Page 51 of Off the Grid

Riggs

“To our brother from another mother. To our friend. To the man who just got the ride of his life. We wanted to take this last opportunity to party with you before you have to be on the straight and narrow for the rest of the season,” Micah shouts from where he stands on one of my chairs to the crowd of people filling my flat.

Some I know.

Some I don’t know.

Some are . . . who the fuck knows.

“Straight and narrow? Me?” I snort although that’s exactly what I’ll fucking be.

This is my last hurrah. One last kiss goodbye to partying and drinking for a while. Not like I do it much anyway but in certain instances, I’ll let myself cut loose.

And then I’ll pay the price because cutting loose doesn’t mean I skip cardio and training the next day. It means I do it twice to punish myself for it.

“Your straight and narrow will last three days tops,” Junior says.

“Maybe five,” Micah chimes in, “but what you’ll lose in hangovers, you’ll gain in F1 perks.”

The F1 perks: more horsepower, more money, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, learjets for travel, five-star hotels to stay in, and pussy galore. That was what we’d decided I was gaining with my step up earlier during our preparty party.

“True, but don’t worry, we’ll drink for you in the meantime. We’ll party for you. We’ll fuck for you—”

“Whoa! I can still fuck for myself, fuck you very much,” I shout out and get a roar of cheers from everyone in the room.

“I volunteer as tribute,” a voice yells out toward the back of the room causing another round of laughter to sound off.

“Promise us one thing,” Wills says as he empties a lager and sets his glass down.

“I’m not promising you shit. The last time we did that I almost ended up with a tattoo of Tinkerbell on my arm,” I say. The damn dare cards.

“But this . . . this is important.”

“Lay it on me, mate,” I say.

“Your first major success in F1 must be celebrated with us. Here. Another party like this. Right here.” The whole place erupts into cheers and hoots and hollers. “It’s paramount to celebrate the victories. Even little ones.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. I’m not promising shit to him. Will I allow myself one night to cut loose? Probably. Many of the racers I’ve looked up to over the years have expressed how important it is to give yourself a release every now and again.

That even elite athletes need a break occasionally.

“In all seriousness,” Micah says, raising his shot glass again and changing the topic—which I more than welcome. “We can’t wait to watch you fucking kill it at the Spanish Grand Prix.” Wills lifts his shot and we all follow suit. “This is our send-off, be safe, win a race, we’re proud of you, party for you. Sláinte, mate.”

“Sláinte” is called out by the thirty or so people filling my new flat. It’s going to be a fucking disaster in the morning, but hell if I don’t have the money now to hire someone to clean it up.

The glass goes up. The burn goes down. And my head fucking dizzies as I make my way around the room, wanting to sit. Needing to sit. But getting pulled every which way by so many people.

I’m slipped more numbers than I’ve ever been before. I’m asked for more favors to get people into races than possible. I lose count of the number of drinks I consume.

It’s not many. I just don’t drink that much during the season so it hits me a lot harder.

How in the hell am I going to get up in the morning for cardio? At eight a.m. no less?

Fuck me.

Should have thought of that beforehand, Riggs.

I stumble and Micah’s laugh barrels through the room. “You look like hell.”