“So crude, what will your mother think?” I muttered, then took a sip of wine for the first time since I’d poured it. “That is fucking disgusting, Brooke. You’ve got me drinking motor oil rather than wine. This is why people don’t drink non-alcoholic red.”
“It grows on you. Like a rash.” Brooke said, taking another sip. “It pairs well with doughnuts.”
“Said no one about a good wine ever,” I replied, but reached for a doughnut anyway. The sugary flavours did drown out the vinegary bitterness of the red, but I wasn’t sure I’d call it a pairing so much as a rescue.
“I didn’t know you were a wine snob,” said Brooke. “Always struck me as a tequila to the eyeball kinda guy.”
“Well,yes.That too,” I said. “But like most of us on the grid I grew up with enough money that I’ve stolen enough good wines from the cellar before a party. And my boyfriend owns a vineyard.”
“You are too fancy,” Brooke winked before taking another sip of the wine. “How are you dealing with…the rivalry?” Her tone had turned conspiratorial, like she was asking me about some great state secret.
“It’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ve had a bit of a slump. But all I’ve got to do is race well this weekend. I’m still comfortably ahead of Sebastian for the European Tour, and we’ll be past the halfway point after tomorrow.”
“Mhm. Just saying, I bet the hate sex is epic.”
“There is no hate sex, Brooke. Sebastian…he’s special. He’s helping me out. And I’m sure whatever happens, we’ll both be there for each other. Anyway, it’s Max Burnham breathing down my neck for the European championship.” But even as I said it, a little tendril of unease curled somewhere in my stomach and settled there. What would I do if the championship did come down to Sebastian and me?
I took a sip of my horrible red wine, and dreamed it was the kind that could get me drunk enough to forget.
I hated to ever call the high-octane job I didboring, but qualifying had been…uneventful. I’d managed a respectable fifth, behind both Max Burnham and Sebastian, who had qualified in fourth and second, respectively. I had just pulled up to the line after the warm-up formation lap, and I could see both ahead of me as we waited for everyone else to pull into their bays behind.
I was focusing in on Max. He was the prize. Sebastian remained almost twenty points behind me, and if I could catch Max then I would be ahead of them both - with a cushion of points that could keep my relationship with Sebastian fromturning sour. I didn’t know how I’d be if we were properly track rivals again.
I remembered last season, right at the start. The crash with Sebastian that stopped our friendship in its tracks. Without that crash, one silly overconfident decision from Sebastian, would we have fallen for each other that much earlier? Did my reaction delay us coming together?
“Focus, Theo, you’ve got this. One good start is all you need.” My race manager was talking through the headset, and I had no idea if they were general words of encouragement or if I actually looked that distracted on the grid. I looked up at the red lights above, and narrowed my eyes like they had personally offended me.
“Come on, you bastards,” I whispered to myself. Each light lit up in turn. And then, darkness.
And then, nothing.
No big start.
The car jerked forward an inch as I pressed my foot down on the pedal. Every other car shot past me as I tried again and again to get the car to move. But nothing. Ahead of me, a light panel turned yellow to signal that I was an obstruction, that everyone else should slow down.
My race was over. And my season had just got a whole lot harder.
Sebastian
The champagne was flowing at Remini HQ as we celebrated my —our— latest success. I’d managed a respectable second, maintaining my place from qualifying. In one corner, Marcus was showing a rare bit of levity, sitting on Damian’s lap as he fed him grapes one by one. They both were swaying with the music, and drawing a few odd looks from the team. Despite their relationship, it was often Damian who pushed at Marcus’ boundaries in the workplace. As team principal, Marcus liked to try and keep us as professional as possible.
I took a sip of my champagne, but it wasn’t going down as nicely as I’d like. I was now second overall, behind Max Burnham and tied with Theo. Social media was already calling my recent run of form the comeback of the century. But I still wasn’t happy. And I wouldn’t be happy until I’d finished my allotted time at the party, so that I could leave and see my Teodoro.
I crossed the room, gently moving aside a few mechanics as they dragged in an ancient karaoke machine, and climbed the stairs to my private room. Unlike Frankie’s, it was at the front of Remini’s hospitality suite and could look over all the other teams. Most of the hospitality suites were dark, with their teams having left by now, ready to regroup before the next race. Dragon Racing were celebrating a rare podium, Neil Alden had come in third after a hard fought race. British Racing were celebrating with their usual style for Max Burnham.
And there was my problem, exactly why I couldn’t motivate myself to feel happy. Max Burnham was metres away, celebrating a win, and was contracted for the seat I had now. In just a couple of months, I might be out of a job before the season was even over. Even if I pulled off a miracle, I wouldn’t retain my seat. Frankie could keep performing horribly, and his daddy’s money would keep him on the team. Max Burnham would be sitting in my office, and I would be out of the sport. Possibly forever.Por siempre.
Behind me, the door squeaked open.
“Leave me alone,” I growled without looking back. It wasn’t like I had a reputation for being a diva, there were many on the track with worse reputations than me. But in that moment I just wanted to be left to myself.
“No can do, dude,” said Frankie. He was slurring, and I knew it wasn’t worth the effort to try and kick him out. Spoilt brat could get away with being anywhere.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Good party downstairs. For you,” said Frankie, coming to rest his elbows on the Juliet balcony next to me. “But you’re not there.”
“Well observed, señor Sherlock Holmes,” I replied.
