I dry my hands. The last people I touched eight months ago were my nurses.
On screen, Senna chats with Connor, her new top driver, and I lather my hands in sanitiser, even as I crave human connection.
I slam my laptop closed.
“I guess you’re having too much fun to return home, you feckless playboy.” Her voice tremors, and a lump forms in my throat. “Dad still calls you that.”
I purse my lips as I roll the ring on the chain around my neck between my fingers. Senna gave it to me when I won my first grand prix. She laughed like a fiend when I noticed the wordsfeckless playboyengraved on it.
“Yeah, that’s about right.” I hide the longing to hear my dad comment on my reputation with women, parties, and driving like a man possessed one last time. “I’ll be home soon.”
I’m lying.
“Okay.”
My breath catches. Bleach burns the back of my gullet before turning my stomach. Or maybe it’s the sadness threading through Senna’s voice that’s destroying me. I can’t take this existence anymore.
I shove on sliders and stride to my door, grabbing my jacket, before I can change my mind.
I fight to keep the fear from my voice. “I’ve got to go. Something has come up. I’ll be in touch, okay? Good luck in Mexico. There’s only four races until the end of the season, and you’re doing so well. You’re going to smash it.”
“You look after yourself, okay?”
I fake a cough to hide the wobble in my voice as I say, “Sure. Bye.”
I pace the length of the villa one more time, but there’s not enough space for me here. I need to get out. I’ve read articles about what happens to people who are isolated.
I step out of my villa and breathe the fresh air. My hands tremble as I lock my door. I don’t want to be alone, but the germs and illnesses beyond the fence of my villa terrify me almost as much as the potential consequences of not leaving.
I check the map on my phone as I take a couple of steps away from my holiday home. There’s a taverna nearby. I can go there and not get too close to anyone. If I can do this, maybe one day I’ll be able to go home to my family.
I recall Senna’s shaky words. I miss her as much as I said I did. I love my sister nearly as much as I loved driving in F1 and being someone.
I miss laughing with Connor and Jacs and the team.
Each time I remember something I miss, I take a step farther from my villa and closer to civilisation.
I shove my sunglasses on and readjust my cap, ensuring it covers my scars and my face in case anyone recognises me.
The press and media pages gossip about me a little, but it’s amazing how quickly you’re forgotten once a season gets underway. I should be happy about that, but it’s another reminder that I’m fading away and will continue to if I don’t force myself out into the world.
My chest rises and falls.
“You can do this, Niki,” I mumble to myself. “You can live again.”
I won’t get ill like I did after my crash. I won’t end up nearly dying from an infection.
I will be the man I was again.
I have to be, because I can’t exist like this forever and I want to go home.
CHAPTER 3
Rosie
Istretch out on the sofa outside the taverna, yanking the hem of my bright blue summer dress. A guy from a table nearby winks at me while his mate stares at my chest. My boobs nearly hang out of the wraparound dress. With university, Tabi, and no training, I’ve put on weight since my rugby days, and fifty percent has gone on my boobs.
I shift the V neckline to hide what refuses to be ignored as traditional Greek music plays from a stereo. I can’t translate it, but I presume the singer’s bemoaning a crappy life of responsibility and struggles as plucked strings accompany her stress.
