I tense, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip. Is he talking about me? Luca? Or?—
“Am I just the cleanup crew? The compassionate leader with the squeaky-clean reputation they’ve hired to course correct before a more seasoned team principal swoops in and takes over?”
Ah. He’s talking about work. Airing his grievances as I suggested. I exhale slowly to calm my nerves. This, I can handle.
“I want to help,” he continues. “To make an impact. I want the name Granata to return to its former glory and I want to restore its once strong reputation on the grid. But I also want to win.”
He heaves out a heavy sigh, his chest deflating.
I stay quiet in case he isn’t finished.
Granata has been around since the inception of F1 racing. There was a lot of talk this fall about a sex scandal of sorts involving the man who previously held his position. Apparently, it had been going on for years, and though it sounds like a lot of people were involved, it wasn’t until the media caught wind of the story that action was taken.
Alaric’s assessment is spot-on. Stepping in like this must be a huge undertaking.
“I can’t even get the new reputation assessment positions filled,” he grumbles. “No one worth their salt wants to work for us. This is an uphill battle that could very well result in an avalanche. Earning this title has been my dream for so long. But I never expected to start out having to clean up a giant mess, and I’m worried I’ll let everyone down. Including myself.”
“You won’t,” I say automatically.
He forces out a huff. “You don’t know that. No one does.”
I swallow down the trepidation in my throat, considering my next words more carefully. “I don’t know for sure,” I hedge, “but by the way you talk about the team, it’s obvious that you care. Deeply.” Shielding my eyes again, I turn his way. “It’s rare for people to genuinely care. It’s special, honestly. It might take time, but people who want to see the truth will see it in everything you do.”
“And those who don’t?” he presses.
I shift and refocus on the sky, anxiety worming its way through me. Have I said too much or made assumptions when it wasn’t my place? I don’t know.
A breath passes. Then another. The silence urges me to answer.
“Fuck ’em,” I declare, the words loaded with sass and a sense of bravado I haven’t possessed in quite a while.
I spend a lot of time in my head, worried about what others think of me, concerned my behaviors and some of my idiosyncrasies make people view me as different. No one can control the perceptions of others. Worrying about how I’m being perceived is a huge trigger for me. One I have to actively work to overcome every day.
“Some people will want you to fail,” I continue. “They’ll look for the worst in you and cheer when you stumble, just to validate their opinion. You’ll never win them over, so it’s silly to even try. All you can do is show the people who matter how much you care. With your words, but more importantly, with your actions. If you do that, everything else will slot into place.”
His pinky finger brushes against mine, a tiny sign of gratitude, maybe, the contact sending a strange spark up my arm.
I hold my breath, frozen. If I stretched out my hand a little, our fingertips would touch again. My body hums from the proximity. All it would take is one small shift from either of us.
“Thank you for saying that,” he murmurs.
The heaviness of the moment clouds any reasonable response I can come up with. So with a groan, I curl up and rest my elbows on the pavement, looking over at him once more.
“Did it help?”
His face, twisted in with apprehension, smooths out. “Did what help?”
“Lying on the ground.”
The corners of his mouth turn up in an abashed smile. “Surprisingly, it did. Although my confessions may have been less inspired by the concrete under my back and more inspired by the person by my side.”
The compliment washes over me like sun-kissed satin. His praise is warm, the words a silky balm.
I quash the silly sensation, and rather than allow myself to relish the moment, I scan the property. I need to get out of here. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.
The depth of his inquiry hints at the sincerity behind the sentiment. Like if I asked for his help, he’d give it without hesitation. The respect he’s given me is so different from the treatment I’ve come to expect from Luca, and by extension, people in general.
