Taz, sitting alone at the long table, a raft of microphones in front of him, tapped his finger on the white linen tablecloth and schooled his expression into what he hoped would pass for pleasantness. He was a pro at press conferences; they were a necessary evil, but there were better ways to spend his time.
Taz sneaked a look at his watch and sighed. They were running ten minutes late, mostly because members of the press were still trying to get into the now-packed room. Millie stood in the corner to the right of him, her iPad clutched, as it frequently was, to her chest.
Unfazed by the eyes on him, he saw Millie staring at a spot on the floor, the corner of her lip caught between her teeth. Her shoulders were an inch from her ears, and he knew she was second-guessing herself and him. He lounged in his chair, wearing his usual mask of detachment, pretending to scroll through his phone.
He had a girlfriend. He grimaced at the childish term; it didn’t suit him, a man who’d spent his life avoiding emotional entanglements. His career was his greatest love, the only mistress he ever needed. He was doing this to benefit his company, to bolster his brand. Dating Millie was a strategic move to repair his image, to keep his fans, sponsors and the media focused on what mattered: his path to his fourth championship. After a few weeks, everything would go back to normal. Or whatever passed for normal in his world.
Tension crawled up his spine, and he told himself to relax. This wasn’t a big deal. But it was, because this was Millie. The same Millie he kept imagining naked beneath him—or on top of him because, honestly, he wasn’t picky—her skin flushed with pleasure, her breathless moans in his ear.
He wanted Millie almost as much as he wanted that fourth consecutive championship. A sliver of self-doubt slid under his skin. What had he gotten himself into? And why did the thought of being with her thrill him? Racing was his world. Winning his satisfaction. Yet here he was, his thoughts on a woman he employed. A woman he was paying an obscene amount of money to hold his hand and play a part.
Maybe if he banged his head against the table hard enough, he’d knock some sense into himself. But then again, maybe not.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, Taz De Rossi will now read a statement, after which we will take a set number of questions.’
Right, he was up. After pushing his hand through his hair, he looked down at the statement Millie had carefully prepared.Off his game,irritable,the rookie should’ve slowed down while navigating the corner.The strain of driving and owning a team had caught up with him…
It was a raft of excuses for his questionable behaviour, and he knew the press corps would lap it up. It was also all BS. He picked up the statement and scrunched it into a ball. Noticing the surprise on the faces of the journalists directly in front of him, he almost smiled.
‘I could sit here and give you a dozen excuses about my behaviour in Shanghai, tell you how stressed I am, how the demands of owning a team and being its number one driver got to me last Saturday. I could tell you that…’ He looked at Millie amused by her shocked expression. But was that horror or approval he saw in her eyes? A mixture of both? ‘But I’m not going to. The truth is that I lost focus on that race, my mind wasn’t completely on my driving. Jackson did nothing wrong, the blame for what happened in Shanghai should be placed on me.’
Oh, well, he’d stepped into the hurricane, so he might as well see if he could ride his way out of it.
‘I have apologised to Jackson personally. I’d also like to apologise to the sponsors and my fans.’ He lifted his cast-covered arm. ‘I am paying for my stupidity, as I should.’
The silence in the room was absolute, and all he could hear was the scratching of pens on paper and the occasional cough from a reporter at the back of the room. The rebel in him enjoyed their shocked silence.
‘You know I was given the punishment of community service by the FIA stewards,’ he said. Should he mention Alex’s philanthropic efforts? No, he was not going to invite them to make comparisons between his brother and himself. They would do that anyway, without his help. And, as always, he’d probably come up short.
‘I intend to complete that service by working with five charities until my injuries are healed, hoping to shine a spotlight on what they do.’ He went on to name the charities, giving a brief description of the organisations’ work. ‘You can find links to all the charities on the De Rossi website, and if you can, please donate. Any amount is helpful and would be gratefully received.’
‘I will be at all the races, supporting my team and, hopefully, not driving them too crazy.’
That statement elicited a laugh. ‘I’ll take a few questions now.’
A wave of questions rolled over him as the journalists shouted over each other.
He glanced over at Millie, and she gave him an encouraging smile. Surprisingly, it instantly dropped his irritation levels. Strange, because no one ever made him feel like that before.
‘Can you tell us how you felt when Jackson nudged you in Shanghai?’
God give him strength. This? Again? ‘As I’ve said, twice now, my behaviour was unacceptable. I’m not going to rehash it again.’ He couldn’t keep the annoyance out of his voice.
How much longer was he supposed to endure this? He glanced at his watch. He’d give them a few more minutes, and then he’d leave.
‘Are you worried about losing championship points?’
Of course he was; he wasn’t an idiot. If his nearest rival won all the races he’d miss, they’d be level on the board. It made him furious to think that he’d wasted that lead because he’d lost his temper. That he was the disappointment his father believed him to be. Had called him such to his face on numerous occasions.
Thinking back, he preferred his father insulting him than ignoring him: At least he could be bothered to interact with him. But those stretches when he was consistently disregarded or dismissed were worse. They were right. Bad attention was better than no attention at all. Being made to feel insignificant and unimportant was far more dangerous to the psyche than being told you were bad.
In his father’s eyes, the world’s eyes, Alex had been as perfect as a human could be. Handsome, intelligent, charming, nice…he had it all so Matteo hadn’t hedged his bets or spread his attention. Everything he wanted in a son he had in Alex.
‘You seemed quite chummy with your press liaison. Something happening between you?’
It took Taz a moment to make sense of the question. When he did, he leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on his thighs, his fingertips digging into the fabric of his pants. He made sure his expression remained unruffled. ‘You know I never answer questions about my personal life.’
‘Is Phoebe still on the scene?’ the reporter persisted. ‘Are you going to the Caribbean with her?’
