Which was pissing me off more than I cared to admit. I’d gone from podium finishes and champagne to crying babies and arguments about bottle temperatures. My life had become asurreal nightmare where nothing made sense and everyone had opinions about how I should be handling it.
I mounted my bike, grateful for the distraction. “Who else is coming?”
“Nico Kraus. Thiago Mendes.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Thiago? I thought he hated my guts after Brazil.”
Liam shrugged. “Probably does. But he hates missing training more.”
Fair enough. The Brazilian driver had a reputation for being utterly single-minded about his fitness routine. If riding with me was the price of keeping his edge, he’d pay it.
But Nico was the real surprise. The German veteran drove for Rekord, one of our biggest competitors. He was also famously private, rarely socializing with other drivers outside of official events.
Five years ago, he’d been me with his own scandal and his own unexpected kid. The media hounded him, his team threatened to drop him, sponsors almost pulled out.
But he survived it.
I needed to know how.
“Morning,” I said, pulling up beside Nico and Thiago outside the hotel. “Thanks for joining.”
Nico shrugged. “Better than running on a treadmill.”
Nico Kraus had the seasoned look of a driver who had been a staple of the grid for 15 years. If not for the slight graying of his blond hair and the crows feet framing his eyes, you’d never know he was one of the oldest drivers still competing.
“Cardio is cardio,” Thiago muttered, adjusting his gloves.
The Brazilian was in his third season, hungry as hell, and treated every training session like it was the race that would make or break his career. Dark hair, darker eyes, and the kind of permanent scowl that made rookies nervous in the drivers’ briefing.
“Spoken like someone who’s never had to stare at a hotel gym wall for two hours,” Liam said. “At least out here, there’s scenery.”
Thiago rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
We set off, falling into an easy rhythm. The route Liam had mapped out would take us along the Marina Bay, then north toward the reservoir before looping back. About 40 kilometers total. A decent workout without pushing too hard before race weekend, particularly when we factored in the intense humidity.
For the first few kilometers, we rode in silence, focused on finding our pace. The city began to wake around us, early risers heading to work, delivery vans rumbling past.
“So, Nico, how’s the car handling now?” Liam asked.
Nico chuckled. “Nice try.”
“Worth a shot.”
Thiago increased his pace, pulling ahead. I increased my speed, slotting into the space he vacated beside Nico. If I was going to ask, it had to be now.
“Heard you’ve got a new trainer,” I said. “How’s that working out?”
He shrugged. “Different approach. More recovery, less strength. But I’m feeling good.”
“Recovery gets more important the older you get,” Liam shouted from behind us. “Not that you’re old, mate.”
Nico laughed. “I’m ancient by racing standards. Thirty-five and still competing? Practically a dinosaur.”
“Experience counts for something,” I said. “You’ve got what, thirteen seasons under your belt?”
“Fifteen. Started young, stayed longer than most.”
“And managed to keep it together off-track too,” Liam added. “Not an easy feat.”
