Page 105 of First in Line

We watch in stunned silence as the Mercedes car crosses the line to win, and seconds later, the Red Bull follows. Jackson crosses just after them, only four-tenths of a second behind von Ranzow.

In utter disbelief, I try to process the turn of events. Jackson didn’t win. He finished third. How the heck did that—

… Something you can’t seem capable of doing, like finishing third…

Those words I uttered two days ago come back to me with the brutal force of a hammer.

No, he wouldn’t. There must have been a problem with his car or something. He wouldn’t have purposefully lost a race on his favorite track so I’d follow him to Barcelona.

Bewildered and confused, I struggle to sort through my jumbled thoughts as the commentator keeps talking about the incredible save from Mercedes and the unlikely loss from Altron.

He wouldn’t,I repeat to myself. It’s crazy, even for him. There’s no way he’d lose a race for me like this. Especially since he can’t be certain I’ll decide to stay.

“This is insane,” I whisper, my head spinning.

The flutes of champagne have gone to my head, or maybe it’s the panic of potentially having caused this crazy twist.

My anxiety peaks when the parc-fermé interviewer is done with the first and second place winners and moves on to Jackson, still sweaty and reddened by the heat.

“Jackson, can you tell us what happened out there? Was there a mechanical issue with the car?”

“No, the car was perfect. The engineers have done an incredible job this season.”

“Then how did you lose two positions in the final laps?”

“I thought I’d give my opponents a bit of hope. I’m sure it’s frustrating to watch me win all the time. It keeps things interesting if they feel like they have a chance.”

The journalist lets out a polite laugh, and Jax continues, “But honestly, this one’s on me. I’ve been getting nasty cramps in my braking leg. Usually, I can push through it, but this time I just couldn’t keep the pressure consistent, so I had to slow down to avoid a collision.”

“Do you expect to be back at full strength next week in Barcelona?”

“I’ll be focusing on hydration, recovery, and training this week—lots of electrolytes, magnesium, and stretching. I have a new cardio routine in place, so who knows, it might help. But yes, I’m confident I’ll be back to fighting form for the race next week.”

He looks straight into the camera, and I can’t help but feel like that is for me. Is he seriously confessing to me, in front of hundreds of millions of people, that he’s thrown a race just to keep me around?

And am I the freaking new cardio routine?

I’m not even worried anymore. I ampissed. I can’t believe he’d do something so reckless. And for what? To guilt-trip me into staying another week?!

Using everyone’s lasting confusion, I make my way out of the Paddock Club. With the race over, visitors are already making their way out of the racing area, so I’m surrounded by people as I walk back to the hotel. The entire way there, I struggle to think straight. Jax wouldn’t do such a thing. Again and again, I try toreason with myself. I’m overreacting, I’m not that important to him, I’m panicking for nothing…

Once I’m back in the room, I pace the length of it for a moment, doing breathing exercises to get a hold of my nerves. It’s only when I’m calm enough that I grab the remote and sit on the bed as I turn the TV on. I don’t even have to switch channels to stumble on the aftermath of the race.

The podium ceremony has just started, and Jax already stands on the third-place podium. It’s always a big deal in Monaco, with Prince Albert II awarding the winning trophy himself. Fuming, I watch it unfold, barely able to stay seated for a full minute at a time.

Half an hour later, in the media pen, Jackson gives the same excuse again, promising he’ll be all patched up by next week, but once more, I don’t believe him. I know this man too well to swallow his lies so easily.

About an hour and thirty minutes after the end of the race, a key card slips into the handle on the other side of the door.

I jump to my feet and rush to it, arriving just as he enters.

“Tell me you didn’t do this!” I whisper-shout as soon as the door is closed.

“Do what?”

“Throw the race so I’d come with you to Barcelona!”

Several excruciating seconds pass, and all he does is stare down at me. When he speaks, it’s to say, “I had a bad cramp.”