So, I like a party. So, I like women. So, I like a drink every now and then. It never affected my driving, and I always put my job first, but apparently the headlines and malicious gossip made the team look bad. I’m convinced they wanted to poach the hotshot F2 champion and it was an easy excuse to get me out of the picture. Seriously, after all I did for them.
The disloyalty hurts the most. And the fact that I found out online. Still, I’m taking accountability where it’s due.
‘I’m cutting cold turkey,’ I announce. ‘Drinking, partying, women?—’
Isa’s laughing. Like, really laughing. ‘Good one.’
‘I mean it.’
She stops. ‘Like, for real?’
‘No women, no distractions. I have one goal: to show the world I’m a serious professional athlete.’
I imagined her a splash more enthusiastic. She had to deal with a lot of the fallout, after all. And it’s not like she has to giveup pussy. My balls are going to be so blue, they’ll be the colour of pinballs.
‘That’s it? That’s your big plan?’
I don’t appreciate her tone.
‘Part of it,’ I mutter.
‘You couldn’t even stay away from women when you broke your banjo string.’
‘Isa,’ I hiss, glancing around to make sure the biggest celebrities in Miami aren’t eavesdropping. Or worse, our siblings.‘Era secreto.’
She snorts at my beer. ‘You’re off to a great start.’
‘It begins at pre-season testing,’ I growl.
She crosses her arms and sticks her foot out, her glass of red wine tucked under her arm. ‘You won’t last one race weekend.’
‘¡Holaaa, mi gente!’Our cousin Trey slings his arms around our shoulders.
‘Did you hear this bonehead’s giving up partying? Andsex?’ says Isa.
‘Of course I did. Sure, we’re not going to have as much fun on the circuit as we would otherwise, but it’ll still be baller. I couldn’t say no when T asked.’ He holds his fist out for me to pound, oblivious to the death stare I’m directing at him.
‘When he asked what?’ Isa asks slowly, cocking her ear to him.
Shut up, Trey. Shut up! She’s not supposed to find out like this – specifically, holding a glass of red wine. I like these pants.
He swallows a large gulp of beer. ‘To be his performance coach,’ Trey says with the same levity as if she asked what his favourite city is.
I should intervene. It’s the right thing to do. However, she looks on the cusp of beingreallymad, and she’ll go easier on Trey than she would me. It’s basic self-preservation.
Her eyes thin to mean little slits. ‘What do you mean, his performance coach?’ The cogs are visibly turning in her head. ‘You’re a soccer player. You already have a job.’
I knew she’d take issue with that. She, like many people, think Trey’s a loveable idiot – the emphasis here being idiot. But he’s family. There are no better qualifications than that. It worked out for her, didn’t it?
‘I hurt my ankle last season and I need to take some time out,’ Trey explains, ‘and boss man here gave me this job for the year.’
She turns her furious gaze at me. ‘But you have a performance coach.’
I shrug casually. ‘I let her go. Who’s better than our cousin?’
‘Los profesionales,’ she counters immediately.
‘How hard can it be?’ says Trey. ‘I worked with a performance coach when I played for The Earthquakes, and I know tons of, like, stretches and stuff.’
