The door swung open, and Dr. Sannier strutted in, a clipboard to her chest as she glared at my racer, handing him a bottle of water. “Where?”
“Malaysia.”
“When?”
“May 2nd.”
“Race?”
“Four. Sepang International Circuit track.”
“Name?”
“Zoltán Simon Farkas.”
She nodded and straightened.
“You were out for seven seconds, it looked like,” shesaid as he guzzled some water. “And then you walked here? You know the protocol, Farkas. You should have let my team look you over.”
Normally, he would know what she’d said, or at least pretend he did, but he looked up at me with an expectant smile.
It took me a second to translate. I added, “Stop smiling at me like that.”
His smile only grew. “How can I not when you’re so beautiful?”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No,” he said. “Don’t insult yourself. I think you’re beautiful every second of every day.”
“So just a case of severe verbal diarrhoea?”
He chuckled, and Dr. Sannier shuffled her weight from one leg to the other, an expectant brow cocked.
“He didn’t knock his head,” I blurted.
She gave me an unimpressed glare and shone a light in each of his eyes. He knew the drill, looking one way then the other. “Translate word for word, Miss Bacque. I need Mr Farkas to be crystal clear on what I’m telling him. Where are your medical records, Farkas?”
He only looked at me when I translated, and she checked his pulse.
“Did you know I find it insanely hot when you just go between languages like that?”
“Not infuriatingly?” I joked before realising I was playing along instead of doing my job.
His head fell back, and he groaned deep within his throat. “Exactly.”
“He doesn’t know,” I told her. “It’s with his team. I havethem in Hungarian, I’m translating them—”
“When?” she snapped and lifted the helmet I’d brought with us, analysing it for any scrapes. “I have a page and a half summary of the crash. No MRIs, no brain scans, no orthopaedic follow-ups. I don’t care what Benedek Farkas has to offer; his brother won’t race without a full clearance.”
“That page and a half tells you he is cleared to race,” I bit back. “I translated it myself. Benedek said the head of his rehab team spoke directly to you.”
“I can’t treat someone whom I don’t have the correct history for.”
I bit my tongue. “I’ll get them to you.”
“You will,” she agreed. “Or he’s not on the track next race. I’m sending you to the hospital for a CT. Are you saying you didn’t hit your head? You weren’t unconscious? Then you’ll have no issue passing a neurocognitive baseline test.”
She nodded at me to translate, and he paused before he responded, not from pain, but as he calculated what he wanted to say.
