“Then why—?”
“I don’t like the way he talks to you. It’s rude. And demeaning. And totally counterproductive. It’s like my mother used to say, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And you can give feedback, even negative feedback, without being hurtful.”
That stupid lump is back in my throat. An increasingly common occurrence when Ben is around. He has a habit of saying things that make my insides turn to a warm, rainbow-colored mush.
I force words around it. “What about Jacques?”
“He’ll back me up on this,” Ben insists.
“What if he doesn’t? I don’t want you to get fired on my account.”
“That’s not going to happen. Trust me.” He closes his laptop and sticks it under his arm. “Come on. I’ve got to get to the garage. And you need some time to yourself to prepare. Forget your father and focus on everything we’ve talked about.”
“Everything?” I waggle my eyebrows at him suggestively.
He nudges me toward the door. “Go. Get into race mode. I’ll see you later.”
We’ve got an hour and a half until the formation lap, where the drivers have a chance to get a feel for the conditions before the race begins, so I take his advice and head for my driver’s room. It’s my home away from home, where I can lock myself away from the media and any other distractions. There’s a mini fridge stocked with water bottles and electrolyte drinks, a desk with my laptop and other electronics, a rack for my race suits—all six of them hanging in a neat row, my helmets on a shelf above them—and even a massage table where the trainers can work on me.
I stick in my ear pods and boot up my prerace playlist—a compilation of high-energy, feel-good songs like Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound” and Harry Styles’s “Golden.” Then I go through my usual routine of reaction drills, stretching, and high-intensity exercises like high jumps, shadow boxing, and press-ups. After about forty minutes of that, I change into my race suit and head for pit lane, where the team and car are waiting for me, everyone in headphones for privacy and clarity.
Someone hands me my HANS device, and I slip it on and climb into the car. Ben gives me a few last-minute instructions as I fasten myself in—stuff about warming up the tires and not exceeding track limits—and I head out onto the track to do a flying lap.
I hit the throttle hard, putting the engine through its paces. Everything feels great—the car, the track, the weather. Everything but me, that is. Alone behind the wheel, I hear my father’s harsh words echo in my brain, no matter how hard I try to banish them. And I’m hyper aware that he’s somewhere in the stands—or, more likely, in someone’s luxury box, drinking champagne and stuffing himself with expensive hors d’oeuvres while he analyzes my every move on the track.
But that’s not the only thing messing with my concentration. I can’t think of my father without being flooded with images of Ben sticking up for me. Without me having to say a word, he knew exactly what I needed and took care of it. He makes me feel safe. Protected.
Loved?
Get a grip, man. He was just doing what any good race engineer would do to make sure their driver was ready to race.
Although I’m pretty sure what we did in my hotel room last night—and this morning—doesn’t fit within that job description.
I tighten my hold on the steering wheel and focus on the ribbon of asphalt unwinding in front of me. It’s dangerous, being this distracted while I’m in control of an 1,800-pound killing machine. I have to get my head back into the fucking game or I’m going to wind up with a lot more body parts broken than my heart.
“Everything okay?” Ben asks as I climb out of the car after my lap. “You were awfully quiet on the comms.”
“All good,” I lie. No point admitting what a head case I am. It’s not like there’s anything he can do to fix me. “The track conditions are perfect. And the car’s running great.”
At least that last part is true.
But it’s not for long. Two turns into the race, in front of my father and thousands of other spectators, I attempt a risky passing maneuver on the outside stick, one that’s more my father’s style than mine, and clip my teammate, sending us both into the gravel. He’s able to recover and get back in the race, although I’m sure he’s giving his race engineer an earful of well-chosen expletives, mostly directed at me.
But my right rear tire is fucked and my day is done.
CHAPTER17
Ben
“Oh my God, you have to try this.”
Grady spears a piece of thick, fluffy French toast with his fork and holds it out to me. It’s almost eight in the morning on race day, and we’re reclining side by side on the king-size bed in his São Paulo hotel room, wearing the plush terrycloth robes the hotel left hanging for guests in the closet, room service trays over our laps.
It’s a first for us—breakfast in bed—and it’s risky as hell staying here this late. People are sure to be out and about by now. I’m going to have a hell of a time sneaking back to my own room without being noticed. But I couldn’t bring myself to say no when he suggested it.
Ever since his father’s visit, he’s been off. First the DNF in Austin. Then a disappointing P16 in Mexico. But this is Brazil, and I’m hoping for a better result. If he can just get his father’s damn voice out of his head.
This breakfast is a step in the right direction. Especially because it was his idea and not mine. I’m used to telling him to focus on racing, but what he really needs now is to focus on anything but. And if that means me risking discovery to serve as a distraction for a little bit longer, then that’s what I’ll do.
