Page 55 of On The Edge

Tires rub.

Our front wings touch.

My brakes lock up as I prevent disaster. As I avoid the wall.

I fight the steering wheel. The car.

It’s a mere second but by the time I have the car straightened out and the ability to accelerate back, Rossi is out in front of me and Evans is pushing his nose to midrange on my car.

I fight him off. Try to squeeze more out of the motor to push past him and leave him at my rear.

I shout as I do, as I succeed.

Because P4 is still better than P5.

But that’s all I’m able to hold on to. All I’m able to gain.

And when I come down the grandstands straight to the roar of the crowd and the blur of color from fans waving their flags and signs of their favorite driver, I’m nowhere near fucking satisfied with my performance.

With my finish.

With my incorrect call on Rossi.

I could do better.

So much fucking better.

“Great job, man,” Otis says in my ear. “You know how these races go. No movement, no mistakes, makes it hard to advance. The four of you ran a flawless race. No complaints on our end.”

I grimace. I was far from flawless. “Great job, team. Pit times were incredible. You executed flawlessly. This one’s on me, guys.”

There’s more chatter but I tune it out as I make my way around the track and back to pit row.

And when I pull into the garage and climb out of the car, I accept the high fives and the pats on my back from my team, but it’s all for shit.

Because I may be in the shadow of the garage, but the man standing in the corner with his arms folded, lips pursed, and whose eyes I know are locked on me from behind his sunglasses looms so much darker.

Fuck.

Just fuck.

I do all my normal post-race requirements. Weigh in for the FIA. A quick shower out of my fire suit that’s soaked from the heat. Interviews that Amandine stands beside me through. Debriefing with my team.

All the while I can feel the two edges of what feels like my very small universe pulling at me. Maddix, and this ridiculous deal I made on one side. My dad, and his iron fist wrapped in disappointment on the other.

A tentative smile versus a deriding grit of teeth.

Fuck. Might as well get the worst of it over first.

“Papá.”

He narrows his brows and holds my stare. No doubt everyone around us is watching, waiting to see the proud father pat his son on the back. The show for everyone to take part in and report to others on. “A word, please.”

It’s not a question. And by the way he’s striding toward one of the private rooms in the Gravitas hospitality suite, he’s assuming I’ll follow.

For my own sake and privacy, I do, but tension sets in my shoulders with each and every step I take. I smile at the staff who congratulates me on the way while internally rehearsing the speech he’s about to give me.

Same shit, same words, different race. More derision.