I don’t respond and watch his jaw flex as I move my eyes to a young reporter from Sky Sports I recognize.“Yes, Sam?”I say, smiling.
“Economy flights, a hot sauce as a sponsor,” she says, her voice light.“Would you say Brazil is Arden’s last shot to remain in the competition?”
“Look, it’s no secret Arden needed to improve,” I say.“But we are.We’ll get there.”
“You won’t get points with thirteenth place.”Jack Sheppardagain.“Do you think you’ll get any more points on the board for Arden?”
“Yes,” I say simply, without looking at him.
“Have you spoken to Stavros yet?”he asks, and I feel the blood start to pump through my temples, my chest tightening.
“Thanks, everyone,” I mutter, turning on my heel and heading back into the garage.Fuck that guy.
“Is Chloe coming out?”says another voice as I disappear into the safety of the garage and head for the driver room.
“Chloe!”I call out to her as I pass.She’s surrounded by the team, examining data, planning for the race tomorrow already.“The press want to speak to you.”
She looks up and nods.But as she spots me, her expression changes to concern.I wave it away.“I’m fine,” I mouth, nodding to the press scrum.“Go speak to them.”
Later that evening, I sit on my bed, headphones on, trying to get myself back into the zone.Instead, I stare at my messages to Stavros from over the past few months.They start with me messaging him from our respective hospital beds.I was only in, really, for observation.Stavros had borne the worst of the crash.
Me:Hey Stav.Call me when you can.I’m sorry.
And then, as I scroll through my chat history, I see a bunch of calls from me to Stavros, none of which he answered.He was angry at me.I knew he was, and he had every right to be.
No one knows this, but there was one moment two or three weeks after the accident when I decided to go see him in person.
I arrived at the door to his rehabilitation suite and saw his mother and the Rossini doctor speaking in the lobby.His mum clocked me, and before I had a chance to speak, to plead my case,to say sorry, she marched toward me.
She bashed her fists against my chest and wailed at me in Greek.I knew enough key words to gather she was blaming me for nearly killing her son.I wanted to say sorry.Beg forgiveness.I wanted to say so many things, but she just shouted at me to leave.
“Go!You’ve done enough.”
I turned and walked back down the corridor, fighting tears as I went.
That was my window to make things right.When I walked away, I felt like it closed.
I messaged him later that day, hoping I could catch him before they discharged me from the hospital:
Me:Sorry.I’ve been calling and calling.They’re sending me home tomorrow.Can you message when you get this?
Me:I’m back in Monza.I hear you gave the nurse absolute hell about the food yesterday.
Sounds like you’re on the mend.??
Me:Hey.Are you ok?You don’t want to talk, I get it.But I’d really like to speak to you at some point.
I should have tried harder.I should have spoken to his mother again and again.I should have come back the next day, and the next.But I didn’t.
Now what was there to do?WhatshouldI do?
My fingers hover over the call button.Is there any point in calling him?I throw my phone down on the bed, annoyed that Stavros is back on my mind when I’m right here on the cusp of getting my confidence back.Fuck Jack Sheppard for bringing it up.
I’m showered, in my T-shirt and tracksuit pants, and about to order some room service when I decide instead to stretch my legs and head down to the bar to order something light to eat.
I don’t expect to see her—she said she had to work tonight—but Chloe is there, in the corner of the bar, paperwork, computer, and a ridiculous tall iced cocktail in front of her.Her hair is up in a topknot, some thick clear-rimmed glasses on her nose, head in the books.I can’t resist.
“Hey you,” I say, looking down at her.She looks up, flushed, hand to her chest.
