Page 128 of Off the Grid

“Way to be a team member, mate.”

Comments are called after me as I’m thrown into the washing machine of press quicker than usual for one reason or another. Anya explains the reasoning behind it, but I don’t really process it between the pats on the back and the hands being offered to shake.

Seven races in Formula 1 and I’ve finished in the points in all but one of them.

That’s better than some of these drivers with permanent spots have accomplished this year.

Carlo’s happy. Omar is happy. Hank is happy.

I can see a future for me here. I don’t know what path it’ll be on, but I’m starting to see one with the track record I’m laying down.

“Okay. We have you set up right here,” Anya says, leading me to a cordoned-off area with the Moretti banner behind it and a half-moon of reporters waiting. She gets her recorder out, because every interview we give is not only noted by the reporter but is recorded by our staff.

It’s an attempt to prevent a reporter from misquoting the driver and creating their own narrative for the headlines.

I spend the next ten minutes fielding questions. Some by reporters I like. Some by reporters I don’t care for. Some by ones I don’t really know.

But I do know when I look up halfway through and spot Camilla across the way, watching me, that I stand a little taller.

“Talk to us about that near miss with Evans at the start of the race.”

I explain the situation but am definitely preoccupied.

She’s wearing heels. Sexy boot-type heels that I can imagine digging into my arse as her legs wrap around me.

“And how are you feeling having to fend off the field to protect your teammate?”

Like it was bullshit. Like I could have leaped past Andrew and gunned for my first podium.

I swallow down the selfishness and respond with the company line. The one that’s expected but that still feels like acid on my tongue.

A glance back over to Camilla has me noticing her outfit. Her jeans are a bit tighter, her shirt different—not the classic button-up she hides behind.

Talk about a welcome distraction.

Fuck. What’s Rossi stopping to chat with her for? He’s the only driver on the grid I want nowhere near her.

“Riggs?” Anya prompts, pulling me from Rossi and Camilla to the here and now.

I smile at the journalist through gritted teeth as she asks her next question.

“The jump from F2 to F1 has appeared seamless to outsiders. What is your comfort level in the car right now? Do you still feel there is room for improvement?”

“There’s always room for improvement. I’m still trying to better my reaction times. My skills. My everything. I’m pretty comfortable in the—” My words falter. Rossi’s gone. No complaints there. But even with the distance separating us, it’s plain to see something startles her.

Her expression pales. Her face falls—that’s the only way I can describe it—as she shakes her head ever so subtly back and forth before rushing in the exact opposite direction of Moretti’s position in the paddock.

What the fuck?

I’ve never seen Camilla with that expression on her face, and I hope I never do again.

“Excuse me but—”

“Riggs has room for one or two more questions, before we head to the multi-driver press briefing,” Anya says, cutting me off.

Fuck.

I can’t get out of that.