He gestures to the new talk show setup they’ve got us using this year. The cushy couch is way more comfortable than the office chairs they used in the past—well, I’m assuming it’s more comfortable since I wasn’t on the circuit last year to test them out personally—and now we’re interviewed in groups of five instead of in pairs. Which has its pros and cons. Pro—it takes a lot less time than before. Con—with five of us on one couch and the host peppering questions at everyone at once, it can get kind of chaotic, with all of us trying to answer.
“You, too?” he asks.
He knows the answer is yes, or I wouldn’t be here decked out from head to toe in LaRue Motorsports gear. Only half of the drivers—one from each team—do the live press conferences on Thursdays before race weekends. The others get stuck in the media pen to answer questions from print journalists and other press reps. But I nod anyway.
“Which group?”
“The first one.”
“Sweet. We’re together.”
He holds out a fist for me to bump, which I do. I won’t say it out loud—I don’t believe in putting negative energy out into the universe—but I’ve been dreading this thing since Jacques LaRue cornered me this morning and told me I was filling in for René Savard, our number-one driver, who usually does the live pressers. I’m not looking forward to the grilling I know I’m going to get thanks to all the drama surrounding my crappy performance of late.
Case in point—Jacques unceremoniously shitcanning my race engineer last week. Which I suppose is better than him unceremoniously shitcanning me, a possibility that had crossed my mind more than once as I lay in bed at night, all my mistakes on the track playing in my brain like a bad song stuck on repeat.
Oh, well. I can’t change the past. Now it’s time to face the music. Also known as Nico Hilliard, the vulture in a snakeskin suit who’s hosting today’s press conference. I had my fingers crossed that it would be Leah Clark, who also hosts some of the press events. Her questions are a lot kinder and gentler than Nico’s interrogation, which is like Guantanamo.
Them’s the breaks, I guess. At least with Gabe by my side, there’ll be one person on that stage who won’t enjoy seeing me squirm.
He takes off his ball cap and rakes a hand through his dark hair, somehow making it simultaneously messier and more styled. “Your new race engineer show up yet?”
“Nah.” I shake my head nonchalantly, like I’m not in the least bit freaked out by the fact that in less than twenty-four hours I’ll be working with a total stranger. One who’ll be my sole contact during races, the link between me and the rest of the team. The relationship between driver and race engineer is crucial to a team’s success. His voice will be the only one I hear through my headset when I’m behind the wheel, like a second set of eyes and ears, keeping me updated on what’s happening on the track.
Look, I know Marcel and I weren’t a good fit. More like a match made in hell. And like I said, I’m glad it’s him that got the axe and not me. But that doesn’t make this last-minute change any less nerve-racking.
“Any idea who it is?” Gabe flops down onto one end of the couch.
We’re the first ones here—both of us early, as usual—but Nico, his camera crew, and the other drivers should be arriving soon, and I definitely don’t want to have this conversation in front of them. Fortunately, I don’t have much to say on the subject, so it should be a short one.
“Not a clue. All the big boss said is that I’m lucky to have him and he’ll be here sometime today.”
And that I’d better not fuck up with this one, but I’m not sharing that little tidbit with Gabe.
“A man of mystery then, eh?” Gabe waggles his eyebrows like he’s Groucho goddamn Marx in those black-and-white slapstick comedies I used to watch with my grandfather.
I perch on the arm of the couch next to him. “Not much of a mystery if it’s going to be solved in a few hours, tops.”
“Did someone say mystery?” Yanni Castellanos, one of the other drivers, saunters into the room. Another nepo baby, the third member of our little preferential-treatment trio. Like Gabe, his family sponsors the team he races for, except it’s his shipping magnate brother, Dante, who controls the money. “I love a good mystery.”
Gabe nudges my shoulder. “Grady here’s gonna meet his new race engineer today.”
Yanni frowns. “What happened to Marcel?”
“Fired after Austria.” No points in five races was apparently the straw that broke LaRue’s back.
“Ouch.” Yanni sits next to Gabe, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. “So who’s the new guy?”
Gabe shrugs. “That’s the mystery.”
“I’m meeting him today,” I add quickly. One, because I want to nip any hint of a scandal in the bud. And two, because the tap-tap-tap of leather soles coming down the hall tells me that someone—probably Nico in those designer loafers he loves—is too close for comfort.
Yanni leans back, clasping his hands behind his head. “Well, for your sake I hope he’s not a dick like Marcel. That guy was crap as a race engineer.”
He’s right on both counts. Marcel and I never really saw eye-to-eye. He was a big believer in using sarcasm, shaming, and degradation as motivational tools, and I don’t respond well to that shit. Which probably explains—at least in part—my disappointing results on the track.
But I keep all that to myself. That negative energy thing again. Karma can be a bitch. Plus, I don’t want to get a reputation as some kind of prima donna who can’t get along with his crew. Or handle criticism.
Just as I predicted, a few seconds later Nico appears in a shiny, slickly tailored suit and those damn loafers, followed by his camera crew, and I’m spared any more of the third degree from Gabe and Yanni. Which should be a relief, but it’s not because I know it’s only a temporary reprieve. And whatever Nico has in store for me is bound to be worse than anything my friends could dish up.
