All the air leaves the garage when Kian enters. He’s silent at first, and then I’ve never seen anger like it. He slams his helmet down so hard it practically bounces off the table and onto the floor, and I’m surprised the visor doesn’t shatter with the sound it makes. He has every right to be frustrated. Finishing eighth when he should have been top three is not good during the qualifiers. Even I’m not quite sure what happened out there today.
No one says a word, and you could cut the tension with a knife, Kian’s fury drowning out the crowds in the stadium behind us. I find myself fascinated by the interplay of emotions on Kian’s face, and I’m unable to look away.
Then he releases a breath and it’s like watching a balloon deflate. The experience for me is cinematic, and seems to happen in a kind of terrible, slow motion. The fight and anguish drains from his face and body until he becomes the serene and unflappable Kian Walker again, and he quickly begins apologising to everyone.
I can’t put my finger on the word I’m searching for to describe him right now. He’s like four seasons in one day, a force of nature that contains both chaos and calm in one bright, beautiful shell. Anna pulls him to the side, and before I know it, he’s out of there. No media for him right now and it’s probably for the best if he’s already dented a helmet. They cost thousands to construct and then meld perfectly to the skull so that they can protect us from whatever the track throws at us.
I’m left to face the team on my own. Everything feels weird, and I’m strangely disappointed. I should be excited – P4 in my first qualifier – but the press only wants to talk about Kian’s disappointing performance, so my achievement is entirely overshadowed.
Because of course everything has to be about Kian Walker.
Kian bloody Walker.
ChapterFive
Kian
Ireally shouldn’t have been shocked that Harper qualified in fourth place after seeing his performance in pre-season and his record-breaking win last year in the lower category, but I am. I have no clue how he does it when he seems to do zero preparation and treats the whole thing like a joke. How does he collect himself when shit happens? How does he focus? What are his coping strategies? I don’t understand how going out and partying with his competitorshelpshis race.
And yet both of them qualified ahead of me. Both of them.
What the hell is going on?
With the Prix tomorrow, they won’t be able to go out and get smashed tonight. Not the night before a race. Harper’s not that stupid. Or at least I don’t think he is. He might idolise Tyler Heath, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake that cost my father his place on the team.
Would he?
Tyler always claimed he was fired unfairly because the team bosses didn’t like some of the choices he’d made in his personal life, but Mum told me he’d had to be breathalysed the morning of a race and was found to be over the limit to drive. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a problem with his drinking, and I guess they finally had enough. He was a danger to himself and to others. And he always did whatever he wanted without a thought for who he hurt or how anyone else would suffer. Always.
Being fired for drinking was a humiliation he’d paid a lot of money to keep quiet, and I’m surprised to this day that the story has never leaked. He made Mum sign an NDA as part of the divorce agreement. I’m sure if my sister and I had been old enough he’d have forced us to sign one, too.
Luckily, he doesn’t hold any power over me, and he never will.
In my rookie years, I carefully spun the narrative to be all about how my mum had taught me and my twin to dream big and follow through. How it had been hard work and dedication that got me here. Nothing genetic about it. I owe my success to Mum and to Elise – my dad has nothing to do with it. Gradually, people stopped asking.
And now here I am, throwing it all away and qualifying eighth.Eighth!This isn’t like me. It isn’t like me, at all, but I just can’t seem to get it together. Ever since I heard Harper was joining the team, my head has been a mess.
I’m back at the hotel in a blur of anxiety, showering off the day and desperately trying to get my shit together when my phone starts to ring with a FaceTime from Elise.
These were my favourite parts of the day when I was younger. She’d call me and tell me about her nursing course, when she first started dating her boyfriend, now husband, and about all her exciting friends who loved to do wild things at uni. Now, whenever the phone rings, I dread that she’s calling with bad news about Mum.
It doesn’t stop me answering quickly, though. It’s not too late in the UK and the biggest smile cracks across my face as I open the video call to find my niece taking up most of the screen.
‘Uncle KiKi,’ she cries happily, clapping as my face fills her screen. ‘Uncle KiKi, I did finger painting today.’ Elise flips to the back camera and I’m met with at least ten sheets of paper covered in swirls of different coloured paint. And this is all it takes to restore my happiness.
I breathe out and let Cassie explain her wandering thoughts about a couple of paintings before she gets completely distracted telling me about a bedtime story TV show she’s been allowed to watch.
‘Miss you, Uncle KiKi. Mummy says you’re going to win me something, like Daddy does when we go to the fair.’ My heart beats faster at that. I can’t let her down. Her excited little face… It would break my heart.
‘I’m definitely going to try, sweetheart. A big gold cup. How does that sound?’
She cheers with utter glee and then drops the phone, her voice fading out into the background as she runs off to find her dad to tell him.
Elise picks it up from the floor and for once I’m caught off guard by the paint streaks on her face instead of the tiredness in her eyes.
‘Sorry about that. She’s had too much sugar. Grant took her to the fair today at the park. She’s had a concoction of doughnuts and candy floss for dinner.’
I shake my head because I love that kid too much to care about her throwing me on the floor.
