Page 24 of Out of Control

I guess, knowing his reputation, I should have tempered my expectations. The player. The fuckboy. The man who’s only serious about himself. I knew that when he pursued me. I knew that when I pushed open my front door that night.

And yet I still agreed to it. I still wanted it and now I have to walk around in my real life with his touch seared in my brain as distinctly as the tattoos on his body.

Knowing it and accepting it are two different things.

At this point, neither feel great.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rossi

There’s nothing like race week, but when it’s the first race of the season, everything—the excitement, the anticipation, the possibilities—is tenfold.

And this time around, my emotions are charged with uncertainty.

I told myself I’d never race for this team. For Gravitas or the family who owns it. Never. Not after those words were uttered years ago. The ones I held tight to as a driving force behind why I’m here. The ones that fueled the animosity for most of my career.

But when that career was on the line and the possibility of not having a ride was front and center, you swallow your pride—and your animosity—and sign on the dotted fucking line.

Then you’re left with a whole offseason to question yourself, your integrity, and how it’s going to feel trying to win for a team and a family you despise.

Buono fortuna. My nonna’s voice fills my head. Her call to wish me good luck before every race was a staple.

This will be the first time in my life I won’t hear it.

It’s a welcome dose of humility every time I step into this uniform, into these team colors they’ve overhauled for the season when they added me to the team. Cruz gets to keep the team’s trademark orange. I get a white fire suit with a touch of orange—almost as if they’re afraid I’ll taint his precious fucking image by having the same uniform as him.

I glance around. Christ. Life can change at the flip of a switch, and sometimes you have to swallow your pride to move forward.

I’m not a fan of fucking either—change or having to swallow my pride.

But here I go, putting one foot in front of the other.

Does Stavros even remember those words from years ago? The crushing of my young hopes? And if he doesn’t, do I really want to win for a man who tries to ruin a man’s career and doesn’t recall doing it?

Such complex and conflicting emotions.

So far, I’ve worked only with his son, Philo, who’s taken over most of the day-to-day operations. Yet I know the time will come when I’m face to face with Stavros. What will I say? Will the man I’ve become be able to temper the hurt of the teen I once was?

Maybe I should thank him. Maybe I should turn my back without a word.

All those unsettled feelings return with a vengeance as I walk through the paddock and see Philo talking to Cruz. His profile matches the one in my memory of his father.

Déjà vu hits with a bang. I’m transported back to that track, to those harsh words, and to the crushing feeling of letting my family down.

I shake my head. I’ve dealt with this already. Own this season. Win as many podiums as possible. Create the opportunities I didn’t have last year. Then wash my hands and walk away from this team after they realize how much they need me.

That’s the plan anyway.

Whatever lies let me sleep at night, right?

“Rossi. Looking great in that new color,” Philo says when he sees me. His grin is wide as he puffs out his barrel chest and reaches one of his meaty fists for me to bump like we’re best buds. We’re not. “We ready for a good week and your first race on Team Gravitas?”

I bump his fist. I have nothing against Philo other than his last name, and that his father’s an asshole, but we can’t all be rock stars like me, can we?

“Always ready for a strong showing,” I say.

“Alec said the car is at peak performance,” Philo says, referring to my race engineer.