Page 2 of Out of Control

“Oliver?” my dad asks.

The lump in my throat feels like a boulder as I fight back the emotion I refuse to show. My pulse thunders in my ears. My stomach churns.

“It’s fine,” I grit out. “It’s nothing.” I turn my back on my dad as I start shoving my stuff into my duffel. Gloves. Headphones. Sweatshirt. Stunts not skill. I call bullshit.

I need to get out of here.

Cell phone.

Have to.

My fingers touch the glossy cover of the magazine under my bag, but my dad’s hand is already there yanking it out of my reach.

“Hasn’t this shit caused enough trouble?” he mutters, holding it up so I can see the cover image. A canvas on an easel, its stark colors akin to how I feel right now. Violent. Alone. Desperate.

“Give it to me,” I beg, hating the sound of my own voice. If I don’t get the fuck out of here, I’m going to lose it. And I can’t. Not here. Not in front of them. I refuse to give the Navarros the fucking pleasure.

My dad holds the magazine higher and out of reach before making a show of dropping it into the waste bin with a thud. I bite back my protest. That fucker was expensive. It’s not like I’m rolling in money. But it’s not the money that has me reaching for it, that has me digging it out of the can in a frenzy, it’s what’s inside it.

My first love.

The one I’m not supposed to care about.

The one that grounds me and quiets my temper, my restlessness, and my inability to focus. The thing no one can quite understand with the exception of my nonna.

“I told you I didn’t want to see that shit again. It’s caused enough trouble for our family.”

“Yep. Got it.”

“Money. Time. Embarrassment. That’s all it’s caused. Maybe if you spent more time at the track, more dedication working on your reaction times, more time in the simulator—fuck,” he grits out and shakes his head. “This is your calling. This is what you need.”

“I forgot. Racing will toughen up the sissy out of me.”

“I never said that,” he says evenly.

“You didn’t have to.” We wage a visual war. One that I hate and love, which confuses me. His words, his anger, his disappointment from years ago still feels like yesterday. I’ve been crushed once today. Do we really need to rehash this? “Stavros is an asshole.”

“Maybe, but he’s the asshole who matters.”

“I won the fucking race!” I shout, flinging my arms out. “Won it fair and square. How am I the asshole in all this?”

His stoic nod and unrelenting stare grates. “You won it but it was far from smooth. You impeded but got lucky you weren’t penalized for it. You had the benefit of poor decision-making on the other teams’ parts of when to box or what tires to use.”

Acid pools on my tongue. The last thing I need is criticism from the one person on this track who’s supposed to be on my side. “So you agree with Stavros?” How could he even think that?

My chest aches.

My heart feels heavy.

“I love you with all my heart, Oliver, but I think that this”—he points to the art magazine and everything it stands for—“is a hobby. I know that first-fucking-hand. Real drivers don’t like art. You look weak enough already having Stavros pass you up. Don’t make yourself look weaker by carrying this crap around. Do the shit that needs to be done. The stuff you can do to improve yourself,” he says, pointing to the track behind us.

I chuckle to cover the pain of the knife he’s twisting even more. “I forgot. You know all, huh?”

“I know more than you can imagine. Besides, I’m the one paying the price right now, aren’t I?”

I grit my teeth. I fucked up. I know I did. And he’s still pushing me here, still sending all his money my way to encourage this other dream of mine, while he’s paying off the other debts I’m responsible for.

Guilt eats at me in a way I’m unfamiliar with.