I feel Aimee’s elbow in my back as Cristian goes back to his interview. “Stop scowling and next time at least give him a curt thanks.”
Fucking hell. I hate getting lectured by this twenty-two-year-old ray of sunshine. But she isn't wrong. I growl out a sorry and step forward to talk to the first reporter. He also tells me I had a good session out there so I tell him "thank you" and glance at Aimee with a quick "happy now?" glare. She ignores me and continues to just stand there holding the digital recorder. Teams always record driver interviews so they can ensure they're never misquoted. And, in my case, so they can lecture me about how grumpy I get.
“I didn’t expect that kind of placement from you today,” the reporter says. “Rumor has it you were out pretty late last night.”
Is he serious? I blink. “I didn’t know that I wasn’t allowed to leave the hotel room. Is that a rookie rule? Because Billy James was out last night. I saw him.”
The reporter’s eyes flare. He’s like a dog who just caught a whiff of something stinky in the grass he’s now dying to roll in. “Billy James was out with you?”
“Not with me. With his friend.” Oh God, what have I started?
“At thegaybar you were at?”
“I said he was out. That’s it. And honestly, I’m not here to talk about the social schedules of drivers, are you?”
Aimee visibly tenses beside me but doesn’t say a word. She knows that’s not her place but I get the feeling she would kick me if she could. The reporter clears his throat and changes topics. But that doesn’t mean it’s smooth sailing. “So, what changed out there? Why did you land in the top ten when you haven’t been able to do that yet this year? How have you finally been able to put aside your off-track problems?”
“My off-track problems were never throwing off my driving,” I reply, the defensiveness in my tone undeniable. “I haven’t done any worse than a lot of other drivers in their rookie years. Look at Grady Lewis. We’re doing about the same at the moment. I don’t know what people were expecting. That I would finish on a podium every single race?”
"No people were not expecting that," the reporter clarifies. "But, you know, your seat could have gone to a great many other F2 drivers. So I guess, since you and your father and Mayflower Racing keep telling us it wasn't just the financing your father supplied that sealed your spot on the team, I guess maybe there is an expectation that you show us what did. You haven't finished over fifteenth so far this season. Haven't earned a single point for Mayflower."
This fucking asshole needs his microphone shoved up his ass. “Sterling Samuels finished in the top ten three times in his rookie season. All of those times were in the back end of the season.”
“Okay. Sure. So you’ll podium this season then? That’s what you’re promising?” he challenges.
I just made a bed I might not be able to lie in. I hate this guy. “I’m not promising anything. I’m just stating facts. You want to know anything about the actual practice session I just finished or should I just move on to a reporter who wants to do his job properly?”
Aimee inhales so sharply I hear it. The reporter lowers the microphone and levels me with a bit of a sneer. "You should probably move on. I'm sure you have other stuff to deal with after the media. Like that pesky lawsuit."
“Which one?’ I quip and then bury his sneer in a cold smile of my own.
Without another word, I walk to the next reporter. Aimee glares at me as she shuffles along beside me. I guess I finally managed to drain the perkiness from her. Winning?
* * *
By the time I get to the meeting in the small conference room at the back of the second floor of the Mayflower Paddock, I’m in a worse mood than ever. My dad greets me with a proud smile, which makes me feel worse. “Congrats Gabriel!”
"It's just a practice session, Dad," I remind him as he walks past Axel, Damien, and Henri, who are sitting at the small conference table, to hug me. I try not to squirm. My dad is the best. He's always supported me and shown nothing but unconditional love to me my entire life. I'm an ass for being annoyed by his pride sometimes, like now. "But thanks."
He pulls back, still smiling proudly, and turns back to the people sitting at the table. "Okay. Let's get started. Introductions first. Gabriel, you know Damien and Henri but this is—"
I step around my dad and extend my hand. “Axel Walsh. Hello again.”
Axel rises out of his seat slowly, carefully, like I’m a bear he just stumbled upon in the woods. “Hi. Again.”
He slips his hand into mine and we shake. But I don’t let go when it’s done, or as my father exclaims, “You two have met?”
“Yes,” I keep my eyes locked on Axel’s deep brown ones. “I made out with him five years ago on your yacht.”
I watch Axel’s entire face turn a color that can best be described as volcanic tomato. It makes me want to laugh but I bite it back. Damien swears. Henri coughs up the coffee he’s been sipping. My dad blinks. “Pardon?”
It sounds so regal and calm in French but what my dad is really saying is ‘What the absolute fuck, Gabriel!’ I can see it in the way his features start to harden and his eyes lose the light that had been bouncing in them.
Axel clears his throat and tugs his hand away from me. “I didnotknow who he was. And it was New Year’s and I never… I mean, I didn’t think it was relevant. It’s not. It’s not relevant.”
Ouch.
My dad turns his attention to Axel. He seems to study him, and I kind of wish I knew what he was thinking. I realize that my addiction to shock value might cost Axel his job. I didn’t think of that. Maybe I just shouldn’t have opened my stupid mouth.
