s such a big part of the gig now, because it keeps the sponsor money flowing and the fans talking.With F1’s international growth, the sport has lately been as much about the personalities and the off-track antics as it’s been about the racing.And I’ve had some pretty juicy off-track antics over the years.
The producer takes a seat next to the camera and taps the edge of the lens.“Straight down the barrel, if you don’t mind.”
I force a smile, trying not to come off too petulant, even if it’s exactly how I feel.
