Page 61 of Off the Grid

Everything is bigger and more extravagant than I remember. Than the pictures do it justice. The hospitality offices are three stories and wide with detailed exteriors. Decks on top with Ping-Pong tables, a catered restaurant on one floor, offices on another. And of course, a place for the media to have their time with the team.

“It is,” I tell her. It most definitely is.

I stand there slack-jawed and overwhelmed.

But more than anything, the fear I expected to feel—the hand trembling, skittish glances over my shoulder, paranoia type of fear—isn’t there.

There’s an undercurrent of excitement. Of anticipation. Of being back here.

It’s completely unexpected and one hundred percent welcome.

I’m under no illusion that the fear won’t return at any time. That seeing the back of a blond head and broad shoulders ten feet ahead of me in the crowd, won’t incite a panic attack at some point.

But I’ll take this as a win right now.

A win I can’t wait to experience again.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Riggs

It’s a technical course.

My pulse rushing in my ears is the only thing I can hear as I stare at the light tree in front of me from my starting grid of P10.

Sharp turns. Tight corners.

My hands grip the wheel as my dad’s voice—or what I imagine it still sounds like after having memorized almost every interview I could get my hands on over the years—runs endless loops through my head.

Long stretches where DRS can be enabled.

My stomach churns with a mixture of excitement and nerves. Both welcome. Both charged.

There is no room for mental errors. None.

Motors rev all around me. Racers I’ve looked up to for years. Racers I’ve competed against on the lower circuits. Friends. Enemies. All are now competitors.

One lapse of concentration can put you in the wall.

I love this sport and simultaneously hate it. Each time behind the wheel—in every level I’ve competed in—is a struggle between doing what I love and fearing it.

Between honoring my dad and the possibility of ending up like him.

Of taking every turn and forgiving myself for wanting to let up as I imagine him hurtling across the track and then hating myself for the same fucking reason.

“Radio check, Riggs.”

“Check.”

You’ve got this, Spence. My dad’s voice.

Drive fast. Be safe. Cross the finish line for me. My mum’s words from our phone call earlier.

Light. Light. Light. Light. Light.

I jump off the line and into the fray of all the other cars vying for a good start.