“Terrible,” Cam said. He looked toward the other drivers. “I have to go. I guess I’ll see you at Silverstone.”
Scott let out a laugh. It sounded a little startled. “I’m not one of those crazy fans who attend every Grand Prix, you know.”
“It’s Silverstone. Any self-respecting fan attends the British Grand Prix. Even people who know shit about Formula One come to the British GP to strut in front of the cameras.”
“You mean people like me, huh?” Scott said, his cheekbones reddening.
“You said that, not me,” Cam murmured. He didn’t know why he enjoyed making this guy mad, why he liked being rude to him, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
Scott pouted. Christ, he was so gay. What normal grown manpouted? “I actually did want to go to the British Grand Prix, but I was too late. All the VIP passes were already sold out.”
“What, you can’t attend like a normal fan?” Cam said. “You can’t live without a Michelin chef preparing your food for you?”
Scott made a thoughtful face. “Hmm, let me think about it... yeah, you’re right, I really can’t.” He burst into laughter at Cam’s deeply unimpressed look. “God, you’re so easy to rile up, it’s adorable!”
Cam imagined wrapping his fingers around that long neck and squeezing. Vividly.
As his chuckles petered out, Scott shrugged. “In all seriousness, I don’t get the appeal of sitting in a tightly packed grandstand surrounded by sweaty men and watching cars drive past you at two hundred miles an hour when I can see much better from all the angles from the comfort of my couch. Having a VIP pass at least gives me an experience I can’t get at home—I get to see the inner workings of the paddock, all the juicy behind-the-scenes stuff.” He scrunched up his nose. “The five-star catering is just a bonus. Nothing to write home about. I’ve had much better food.”
“Christ, you really are such a spoiled little shit,” Cam said with a laugh. He couldn’t even be angry at the guy’s privilege anymore when he was so blasé about it.
“Guilty as charged,” Scott said, grinning. “So, are you going to get me a VIP pass for Silverstone?”
Cam had to laugh at that. “You’re shameless.”
“What?” Scott said, knocking their shoulders together. “I have it on good authority that drivers can invite whoever they want into the paddock.”
“We can,” Cam said. Of course he could. He could get anyone a VIP paddock pass. And a garage pass. As the champion, there was very little he couldn’t do when it came to paddock access. He’d often had his girlfriends in the McLaren garage during race weekends. Other drivers invited their WAGs, friends, and families all the time, too.
But Scott was neither family nor a friend. Or a girlfriend. It would be... odd to get him a Cameron Richter pass.
“I could,” Cam said. “But why would I invite you?”
Scott shrugged with an innocent smile. “For the same reason you’re talking to me? Because I’m interesting?”
Cam rolled his eyes with a laugh. “That’s not why I’m talking to you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why are you?”
Cam opened his mouth before realizing he didn’t actually have an answer.
Scott’s smile widened. “See?”
“I just happened to walk over here.”
“You crossed the entire club.”
“I was passing by,” Cam said tersely.
“You made a ninety-degree turn, champ. I’m merely pointing out observable facts.”
“The observable fact is that you’re a spoiled nepo baby who thinks everyone wants him around.”
Scott gasped theatrically. “Ouch.”
