Page 19 of First in Line

“Actually, she was even—”

“Refill, anyone?” I quickly offer, interrupting my oversharing fiancé.

When our gazes meet, I firmly shake my head, silently ordering him not to say more. Once everyone has decided what they want, I stand up from the booth to walk to the bar.

I’ve just gotten the orders in when Cynthia appears by my side. “So… why did you never mention him?” she wonders.

“Who?”

“Reyes.”

“The opportunity never came.”

She quirks up a dubious eyebrow. “How long have you worked for me?”

“Five years.”

“And in five years of me blabbering about Formula One, you never, at any point, thought you’d mention the fact that you knew the best driver of our generation? If not the best driver there’s ever been—no diss to my man Schumacher.”

I shrug. “Me and about six hundred people went to high school with him. We weren’t even in the same grade. It’s not a big deal.”

“Feels like one. Do you remember how he was?”

Sweet. Gentle. Patient. Tender…

“Not really,” I lie.

“Hmm…” Her attention is on the screen, where pre-race statistics are displayed. “I don’t swing that way, and I’m almost fifteen years older than him, but I’d have his children if he asked.Look at those eyes. And on a Black man? With that little scar? Sign me up.”

Giving up, I turn around and stare at the photo of Jax displayed alongside his stats from last season.

“He’s latino too, no?” she then wonders. “Given his name.”

“His great grandfather was Puerto Rican.” Remembering I probably shouldn’t know that much about an old schoolmate, I quickly add, “I think.”

“Oh, I see. Was he always that attractive?”

“Uh, yes. And he was already pretty popular.”

The bartender returns with the drinks, and Cynthia helps me carry them to our table.

Of course, I get a few questions they’ve all been thinking about, and I answer truthfully but minimally. Then, the race starts, offering me some sweet mercy.

A ball of stress sits heavily on my stomach the whole time, watching the cars practically fly on the track at a speed that should be reserved for aircraft only. At over two hundred miles per hour, one slight mistake and it could all be over. My eyes remain glued to the screen almost the entire time, and I’m thrown back to what it used to be like—watching Jax give everything on a track and take risks that brought him one step closer to his dream.

It wasn’t easy, and it never got any easier. The awareness that he could crash and hurt himself beyond repair. The fact that he could be burned alive in his car if something goes wrong. I trust him, I know he can do this without a hiccup, but what of the other drivers? I don’t trust them as much.

At least Jax dominates the race and is rarely alongside other drivers. He’s a god among gods, and watching the way he almost glides through the track with clinical precision is impressive. We’re far from the rallycross races I used to accompany him to.

When he pulls into the pit lane, I watch as a dozen men and women work their magic in seconds. It used to be just the two of us working on Winifred whenever the garage would have us, but now he has an army of skilled mechanics and technicians doing it for him.

I only start breathing normally again when Jackson finishes his final lap, winning the race in under an hour and twenty-two minutes—a new personal record, according to the hosts.

The whole bar erupts in cheerful joy, as if we’re a part of this. I suppose it’s an American driver on an American team, but this isn’t quite like when your home state team wins the Super Bowl or something, is it? Just overpaid men and their very expensive, very fast cars—and huge egos.

We watch as Jackson does his cooldown lap, sticking his arm out of the halo to wave, talking to his team through the comms about the win. Once he’s parked at the banner marked 1, he stands up and raises his hands in a victorious stance. With practiced ease, he climbs out of the car and takes his helmet and balaclava off to reveal his handsome face, drenched in sweat and reddened with heat. He then gives quick hugs to some team members over the railing, smacks a few high fives, and proceeds with the post-race formalities.

The others aren’t paying as much attention as before, but I can’t rip my eyes away as I watch him answer a few quick questions to a handful of interviewers. I can still remember how nervous yet excited he was the first time someone shoved a mic in front of his face after a big win. Now, it has become his routine, his norm. There isn’t an ounce of uneasiness as he effortlessly answers whatever questions they throw at him.