“It’s been such a good season for you, we, uh, just needed to throw you off of your game.”
I grunt.
“That’s all.”
“To beat the spread,” blondie adds like that’s supposed to make me feel better.
I shake my head in disgust. Betting is getting worse in just about every sport. Considering this is Vegas, it’s not the first time in my F1 career that I’ve dealt with this sort of issue.
“Would you like us to call the police, Mr. Townsend?”
“The police?” Dark Hair suddenly looks like a kid lost in the woods.
“No. Please,” his friend pleads.
“I should,” I say to the security while still staring at the teens. “You two tried to ruin my weekend, why shouldn’t I return the favor?”
“We’re so sorry!” the black-haired one yells, clasping his hands in front of him, begging.
“We just needed the money. If you tell the police, my dad will lose his shit.”
I almost ask why the hell I should care about their dad’s reaction, but then I remember some of the stupid shit I got into as a teenager.
Teens with unfettered online access and underdeveloped front lobes are a terrible combination. Only minds that immature could think of doing trying something so idiotic just to earn some online bet.
“The police won’t tell your dad,” I say.
Their eyes renew with hope … only for it to be stamped out a second later.
“Because you are.”
I have the security guard get the boys’ phones out, then make them each call their fathers and explain exactly what they tried to do tonight.
The dark-haired boy’s father yells and then hangs up on them but not before telling them he’ll be here in five minutes.
By the time all is said and done, both boys’ heads hang low and shoulders slump in shame. At least their parents know the truth of what they’ve been up to online. Maybe that’ll convince them to keep a better eye on them.
“I don’t know what he was thinking,” Dark Hair’s father says fifteen minutes later, when it’s only he and I outside of the security room. “I apologize about all of this. It will never happen again.”
“Make sure it doesn’t,” I tell him and take the hand he offers.
“Good luck this weekend. I mean it.”
I come close to telling him I don’t need his luck. Instead, I reply, “I always get lucky in Vegas.”
He nods, confirming that he, too, is aware of my Vegas winning streak.
I talk to the hotel’s security for another minute, and once they assure me that my suite is secure, I start toward the restaurant on the ground floor to grab dinner before heading to my room.
After arriving early for this weekend’s Grand Prix, and a long photo shoot, I’m ready to settle in for the night. My only plans are to watch some footage and read over the notes my team principal and I discussed for this weekend’s race strategy.
Today’s Wednesday, and most of the rest of the racers and their teams arrive tomorrow. My series of sponsorship meetings and sporting interviews will begin in the morning.
The hostess of the Mediterranean restaurant welcomes me by name and shows me to the bar to order.
“I’ll have the calamari and the mushroom pasta,” I tell the bartender to put in my order.
“To drink?”
