BEFORE GHOSTING WAS A THING
BILLY
I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve experienced all sorts of pleasure both physical and emotional. Nothing,absolutely fucking nothing, feels better than climbing out of my race car after parking it in front of the flag with the number one on it and jumping into the arms of my pit crew. Today is the first time I’ve done it this season, and it might be the last. You never know how a season or a life in this business is going to go. So, as always, I savor the hell out of it. The hoots, the hollers, the slaps on the back, the pats to my helmet, the roars carrying my name. All of it.
Finally, the crew settles into claps and releases me, and I pull off my helmet and make my way to the person who matters most. Team owner and Principal, Sebastian ‘Bash’ Castera, is standing slightly left of the rest of the Mirabella racing crew. He’s got his arms crossed, but a satisfied and proud smile pulls his wide mouth upward. The wind ruffles his thick, wavy salt and pepper hair. I tuck my helmet under my arm and walk to him, leaning over the barrier. He unfolds his arms and wraps one around my shoulders. “Good job, son! Fucking great job, actually.”
Right there are two things I love about Bash Castera. The way he calls me son even though I’m not and the way he swears like a trucker not caring that there are cameras and mics everywhere. I chuckle and clap him on the back. “I’m glad I could get one for the team.”
It’s a standard, expected response. The truth is I’m fucking thrilled I got the win forme. There are two titles to win in an F1 season, the Constructors’ Championship which is awarded to the race team with the most points and the World Championship that’s awarded the individual driver with the most points. Any finish in the top ten gets points and you want your team to win the Constructors' because it’s job security. It means money and sponsors and ensures the team keeps going. But as a driver you really want the World title. It’s the ultimate job security because every team wants a Champion in their car.
Bash gets it because he was a driver too. One of the best in the history of the sport. I wander over to the officials to go through the post-race procedures before I move on to the media interviews. Sterling is just finishing up his interviews. He managed, despite his cocky bullshit with my teammate Antonio, to finish third.
He looks like he’s still pissed, but he has no one to blame but himself. And he took Antonio right out of the race, which means Mirabella Racing doesn’t get as many overall points. If Sterling and Antonio hadn’t been in a cock fight, both Mirabella drivers would be in the top ten, earning points. But then I wouldn’t necessarily be the one on the podium so… I have mixed feelings. Sterling storms past me with just a nod and a grunted, “Congrats, mate.”
I smile, “You too. Great recovery.”
He grimaces, and I go about my own interviews. Then it’s podium time. I love hearing the Australian anthem as I receive my trophy. Bash is up there with me, which is odd because it’s usually the chief engineer, Joaquin or track side engineering director Rocco, who accepts the team trophy unless it’s the Constructors’ Championship at the end of the season. Weird, but okay. Maybe Bash was just feeling it today so even though he owns my ass, I shake my bottle of champagne and spray him and the other drivers. Bash sprays back with wild abandon and then we tap bottles and take a swig of whatever is left.
As we head off the podium together, Sterling brushes past us, scowling, eager to get back to the paddock and probably lock himself away and pout. “That kid still needs to grow up a little,” Bash comments to me in a whisper.
I don’t react. I don’t want to comment on anyone else’s attitude or driving style, at least not publicly. The team surrounds us, and I let the trophy be lifted from my hands and passed around. They all helped me get here today with record fast tire changes, so they’ve earned it. Bash hands the team trophy to Rocco Conti and claps him on the back. “Good work, Rocco.”
“Thanks. But pushing the tires and skipping the second change was all your call though. And it worked,” Rocco says with a grateful nod. Rocco is brilliant at his job, which is keeping the garage and the pit crew in sync with what the engineers and Principal decide will happen in a race. Without him, we would be pulling in for tire changes and body work and everyone would be scrambling instead of ready. He’s a good guy, I think. He’s just… intense. I’ve worked with him for five years now, and I still haven’t cracked him. I don’t know if anyone has.
“That was actually an idea that someone whispered in my ear…” Bash smiles, and I know who he’s talking about before the name even leaves his mouth. “Frankie was watching from Miami and texting me suggestions.”
