I’m out of the gate at full throttle, holding my own in P4, going round the excruciatingly stop-start bends, but the second I hit sector three I’m flying. Feeling weightless, like I’m literally darting through the air.
Everything about the race feels perfect. There’s a moment – a very small moment – when I’m completely out in front. It’s like I’m the sole car on the track for about five seconds, and then fucking Kian pulls a move and zooms past me.
It’s such an incredible manoeuvre and I’m still so high from the feeling that I’m not even mad about it. When I cross the line for the final time, I’ve been shunted down to P3 but Kian holds P1. I hold on to the memory of being out in front. This is only my first year in Championship racing; my time will come.
Kian looks absolutely overjoyed. He doesn’t always win these things, despite being one of the best drivers in the world. He’s much happier grinding out laps, reeling people in, biding his time and pouncing when the conditions are just right. He’s got stamina and endurance, but today it’s like he’s told the worldfuck you, I do have speed.There’s still so much I have left to offer.
Maybe the retirement rumours are bullshit, after all.
The pure joy radiating off Kian is infectious, and I find myself gravitating towards him.
I clap his shoulders, so happy for him, and I’m not sure if he even realises it’s me, but he’s pulling me closer.
We’re hugging, his arms around my waist, mine around his shoulders, and dancing up and down like a pair of loons, pure mindless exhilaration. Everyone’s celebrating and the noise is deafening. I feel my heart deep inside my chest, booming and thundering –thisis where I belong!
It’s pure excitement to be taking away eight and six extra points from this sprint. Would I have liked to have been taking away seven, instead of six, of course, but Yorris was a sneaky bastard catching my tyre causing me to have to slow for less than half a second.
It didn’t matter though, because the whole of the Hendersohm garage is alive and Kian’s touching me, hands gripping the back of my shirt, as Cole and Ash join the hug, followed by the techs, until we’re trapped in the middle of a massive group hug.
The victory’s made sweeter by the fact that the Swedes struggled to get going, the younger brother finishing in P8, whilst the older one ended up in P6. It gives us a twenty-four-point lead over McLaren. Anders is even more excited than we are, if that’s possible, as we head towards the main European phase of the Grand Prix.
Kian pulls away to look at me. Excitement creases the outer corners of his eyes and he’s properly smiling at me. Like, a true, toothy smile that you can’t contain. The moment’s brief and his smile slips, almost as if he catches himself and realises who he’s stuck with, but it has me fizzing on the inside. I’ve never seen him like this. It’s … mesmerising.
Something erupts inside of me, something I’ve only ever felt about a perfect lap or a podium finish. Butterflies. Fluttering in my stomach right now, causing it to churn. Kian Walker’s given me bloody butterflies.
The group breaks apart and someone pops champagne. Obviously no one can drink it because we’ve still got the main race tomorrow and there’s work to be done tonight, but it adds to the mood in the garage as it’s sprayed all over everyone. It’s everything I dreamed it would be when I was down in the lower leagues, trying to get noticed, trying to get my shot at the bigtime.
For once, I’m happy to kick back chatting with Ash about my lap times from yesterday, watching the rest of the team party.
Kian’s in his element, soaking up the praise and talking ecstatically with Jackson and Cole about what’s turned out to be a record-breaking sprint time today. He looks almost blissed out – all his muscles are relaxed, his eyes a little hazy, and he’s not shoving earbuds in his ears and rushing back to the hotel to be alone. It makes me wonder what he’s like in the off-season. When he allows himself to just be. Does he smile like that all the time? I’d like to see that.
The news gets even better the next day when we romp home, having maintained our starting positions of P1 and P3, but there’s no euphoric hugging today. Kian gets called to do media with the Swedes, Dorris and Johannes, leaving me feeling miffed that I’m not being called up with the big names after how well I’ve performed so far this season. I know I’m not a contender for the Drivers’ Championship, but still.
Next season, I tell myself. Next season they’ll be knocking down my door to get to me.
I’m more offended when Kian doesn’t come over to congratulate me once all the cameras disappear. He’s back to his tactic of complete avoidance. Back at the hotel, I try to talk to him on the walk between the lift and our rooms, but he looks through me like I’m not even there, and then disappears inside, leaving me alone in the corridor.
Well, he can try to ignore me all he wants, but it’s not going to work for long.
For the European leg of the tour, Hendersohm have sorted us a state-of-the-art luxury motorhome. That’s right. Motorhome,singular.
To share.
All around Europe for twelve weeks.
There’ll be no escape – for either of us – and I can’t wait. Sooner, rather than later, we’re going to have to talk about what happened.
ChapterThirteen
Kian
I’d never considered arson before I found myself living in a motorhome with Harper James. Right now, sending the whole thing up in flames so I can return to my quiet hotel room sounds like a really good idea.
Sharing one of these with Elijah for the last three seasons was nothing short of brilliant. In the first season it helped us bond, in the second season it kept us sane when so many different weather fronts threatened to ruin various Grands Prix during the European leg, and last season it was home to many pizza nights and quiet beers as we celebrated every win.
This year it feels like a prison, the same four walls but somehow smaller, and suffocating.
I’m already at boiling point with the situation and it’s only day five.
