His eyes searched mine, desperate, almost pleading. “Say it again.”
“You’ll do it tomorrow too.” I meant it, though my stomach twisted at the thought. Because if Shep made the wrong call during the race, Jonathan’s belief in him, in this whole system, could collapse. And I didn’t know what that would do to us.
The elevator dinged, doors opening to the hotel corridor. A couple of mechanics passed us, and Jonathan straightened immediately, mask back in place. To them, he was the confident pole-sitter. To me, he was the boy who had just whispered his fear.
When we reached the door, the pit of my stomach was tight. In the paddock, I was his shadow, careful not to overstep. At dinner later, I’d be seated at the far end of the table, introduced as “a friend.” And here, in private, I was the only one he trusted enough to admit he was afraid.
It felt like a privilege. It also felt like a trap.
As he closed the door behind us, Jonathan leaned his forehead against mine, just for a moment. The world outside, the cameras, the questions, and the weight of tomorrow fell away.
“I’m glad you’re going to be here tonight,” he whispered. “Not for… you know. Just, so I don’t have to be alone with all this in my head.”
My throat tightened. He wasn’t asking for sex, or even distraction. He was asking for presence, for someone to hold the fear with him.
“Of course,” I said.
He pressed a quick kiss to my temple, so light it almost didn’t register, and then headed toward the shower, already shifting back into focus.
I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the water run, and let myself breathe. This was what it meant to love him: not the podiums or the headlines, but the quiet comment in the dark,the trust that I would be there when the rest of the world couldn’t be.
It was tenderness, yes. But also a weight. Because tomorrow, if Shep’s gamble went wrong, Jonathan’s trust in him would shatter. And if I wasn’t careful, Jonathan’s trust in me might go with it.
48
TRUST, AT SPEED
The grandstands shookwith the roar of thetifosi, those fervent Ferrari faithful, red smoke drifting like incense above the main straight. Even from the media center, I could feel the pulse of the Temple of Speed vibrating through the glass. I adjusted my headset, Jonathan’s channel crackling in my ears.
Lights out. He launched cleanly, slotting into first through Rettifilo, the brutal opening chicane. My pen skittered across the page. Hirsch leads into Turn 1.
But Monza had a way of chewing leaders up.
Jonathan’s voice came through, tight with strain: the car felt light under braking, losing bite into Roggia. Shep’s reply was firm, clinical. Everyone was struggling with low downforce. Manage the fronts, stay off the curbs.
I mouthed a silent warning to Jonathan, as if he could hear me. Stay off the curbs. Easier said than done here, where every inch begged to be cut tighter, every sausage curb dared a driver to ride it. My stomach clenched. Shep was already dictating every move.
“Box now, box now,” Shep said. His voice was calm, but there was a fraction-of-a-second hesitation. The kind that could turn brilliance into disaster.
The stop was clean. But as Jonathan rejoined, he found himself behind a slower Williams. One lap of dirty air, and the undercut would die.
He carved through anyway. Ruthless and precise. The kind of driving that made a strategy look smarter than it really was.
By lap eleven, Jonathan’s tone sharpened. Tires going, left front worst of all. Shep’s response was immediate: pit now, two-stop strategy, hard tires first.
Around me, journalists shook their heads. Everyone else seemed to be going long, aiming for one stop. I scribbled in the margin of my notebook. Out of sync? Risky?
Jonathan pushed back, insisting they’d lose track position. Shep countered without hesitation: Monza’s pit lane was short, fresh rubber was gold. The call was made. Jonathan dove into the pits, rejoined ninth. My pulse spiked as the timing screens flickered. A gamble laid bare.
Jonathan’s car shot back onto the track and my stomach dropped.
P8.
Then, as two rivals stayed out one lap longer, the timing board flickered again.
P9.
A low murmur rolled through the media center. I heard a commentator on the international feed say it out loud, disbelief sharpening his voice. “That’s… bold. That’s very bold.” Another was less charitable. “If this doesn’t work, that’s the race gone.”
