Sighing, I turn on my headset and feign enthusiasm.
“Fantastic work, everyone. P2 and P5. I couldn’t be prouder to be the leader of this team.”
I also couldn’t be more heartbroken. Because I’ve sacrificed everything—love, my happiness, a future—to be in this position. I yank myheadset off my head and hand it to Quinn. “I’ll be in my office, but I don’t want to be disturbed.”
For hours, I find excuses to remain at the paddock rather than heading home.
Despite barely leaving my condo over the last few days, now that I have, I don’t know that I can step back inside. I’m not ready to be assaulted by the heartache again. At least when I’m here, I can distract myself with work.
I spend quite a bit of time tinkering with the MeyerModel stats app. It was created in part by one of the co-owners of SC Cornelia, the team that replaced Mulligan’s Racing several years ago. It was originally an American football stats program but has been modified for F1. It’s a genius piece of technology that allows me to run scenarios and derive statistical probability based on grid placement, expected track and air temperature, and simulator data, among other things.
I’m squinting at the model on screen, the data showing the likelihood of Lincoln not starting, resulting in a single front-line start for Heath, when there’s a hard knock on my door.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell the person in the hall that I can’t be disturbed. Though when I realize it’s well past ten, I sigh and acquiesce. If someone’s stopping by this late, it can’t mean anything good. “Come in.”
“Hey.” Mick strides in, a to-go container in one hand and a six-pack in the other.
I zero in on the beer, noting it’s my favorite import from Stellatoria.
“Noticed you didn’t come down for lunchordinner,” he says, placing the to-go container on my desk in front of me. “Thought you might be hungry.”
Without invitation, he sits in one of the plush chairs across from me and helps himself to a bottle of beer. He uses the edge of my desk to pop the cap. Then, casually, as if he’s just here to hang out, he settles in, making himself comfortable. Alarm bells blare in my head, the urge to tell him to leave me alone to wallow the strongest of the warnings.
“You know who else hasn’t eaten today? Or yesterday, or the day before, according to swipe records?”
My gut cramps. Of course I know. I’ve checked the records myself. Many times.
I scrub one hand down my face, sighing.
“Your girl hasn’t responded to any of my emails either,” he goes on. “I had that local chef come in and teach my staff how to make soccas like you requested, and she hasn’t even tried them.”
Was it extreme to hire Evangeline’s favorite street cart vendor to show the team how to make a dish she’d like? Most definitely.
Pathetically I mutter, “She’s not my girl.”
He snorts. “You sure about that, boss?”
I’ve asked him to not call me boss a hundred times over the last year. We’ve been colleagues and friends for more than two decades. But he continues. Probably to get under my skin.
“Damn sure. She’s Luca’s ex-girlfriend.” I reach for a beer and crack it open on my side of the desk.
He raises both brows and tips his bottle to his lips once more.
“She’s also my employee,” I remind him between swigs.
He shrugs.
It’s infuriating, honestly. He’s worked for this team for as long as I have. He understands what’s at stake here.
I slam my bottle down harder than necessary and angle forward. “After what Bolton did to all those employees, after getting away with harassing young women for years?—”
Mick scoffs and takes another casual sip of his beer, then straightens. “Is that the big concern here? That being in love with a woman who happens to work for this team is somehow comparable to that scumbag sending dick pics to the social media interns?”
The air escapes my lungs. When he puts it like that…
“You’re not him. This isn’t then. And everyone who’s ever worked with you knows you’re nothing like Bolton fucking Reynold.”
A wisp of hope drifts into my consciousness, but I quickly bat it away. Even if Mick’s statements are valid, his assurance does little to quell my anger. The comparison and potential reputational damage aren’t what I’m most concerned about anyway. All my concern revolves around Evangeline.