Rocco fights a frown and loses. His father, Dario, who is also a former driver and has a huge financial stake in Mirabella Racing and our current Sporting Director, barges up and scoops the trophy out of his son’s hands. “Good job Billy the kid!”
All the love I have for Bash is matched in equality with the dislike I have for Dario. He’s slimy and narcissistic. I tolerate him because I have to. I hate the nickname too. I know he does it as a put down, not because he’s into the wild American west or anything. The douche is Italian, not American. He always emphasizes the word ‘kid’ which is why it feels like a passive aggressive put-down. “Thanks Mr. Conti.”
I always call him Mr. Conti, not by his first name like I call Rocco or Bash or anyone else on this team. He’s not ‘one of the guys’ to me, and this is how I show it. I circle back to the conversation we were having before Dario came over to molest my trophy. “Frankie told you not to pit a second time?”
Bash nods. “She told me you could manage the tire degradation. My girl has good gut instincts.”
“She does.” I smile as Dario scowls and Rocco just rolls his eyes. “Guess racing really is in the blood.”
I like Frankie. I have since the moment I laid eyes on her at that club in Monaco when I was seventeen. I mean, visually, she’s a fucking work of art, but it was more than that. There was a pull… this intangible thing I had never felt before that kept me glued to her that night. It would have kept me glued to her the second night too, but my world blew up and by the time the dust cleared, she was in rehab somewhere. When we ran into each other again six months later, she acted like she had never met me. Like, ever. I didn’t challenge that, figuring it was probably for the best. I’d decided in those six months I wasn’t going to commit to her or anyone until my race career was over, and it was just getting started. In the ten years since, I haven’t seen all that much of her, but when she does appear at race team events, I still feel that pull. I just ignore it. The same way she ignores me.
Dario makes some weird, annoyed sound in his throat and breaks off, walking into the team trailer with the trophy. Rocco follows, giving me another approving nod before he goes. Bash stays beside me and rests an arm around my shoulders. “I know everyone still wants interviews and shit, but I need you to find me before you leave the grounds today, okay?”
“Yeah. No problem.” I nod as I see Clara approaching out of the corner of my eye. Bash gives my shoulder a squeeze, and he, too, breaks off.
Then my trainer Clara is in front of me, holding out a bottle of water and a damp, cool towel. I wipe at my face and sip the water. She falls in step beside me as I walk toward yet more media. “Nice one.”
I smile at her. “Just nice?”
“Yup.” She nods, her thick, lush, jet black hair shimmers as the ponytail it’s in shakes a little with her head movement. “You’ve had cleaner races. Ones you’ve earned out of skill not opportunity.”
“Ah, but finding the opportunity and acting on itisa skill,” I reply and give her a cocky wink. She rolls her big dark eyes, but she’s smiling. “Drink your water.”
“Yes ma’am,” I reply and give her a side-squeeze hug. She whips my chest lightly with the wet towel I’ve handed back to her and steps back as I step up to the first microphone.
It’s almost two hours later by the time I’m done and have made it back to my dressing room and showered off the champagne. I’m back in street clothes, a pair of black pants, black t-shirt, and Mirabella Racing jacket. Clara walks in and throws herself down on the small couch as I’m crouched by the table tying my shoes. “It’s raining. Again. Every time we’re in this city it rains.”
“That’s why the team calls it Raincouver,” I remind her. “Don’t worry. Our flight out is in three hours. You’ll make it.”
“Barely.” She sighs dramatically. I smile. This is the person no one else sees. The sassy, silly, theatrical girl. The world thinks Clara is my dutiful assistant and personal trainer. And some insinuate she’s also my on-call booty since she’s also a mere twenty-one and very pretty. I try not to think about that because it’s fucking gross. Don’t get me wrong, I have booty calls. But Clara is actually my half-sister, so gross. Of course, no one can know that, so we appear to be abnormally close to some of the overly obsessed fans and media since she started working for me last year. “Also, FYI, your mom has called your cell like five times since the win.”
