Oh. Right. That.
My embarrassed blush returns. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually that hotheaded.”
“I know, Mr. Sunshine. Or should I say mon petit rayon de soleil?” Great. He’s heard the nicknames. He scrubs a hand across his stubbled jaw, making mine itch to follow its path and feel that sexy stubble for myself. Would it be soft? Or would it scratch against my palms? “Do you have a personal assistant?”
I shake my head. It’s an answer to his question and a way to shake loose thoughts of sexy stubble. “I have a trainer. And Dr. Susan.”
“That’s all well and good, but F1 is a lot more physically and mentally demanding than F2. I think you could use someone to help you arrange your schedule, take care of your travel plans, monitor your diet and sleep patterns, navigate the media scrum, and record all your interviews to make sure you’re not misquoted. I can have Elodie make some calls for you if you want.”
“I need someone to tell me what to eat and when to sleep?” Like I can’t figure out that stuff on my own. I’ve been doing it for years.
“You can work out the job description with him—or her. The important thing is that you have someone looking out for you.”
“I thought that was your job,” I half joke.
“On the track,” he clarifies. “I’m talking about someone to have your back when you’re not behind the wheel.”
“Fine. Have her make some calls. But I get final approval before hiring anyone.”
“Of course.”
My phone rings in my pocket. The Imperial March fromStar Wars, my father’s ringtone. I ignore it, but as soon as the song stops it starts up again.
“Do you need to take that?”
I pull the phone out and silence it. “It’s just my dad. I can call him back later.”
Ben removes his LaRue Motorsports ball cap, pushes his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead, then puts the cap back on, backwards this time. “Your dad was an amazing driver.”
Great. Here we go again. I thought Ben was going to be different. In all our discussions over the past few days, not once has he said anything about my father. I should have known it was only a matter of time before he busted out the hero worship. After all, everyone thinks my five-time-world-champion father walks on water.
Well, almost everyone. I know exactly who Archie Lewis is. And trust me, it’s not pretty.
“I’m not my father.”
“No,” he agrees, and my stomach sinks, all my high hopes for the success of our new partnership melting away faster than the rubber of my tires during a race. “I think you have the capacity to be even better.”
Wait, what?
“You’re smart. Intuitive. You pay attention to everything from how the tires feel when they’re properly inflated to your posture and body mechanics in the cockpit. And, most importantly, you have enough confidence in your abilities to assess situations and react quickly to whatever happens out there on the track.”
“And my dad didn’t?”
“Like I said, he was an amazing driver. But racing didn’t come naturally to him like it does to you. He had to learn it.”
“You know all that from just a few days working with me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, kid. I’ve spent hours watching video of your F2 races.”
Calling me a kid stings—somehow even more than when the other drivers call me a rookie—but I let it slide. Of course Ben would have done his homework before agreeing to work with me. He’s a pro. He wouldn’t show up unprepared.
Still, I’m amazed at how much he’s learned about me from a few days together and some random videos. And he thinks I can be better than my father? No one’s ever told me that before. Sure as hell not Marcel. Or the man who spawned me. All he ever does is point out my mistakes.
You’re carrying too much speed into your turns, Grady.
Now you’re overcompensating. Braking too early for the corners. You need to know where your apex and track-out points are so you can decide when to ease off the brake pedal and how much to release it.
If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. You have to finish one move before starting your next one.
