“Set me up in the race,” I demand. “I want to run laps 10-15, and 30-35.”
She blinks slowly. “Those were your best defense laps.”
“Those were mybeing a pussylaps. Set them up.”
She complies, albeit while shooting me irritated looks. When she tries to offer suggestions through the headset during the simulation, though, I draw the line. If shedoesn’t want to talk to me, we won’t talk. I’m not here to appease her or help her program today; I’m here for me.
Unfortunately, on my fifth rerun of the aforementioned laps, I’ve tried everything I can think of… and have only ended up losing my ranking, not gaining or even maintaining.
This is the part where I should ask for her help. We made an excellent team before she decided to fucking ghost me, digitally and in-person. If anyone can make suggestions that’ll get me where I want to go, it’s her.
Instead, I abandon the simulation and headquarters, head home, and stew.
This routine repeats itself for several days. I’m at HQ early in the mornings, and I take care to commandeer Victoria’s time whenever I’m present, but I don’t make it fun for her. I don’t cross the line of belittling her, but I don’t hold back the asshole in me, either.
I’m sogoddamnangry at her for hiding from me and treating our kiss like it was the biggest mistake of her life that I can barely look at her, but at the same time, I can’t look away from her. The memory of her leaning into me, pulling at my hair, nipping at my lips fuckinghauntsme.
After five days of the same routine, I blink first. Not to her face—I won’t stoop that low. Instead, I call the man who’s been blowing up my phone like a bad one-night-stand who refuses to let me go: my personal trainer.
I’ve taken to blowing off both my manager and my personal trainer this season, but considering I’m serious about staying in F1, it’s time tochange that.
He responds within fifteen minutes, telling me he’ll rent out the top floor of the gym where we usually train, and for me to meet him there in twenty minutes.
Giovani Georgie, also known as Gio or Gigi in some circles, is an enviably fit man in his late forties. His hair is salt and pepper, his temperament ranges from being a complete pain in the ass to being one of the most competent trainers in the world, and his track record of working with Olympians is what made me hire him years ago. He wears a thin tank top despite the chilly weather, paired with grey joggers and a goddamnsweatband. There’s a duffle bag strewn over his shoulder.
He does not look impressed when I greet him outside the four-story gym. The building’s a hunk of tinted glass and brushed steel, and their fee per month is more than some people’s rent. But behind the polished exterior, it’s got the equipment and machinery to back up its ridiculous membership price. This used to be my usual spot with Gio, even though my trainer generally prefers having me flip tires and use free weights instead of what he callsfancy bullshit machinery.
“Four months no text,” he says sourly, his Italian accent adding a lilt to the words. Despite being born and raised in Italy, his English is pristine. “If I didn’t keep getting my payments, I would think I was fired.”
“Less talking, more working,” I snarl.
Instead of backing off, like most people with an iota of sense would, Gio offers me a sunny smile. “Ah, I see you’ve brought your humor as always. Good.” His smile drops. “Enjoy pushing three stacked tires around the gym for the next hour.”
I shake my head. “No. I want to use the actual tech.”
“And I want to fuck Beyonce.” Gio spreads his hands as if to say,what will you do. “Neither of those things are happening.”
“Machinery, or I find another trainer.”
Instead of backtracking, he rolls his eyes and pushes into the gym. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says mildly, leading us into the stairwell. “If you did, I’d run to the press with all your secrets.”
I know his threat is empty, but it still rankles. “You’re under an iron-clad NDA, old man.Machinery.”
“The day you start using the simulator is the day I figure out this high-tech nonsense.” He pushes open the fourth floor door. The room beyond is a private training suite, smaller than the main gym floors yet better equipped for certain purposes. The floor is rubberized, the walls are mirrored, and a row of machines are lined up beneath harsh overhead lighting. It smells like industrial cleaner and rubber. There’s no music, no TVs mounted to the walls, just equipment and silence. A smoothie bar runs along the far wall, its granite countertop cluttered with a rack of shaker bottles and a commercial blender.
“I guess today’s that day, asshole, because I’ve been glued to the simulator forweeks.”
Gio frowns at me. “What?You?I remember you ranting about only rookies needing that bullshit—”
“I changed my mind,” I grit out. More accurately,Victoriachanged my mind, and she wasright. That’s always the worst part, when she genuinely knows better than I do.
“Very well.” Gio approaches a cable machine—a multi-station rig with a digital touchscreen built into the frame—and fumbles around on the screen. He frowns at it, muttering curses in Italian. I watch him in silence, not offering a helping hand to the stubborn old man. After several minutes, he nods in satisfaction. “We’ll start here. Fifteen reps, rest, ten reps, rest, then back to fifteen. Begin.”
I stalk over to it, fold myself like a goddamn pretzel to get seated and begin.
Gio watches me with a steadily-deepening frown. “No,” he says after my first set. “No, no, no, no, no. What is thematterwith you?”
“What are you talking about?” I’m already getting out of breath, but I manage to focus and glare at him. “I’m doing what you asked.”
