Page 31 of Off the Grid

“Noted. So very noted.” She laughs. “If they knew you, they wouldn’t be sending anything,” she teases.

“It’s not my personality they’re after, Fontina.”

“Ew. Gross again. Are you trying to make me throw up my lunch?”

“You’re so easy to rile up.”

“And you’re so easy to distract.” Her voice falls softer. “I hope it helped.”

I scrub a hand over my jaw and give a half laugh, grateful for the call. “It has. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

She sighs in exasperation. “Go home, Riggs.”

“I’m working on it,” I say as I grab my backpack, sling it over one shoulder, and decide to call it a day. If I haven’t gotten the call yet, it’s not coming.

Another opportunity gone. Another chance being passed up.

But why does this one already hurt so much more?

Because I deserve it more than anyone else here. Sure, they’re thinking the same thing, but I’ve been here longer than most. I’m the only one left of that promising crop of drivers who all entered together that hasn’t gotten their shot. I’ve won the Eurocup, F4 and F3 championships and gained the points to maintain my Super Licence.

It’s. My. Time.

No doubt Ari will be in my ear soon. My agent is notorious for calling me with a debrief over all the reasons I’ve been passed up this time—too flashy, not flashy enough, or I come off like I’m not serious because I have too much fun.

The one I hate the most? I take too many risks, that I’m dangerous like my dad was, and they don’t want my blood on their hands.

My favorite is Riggs is too selfish.

Well hell, fucking yes, I am. That’s a requirement to be a successful, long-running F1 driver. They should want me to be. They should want my sole focus to be the end game and not worrying about hurting people’s feelings.

There’s a lot of senseless money spent in this sport, and no one is satisfied with finishing off the podium.

I’ve heard them all. Every single excuse as to why I haven’t been pulled up.

No doubt another one’s coming tonight. That’s why it’s best to head home now, to grab whatever my drink of choice will be, and to wallow in solitude.

Or with a woman.

I’ll decide which one as the night progresses.

But I’ll allow myself one night.

One reprieve of pity.

One night where I hate being Ethan Riggs’s son.

One moment where I hate fucking everybody before getting back to the grind and to the grid, tomorrow.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Riggs

The walk off the premises is a long one.

Down the paddock where everyone is glancing at each other, but no one is talking.