The mass of fans behind us are roaring along with the entire Heidelberg team. ‘OHHH, DARIEN CARDOSO,’ they sing-shout to the tune of ‘Seven Nation Army’. But I know something is wrong. With his helmet still on, Darien clambers out of the cockpit and steps outside, raising his arms in acknowledgement to the fans in the stands. He gives them a quick wave before hurrying towards us, and without so much as a nod at the chaos all around him, the entire team rejoicing, stops in front of me.
‘Shantal,’ he says, voice strained. ‘Can you take off my helmet?’
My eyes travel to his bad arm. He tugs at the sleeve covering it, clutching the wrist, but he stops as soon as he realizes I’ve noticed.
‘Darien—’
‘Please,’ he pleads.
Though my hands shake, I undo all the clasps and raise theneck brace. I remove his helmet. He pulls off his balaclava with his left hand, and now the pain in his eyes is clear as day.
He doesn’t let me so much as glance at him after that. He disappears into the crowd of team members to say his thank-yous, and the bunch of us begin to make our way to the podium. We watch as he accepts his trophy and raises it high with one hand.
Darien is herded down from the podium to celebrate with the team once more, and from where I stand against the paddock gates, I hear cheers go up from the centre of the clump of Heidelberg staff when Demir lavishes high praise on Darien.
I stay behind after the raucous mob has filtered out of the garages and made its way into the Paddock Club for a bit of an impromptu dinner. There’s too much on my mind to want to go there. I’m supposed to know how to fix my players, my drivers, and I don’t even know where to begin here. If Darien doesn’t tell me what’s going on, I can’t help him, and for me, that’s the hardest part. I want to fix everything. Accepting that I cannot has never come easily to me.
Somethingiswrong. But all I can do is wait.
I end up sitting at my laptop in the hotel scrolling through data.
Darien’s data are stunning, as they’ve always been. You couldn’t tell from looking at the charts that he’d ever got into any kind of accident and just now returned. There is a single trough where he had to leave the track mid-race when, I assume, he found himself in some sort of pain. But other than that, it doesn’t matter. I wonder what it will take for him to see that, too.
As if on cue, my phone dings with a notification – a text message. And it’s from Darien.
I open it desperately. Is he ready to talk? If this is reinjury,we have a week till the next race. Celina will need to move fast and try to fix this.
I need you Shantal
Damn it.
A cacophony of hypotheticals escorts me to Darien’s hotel room just a few doors down from mine. The thoughts flood my brain until the stress they cause manifests as a cold sweat breaking out all over my body.
‘Darien,’ I call through the half-open door, ‘it’s Shantal. I’m here.’
I slip inside and close the door behind me. He’s not in the kitchen or the living room. I check the bedroom – still nothing.
And then the bathroom, and there he is, breaking my heart into a million pieces.
He’s sitting in the tub fully clothed, with the shower running on full blast. He leans against the back wall with his eyes squeezed shut, a look of defeat etched across his face, as the water comes down forcefully, drenching his hair, his T-shirt, his jeans. The freezing shower: desensitizing, distracting.
‘Oh, Darien.’ I crouch down beside him and rest my arms and chin on the edge of the tub. I try not to let my emotions show plainly on my face; it will only make him feel worse, I know. But they slip through. I feel my brow crease and my lips purse. His eyes flutter open, and they’re strained, torn.
‘Why is this happening?’ he whispers, his voice strained, like the plea of a small child still trying to learn how the world works. He grimaces, holding his bad hand back and cradling it the way I’ve seen so many footballers do. Injuries are awful the first time around, but reinjury is arguably much, much worse for both the body and mind. ‘Fuck this, Shantal …’
‘It’s okay. It’s okay,’ I repeat, as if saying it over and over will make it true.
‘What if I can’t race, Shantal? What if I lose my dad?’
‘I’m here. Don’t worry.’
I reach across and squeeze his hand, and then I step into the tub, too. Cold water begins to lap at my feet. The shower immediately soaks through my thin tee and sweatshorts, but I don’t care. I lean down and push Darien’s wet waves of hair back before pressing a kiss to his forehead.
My eyes are closed; all I feel is his left hand at my cheek. I sit down beside him, and he leans into me, his head to my shoulder as I hold him close. I’ve never felt this way about anyone; never this defensive, never this protective. A touch is a touch, until it holds so much more than what is skin deep.
‘Let’s take a shower, love,’ I whisper. His breathing is even and yet laden with hurt. I can feel it against my body.
Darien pulls his shirt over his head with my help. I kneel before him, grab the soap bottle off the shelf in the corner of the shower, and pump more than enough into my hands.
