Five minutes later, I’m wishing I wasnota man of my word as bright lights flash in my face, hurting my brain, and reporters yell questions at Elio.
I’ll give him this much; he answers each one like a pro. His dazzling smile never wavers—I wonder how much cash he’s dropped on teeth whitening—and he’s level-headed, calm, and collected. I, on the other hand, sit back with my arms crossed, occasionally baring my teeth at the cameras in an imitation of a smile.
The press conference stretches out for an eternity. After a while, I start replaying my favorite movies in my head, up until my name gets called for a question. I look up, finding a beady-eyed reporter staring at me with a hungry look on his face.
Here we go.
“Asher, it’s quite surprising to see you’ve joined the panel today!” the reporter says, flashing me a sharky grin. “After avoiding us for so long, I think we all worried you didn’t like us.”
He releases an unpleasant chuckle, while nobody else makes a peep. All eyes are on me, and the attention makes my skin crawl. One thing I’ve never enjoyed about F1 is all the fuckingattention. I just want to drive a good, well-built,durablecar without having to worry about what hundreds of thousands of people will think about it. The cameras and press might’ve held some appeal in my early twenties, but now… it’s just exhausting. Thissporthas become exhausting. It’s lost the addictive jolt of electricity that used to keep me on the balls of my feet, eager for each new race.
“What a strange conclusion to jump to,” I say flatly. I barely refrain from tacking on,with that brainpower, you really deserve an award.
That gets a few uneasy laughs, not from reporters, but from my team. A flash of raven-black hair catches myeyes, and that’s when my mood plummets from bad but stable toterrible.
She’shere. The intern. The one I thought I successfully scared away. If I can’t get her fired, I can at least get her to stay as far away from me as humanly possible.
Except, apparently, Ican’t.
“So, you started in F1 eight years ago after a brief stint in F2, where you had a meteoritic rise to stardom.”
I nod. “Yup.”
The reporter waits for a moment for me to expand, but he didn’t ask me a question; he stated facts. I’m not gonna hold his fucking hand through these questions. And, besides, I’m distracted. My attention keeps straying to the intern, and I swear to fuck, astorm cloudgathers over my head when I see her quietly murmuring with a vaguely familiar engineer. I think his name is Tommy? Toby?
“You had a stellar first few seasons with us,” the reporter gabs on. “Everyone thought you were going to be one of the greatest talents to grace the race tracks.”
“Well, nobody’s right 100% of the time,” Elio decides to pipe up, smile widening.
My jaw tightens. “No, they most certainly are not,” I say sharply. “It seems the media often misinterprets the good guys and bad guys, don’t they, Elio?”
I look at Elio, who smiles good-naturedly. “I was pegged to become a first driver, and here we are.”
“Pegged? Sounds like a typical Tuesday for you. Excited for the Thailand Grand Prix, Elio?” When a few muffledchuckles sound from the peanut gallery, I press forward. “First to finish isn’t a good character trait, buddy.”
There’s a snort in the back of the room. I think it might come from the intern, but I wouldn’t miss the flash of anger that crosses Elio’s expression for the world.
Speculative murmurs make a wave around the room. The intern reaches up to massage her temples with her fingers, shaking her head. Tommy-Toby-whatever-the-fuck his name is chuckles and leans close to her, whispering something in her ear.
I’ve never had such a visceral urge to tear someone’s head from their shoulders. Not even with Noah.
“But then… your performance took a dive. You bounced around teams before landing at Gaston… as second driver.” Jesus, the reporter’sstillspeaking.
“Correct.” I arch an eyebrow. “How long do you plan to recount publicly available information? I think everyone has better shit to do than listen to the sound of your voice.”
Ilya glares at me from down the table. I ignore him.
The reporter goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “And today, everyone caught that you think Gaston has given you a…badcar.” A few laughs sound, and my hands curl into fists. “Do you think Gaston is the problem, or could it be you?” the reporterfinallyasks.
“I’m not a philosopher or a therapist. You’ll have to ask one of those to answer your question,” I say flatly.
The reporter’s starting to get irritated. “Are you deliberatelytryingto fail out of this sport, or has your dismal performance simply been a symptom of—”
“I think we’ve had enough questions,” Ilya finally intervenes. “Thank you all for your time. We’ll see you all in Shanghai.”
Chapter Five
Victoria
