Page 8 of Over the Limit

Ah, yes. There’s the Rossi I expect. All about him. All the time.

I turn to look at my teammate. He’s staring at me behind dark sunglasses and the brim of a baseball hat with a scowl on his lips. His race suit is unzipped and tied at the waist, and his black Nomex shirt is pulled up at the sleeves much like mine. He’s wearing his fuck this attitude in his posture.

“And why’s that?” I ask as I lean back in my chair, mental practice session clearly over, while we kill time before our Team Apex meeting.

“In case you hadn’t noticed during testing today or fuck—our last half dozen races—we’re having power issues. My fucking car has no guts to it. Yours can’t keep up like it should. In every damn race, we’re not where we should be, and I’m getting pretty sick of it.”

“That’s racing,” I say, not wanting to fuel his fire, even though he has a valid fucking point. One I’ve talked privately with my crew and our team principal about.

“That’s racing?” he scoffs and tucks his sunglasses in the collar of his shirt without looking around to see who might overhear him and his harsh words for our team.

“You can’t tell me you’re not worried about it. They’ve already filled one of our seats for next season. So that means we’re fighting for the other spot with a contract renewal. If we can’t race, then we don’t place . . . if we don’t place, then—”

“Then educated people in the sport understand the why behind it. That we can only do what we can do with a subpar car.”

“You mean a shit car.”

“It doesn’t diminish our skill, though.”

“It does and it has. We are not a fourth-place team, Evans, and yet that’s where we’re fucking sitting, and if we’re not careful, we’ll be sixth or seventh in the next two races.”

“I have faith in the team. The engineers. They’ll figure the problem out,” I say, knowing I’ve had my own doubts during the past few months over whether they’ll be able to figure shit out and stop the bleeding.

“If we’re not careful, this team is going to fall to shit, and then we’ll both end up groveling for that open seat at Gravitas when that’s the last fucking place I want to end up.”

“What’s so wrong with Gravitas?” I ask of a rival team. One that is typically beneath us on the Constructors’ ranking. Moving there is like a step down and yet . . . the sun shines on a dog’s arse some days.

His Adam’s apple bobs. “There’s history there. And Apex is better. Has always been better. Needs to be fucking better.”

“I’m sure the crew will get everything sorted.”

“Do you ever have anything negative to say? Ever?” Rossi gripes like a child.

“All the time. Except only about things I can change. It’s no use bitching about things other people know way more about,” I say as Rossi picks up one of my gloves and then throws it back down on the console in front of him.

His groan fills the small space.

Fuck. This is when I wished he cared more about whether he had more friends on the grid.

“You want to tell me what’s really bugging you?” I ask, because it has to be more than just this. Both of us will land somewhere. One here at Apex. One somewhere else.

The options are dwindling though, so a good season is needed for both of us. A good season that neither of us is getting.

“Nothing. Everything. Fuck.” He sighs the last word out, and a part of me doesn’t even want to ask what that means. I have a feeling I know.

The man’s not one for small talk, but those three words pretty much sum up every guy’s feeling when it comes to women.

“Sounds about right.” I go for the noncommittal answer.

“She’s pissed at me.”

“Probably has good reason to be,” I say, not wanting specifics, but I know who he’s talking about. Admittedly, a small, petty part of me wants to know why.

“It’s not like I care. I mean, she’ll get over it.”

“Or she won’t,” I deadpan. And you should care.

He stops and puts his hands on his hips and just glares at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”