Nico barks a few orders at the crew before deigning to acknowledge the three of us on the couch. When he finally does, it’s with a curt nod and an arrogant smile. You’d think the guy wouldn’t be such a douche to the drivers seeing as we’re his bread and butter, but no. He acts like he’s doing us a favor and not the other way around.
“Gentlemen,” he practically oozes. “Should be an interesting show today.”
The last is directed straight at me, and I swear his smile gets even more superior.
“Looking forward to it,” I lie, smiling right back at him. There’s no way I’m letting Nico—or anyone else in this room—know that my insides are twisted in nervous knots, like adorable but painful balloon animals.
Fortunately, there’s no more time for small talk, as the other drivers file in and the crew bustles around adjusting equipment, fitting us with body mics, and powdering our noses so we don’t shine under the lights. The assistant producer positions the first group of drivers on the sofa—I get lucky and she puts me between Gabe and Yanni—then she takes her position next to one of the camera operators and counts us down.
“Three, two, one—” She points to Nico, who’s in a matching chair to the left of the couch.
“We’re here with Raj Singh from Lighthouse Racing, Gabriel Allard from Mayflower Racing, Grady Lewis from LaRue Motorsports, Yanni Castellanos from Arete Grand Prix, and Billy James from Mirabella Racing,” he says, starting innocently enough. But any kernel of hope that this is going be to all sunshine and roses doesn’t last long. “Grady, let’s start with you. Only a few weeks on the circuit, and you’ve already lost your race engineer.”
“Is there a question in there somewhere?” Okay, maybe a snarky response isn’t the best course of action. But come on. Couldn’t the guy have eased me into the tough stuff?
“My question is this: It’s unusual for a team to have so much turmoil this early in the season. So what’s going on at LaRue? Is there any truth to the rumor that you demanded Marcel Cabrera be fired after he refused to allow you to pass your teammate in the sprint at the Hungarian Grand Prix?”
“That’s two questions,” Yanni points out, saving me from stating the obvious.
“And I’m pretty sure I’m not in the position to demand anything,” I add.
“Still,” Nico persists, “there must be a reason for his sudden midseason departure. What is it?”
“You know how it goes,” Gabe jumps in. “The dynamic between a driver and his race engineer can be tricky. Sometimes, through no fault of either one, they just don’t click.”
And sometimes the race engineer is a pompous ass who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else and refuses to listen any feedback from the driver.
Nico scoots to the edge of his chair, his eyes never leaving me even though it’s Gabe who answered his last question. “Any idea who Marcel’s replacement will be?”
There it is. The million-dollar question. Too bad I don’t have the million-dollar answer.
“I heard it’s Ben Carpenter,” Raj says with a knowing smirk. The asshole. Leave it to him to find out who’s going to be on the other end of my radio during races before I do. I try to get along with the other drivers on and off the track, but I swear, this asshat—and that prick Sterling Samuels—take entitled douchebag to a whole new level.
“No way.” Billy shakes his head. He’s one of the most chill guys on the circuit and a candidate to turn our nepo baby trio into a quartet. His dad, like mine, was a driver, although his father was killed racing in the French Grand Prix more than a decade ago. As drivers, we all stare death in the face on a daily basis, but I can’t even imagine what he must feel every time he gets behind the wheel. “Ben swore he was done with F1 after—”
His voice trails off. Given his dad’s history, I don’t blame him for not wanting to talk about the accident two seasons ago that effectively ended two careers—Ben’s and his driver, Stefan Meyer’s. I wasn’t there, but I’ve seen video footage. It wasn’t pretty. Stefan wound up in a wheelchair and Ben—well, no one really knows what happened to him, except that one of the best race engineers ever to work the circuit walked away from racing and pretty much disappeared.
Whatever Raj heard—and whoever he heard it from—have got to be wrong. There’s no way Ben’s coming back to F1, certainly not to babysit a lowly rookie like me. The dude is an icon. Even my father—otherwise known as the most critical guy on the planet—says so.
“I’m with Billy on this one. As much as I’d love to have Ben in my ear, I don’t think that’s happening anytime.”
Nico’s smile almost turns into a sneer, and my stomach free falls to my feet. I’ve got the definite feeling that he’s got something up his designer sleeve, and his next words confirm it. “Think again.”
He gestures to the assistant producer, who leaves her post next to the camera and strides to the door. When she opens it, a tall, broad-shouldered man in jeans and a LaRue Motorsports Henley walks through. I’ve only seen him at a distance on the rare occasions when my father let me hang out with him on race weekends, but I’d know him anywhere thanks to the racing mags and the internet. Although the pictures don’t do his intense hazel eyes justice. Or his thick, wavy salt-and-pepper hair, matched by his neatly trimmed beard. Or the way those damn jeans hug his muscular thighs. I can only imagine what they’re doing for his ass.
If I wasn’t in a room full of people—and on camera—I’d be tempted to ask him to turn around so I could stop imagining and see for myself. Maybe even feel.
But that would be incredibly fucking stupid. Not because I’m gay. I mean, no one seems to care that Cristian Rivera and Jasper Nord are in relationship, and before they starting fucking they were mortal enemies, on the track and off. So I doubt anyone would give my sexual orientation a second thought.
Well, anyone except my father. Hence, the problem with outing myself in the middle of a televised press conference.
“Hey,” Ben Carpenter says, sitting in the newly created space between me and Gabe. By newly created I mean one of Nico’s henchmen practically shoved Gabe off the end of the couch to make room for Ben. And by space I mean we’re crammed together so tight that one of the brawny thighs I was ogling is pressed against mine. “You must be Grady Lewis.”
Those intense hazel eyes find mine, and I know immediately that I’m screwed. Because if there’s one thing even more incredibly fucking stupid than coming out on camera it’s lusting after the guy who holds my F1 future in his hands. And who’s got to have at least ten years on me.
I subtly shift away from him, needing to do something to regain control of the situation—as if I ever had control of it in the first place—and of my stupid sex brain. Which, I’m proud to say, I usually can keep in check.
Just, apparently, not where Ben Carpenter is concerned.
