“Lucky us,” Mike mutters, startling me out of it.
“Yeah. Lucky us,” I say, refocusing on the table. I line up on the eleven ball in the corner pocket.
“He was always such a prick,” Mike says, shaking his head. “Remember that time in high school when?—”
“When I broke his nose?” I take the shot and the eleven drops clean. “Yeah, I remember. One of my better days, actually.”
Mike laughs. “He went down so fast. Everybody thought you were gonna get expelled.”
“Worth the suspension,” I say, lining up on the thirteen. The memory still makes me smile. Freshman year, Brandon running his mouth about my birth parents being druggies, how I was lucky the Midnights took pity on trash like me. I didn’t give a damn about my birth parents—they were abusive addicts who got me taken by the state when I was six. But I’d be damned if I let some entitled asshole use them to try to put me in my place.
So I broke his nose right there in the hallway. The sound of it cracking is still one of my favorite memories.
The thirteen’s at a tighter angle than I’d like. I take the shot anyway and it rattles around the pocket before dropping.
I miss my next shot, but Mike immediately scratches, the cue ball dropping into the side pocket. “Shut up,” he mutters before I can even say anything. “You’re a professional driver with insane hand-eye coordination. This isn’t fair.”
“Life isn’t fair,” I say cheerfully, fishing the cue ball out. I’ve got ball in hand from his scratch, so I place it exactly where I want it for an easy shot on the fifteen. “But I appreciate you donating to my drinking fund anyway.”
He rolls his eyes and takes a long pull from his beer. “This is definitely the last time I play pool with you.”
“You say that every single time I’m back in town, Mike.”
I’m about to take my shot when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pause, fish it out, and see Thomas’s name on the screen. My manager. He’s in London right now, which makes it around five in the morning there. So him calling me is either very good news or very bad news, and given how my life’s been going lately, I’m betting on bad.
“Give me a second,” I tell Mike, setting down my cue and heading for the door. “I gotta take this.”
He waves me off, already pulling out his own phone.
I push through the door into the parking lot. The evening air is still warm from the hot day, that dry Pacific Northwest summer heat. “Hey Thomas, what’s up?” I answer, trying to sound more casual than I feel.
“Jack. Hope this isn’t a bad time.” Thomas’s voice has that careful quality that means he’s about to tell me something I’m not going to like. “Wanted to give you an update on the contract situation. I just got off the phone with Giorgio.”
Giorgio Martinelli. My Italian lawyer who’s been handling negotiations with Ferrari’s legal team for the past two months. If Thomas is calling me at 5 AM his time after talking to Giorgio, this isdefinitelynot good news.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “What’d he say?”
“The talks aren’t going as smoothly as we’d hoped.” There’s a pause, papers rustling in the background. “They’re highly interested based purely on skill. Your performance numbers are excellent, your race craft is top-tier, and you’ve proven you can compete at this level.”
“But?” I prompt, because there’s definitely abutcoming.
“But your image issues are becoming a problem,” Thomas says bluntly. “The PR team says they were always willing to lookpast minor stuff. The party reputation, the different women, the general bad boy image. That’s almost expected with F1 drivers to some degree. But the fight after your injury, and now the Monaco video? Thecocaine. The sponsors are nervous, Jack.”
Fuck.
I kick a rock in the gravel, watching it skitter across the parking lot. “So what does that mean? Are we dead in the water?”
“No, definitely not dead. They still want you. But we need to do some serious image rehab before they’ll finalize the contract.” Thomas’s voice is firm, the tone he uses when he’s in problem-solving mode. “They want to see stability and maturity. They want you keeping your head down, being responsible, not showing up in tabloids and TMZ every other week.”
“So what do you want me to do?” I ask, even though I think I already know the answer.
“What you’re already doing. Stay in Dark River for the summer, be visible with your family, lean into the wholesome hometown boy thing. We’ll fly you out for race weekends and sponsor obligations, then you come right back. No parties, no clubs, no situations that could be misinterpreted.” He pauses for emphasis. “Just you at home for family weddings in a cute small town, being a normal responsible adult. That’s the image we need to sell right now.”
“Got it,” I say, running my free hand through my hair. “Whatever it takes to get back in the car.”
“I’m serious, Jack. No scandals. No drama. Just you being a normal guy in a normal town doing normal things.” Thomas’s voice takes on that warning tone. “I know it’s boring compared to Monaco and London, but we need this. Can you do that?”
“I said I got it,” I reply, sharper than I mean to.
