“Travis, you’ve been having an amazing season so far. What do you think you have to do to keep it up?” the sports journalist asks me in this pre-qualifying, one-on-one interview.
I’m in Hungary for this weekend’s Grand Prix. While I just arrived last night, my mind’s been split between thinking about Alyssia and work. It’s getting more and more difficult to leave her behind with each race.
Thankfully, after this race I have almost four weeks until the next one. I plan to spend every minute with Alyssia, and pray she doesn’t go into labor while I’m away during my next races.
“Well, the answer is simple. Keep doing what we’ve been doing,” I reply. Then launch into explanation how the success of the season has been a team effort.
As I speak, though, I notice her glance down at her lowered hand that holds her cell phone. Her brows quirk the slightest amount, and it doesn’t sit right with me.
“That’s great,” she says dismissively. “But we’ve just received reports that … well, it’s alleged that you intentionally threw that race in Monaco. Can you tell us about that?”
I blanch, momentarily dazed by her questions.
“What was that?—”
“That’s enough for today,” Drake comes up, interrupting the interview. “We need to get ready for qualifying.”
He not so discreetly puts an end to the interview while tapping my shoulder, a sign for me to follow him away from where all of the other reporters here stand. I follow but watch a few huddle together, their phones out, as if something big just happened.
My muscles tense because this isn’t fucking good.
I start to think about the absence of those notes and phone calls lately. My uncle has been carefully going through each person on my team, which is tedious work. Everyone has skeletons in their closet.
The problem is discerning which skeleton is heavy enough to drive someone one my team to try to blackmail me to throw races.
“What the hell just happened?” I ask my team principal once it’s just him and me behind closed doors.
“This.” He hands me his phone.
On the screen there’s a well-known but often criticized sports social media commentator. He’s one of those guys who constantly makes outlandish accusations of athletes.
“Play it,” Drake says.
“What if your favorite athlete was intentionally losing? Yeah, you heard me right. Well, that’s what my inside sources say Travis Townsend is doing this season.”
“What the fuck?!”
“Yeah, what the fuck?”
I glare at my team principal. “You don’t fucking believe him, do you?”
He pushes out a heavy breath and shakes his head. “No. I’ve worked with you long enough to know where your heart is.”
“But?” I ask, not satisfied with his answer.
“It doesn’t matter what I think or even know.”
“This guy is a fucking joke.” I nearly throw Drake’s phone at him. “Everyone knows he’s full of shit.”
“Most of the time,” he counters. “There have been a few occasions when the garbage he’s spewed turned out to be true.”
“So that means he’s telling the truth about me? Let me tell you something right now, I’ve never intentionally thrown a race. Hell, I’ve finished on the podium in almost every race this season.”
I’m in the fucking lead for a reason.
“He’s referring to Monaco.”
The one race I didn’t finish in the top three because of an accident.
