Page 114 of Off the Grid

“Holding it, but fuck.”

“Get across to the gravel trap.”

“Yep.”

This is on me. All fucking on me.

It’s my fuck up. No points. A DNF. A damaged car.

Moretti is going to be pissed.

I limp all around the track to get into pit row then pull into the Moretti garage.

Christ. This one’s going to hurt.

I’m unclipped and climb out of the car into a very chilly reception by my crew.

Hank is standing before me in seconds. “Back room. Now,” he commands, ever cognizant of cameras everywhere.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I follow him, pulling off my balaclava and unzipping my suit as I go.

The minute the door shuts, he’s in my face.

“What the fuck was that, Riggs? You think your last name is Moretti now? That you own this fucking team? You think you know this car better than I do? You’ve been in F1 for a hot fucking minute. I assure you that you don’t. Not even fucking close.”

I nod. It’s the best course of action as Hank’s face turns red and the tendons in his neck grow taut while he paces the room like a caged animal.

I deserve the ration of shit being handed to me. Every goddamn bit.

Self-preservation—the fear of going back to F2—has me wanting to place blame. On Costas for the dirty air. At Hank’s call to change the tires. At fucking everything.

“The quickest way to lose a ride is to ignore your engineer, Riggs.” He stops pacing and looks at me. “You’re talented as fuck as you showed today by moving up to P4 from your P10 start. But that shit? Ignoring your team? It will be your arrogance that will send your ass back down to F2.”

“Sorry.” One word. And he probably won’t even accept that.

“I don’t want your fucking sorry. This is your first warning. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He storms out of the room without another word, leaving me standing there staring at the anger left in his wake.

I hang my head and take a deep breath.

You fucked up, Riggs.

You made a rookie mistake. A huge one. There are no do-overs. No retakes.

You made a mistake on a public race comm that no doubt will be shared on social media like wildfire. It’ll look bad. It is bad.

And all those teams I want to impress to give me a permanent ride will most likely see it too.

I expect the knock on the door before it even comes. Anya peeks her head in before I can respond.

“You good?” she asks.

I look behind me. “Do I have any arse left?”