Page 29 of Off the Grid

The last thing I want to hear is their speculation about who it should be. Who it should be is me, damn it.

But it won’t.

Deep down, I know it.

I’ve been through this song and dance too many fucking times. The high of soaring hopes. The jump at the phone ringing. The crushing despair and doubt when someone else is called up.

No way in hell am I giving up this dream. But each and every time a situation like this happens, I feel like another tiny piece is chipped off my resolve. Another part of me gone toward a wasted dream many think I never should get the chance to achieve.

I walk out of the garage area and into the paddock. Other F2 drivers are milling about, but there’s an unspoken anticipation in the atmosphere. An anticipation that’s as exciting in nature as it is sick.

Who’ll get his seat?

I’m not the only one hoping my phone rings.

Will the call come down today? Will Moretti treat this like the business it is and prepare a driver to fill Maxim’s shoes for the next race?

Because that’s the one thing about this fucking sport. It’s a passion, but above all else, the empire’s bottom line is what matters. It’s profoundly rewarding yet fiercely cruel.

We all know it’s dangerous. That it’s one millisecond, one overcorrection, one tire bump away from utter destruction. From possibly dying.

And yet we get in the car day after day. We push the limits lap after lap. We give our all for our team, for ourselves, for our fans, but know the machine of F1 will move on faster than shit when we can’t.

Nothing is ever good enough, ever fast enough . . . we’re never satisfied. And the sport either rewards us with a win or punishes us with a crash.

The in-between is just as unsatisfying.

I meet the eyes of a few drivers standing with their crews and words don’t have to be spoken to know what they’re thinking. I hope it’s me. I hope I’m the one who gets the call. I hope I’m the one who finally gets the chance.

I’m praying for the same fucking thing too.

We’re wishing the best for our fellow driver who’s clearly hurt while silently hoping this is our chance. That this will be our call-up.

The difference between Maxim and me? A lucky break? A split-second decision that makes or breaks you?

We all have the skill. It’s just the timing that has fucked us over in some way or another. The amount of money we have to spend on equipment that might have made the difference at one point or another. The last name that might mean something in this small but elite circle.

Then again, I have the last name—mine just seems to garner me occasional pity and a wide berth for people to stay away.

“Riggs?”

I look over to Elio, my pit crew chief, who’s waving me back into the garage. “Yeah?”

“Let’s go over that last adjustment we made,” he says, his tattoo-covered forearms bulging against the cuff of his team shirt. His headset hangs loosely around his neck, and a bead of sweat trails down his temple.

“Yeah. Sure. Okay,” I say distracted, thinking that I need to go grab my phone—just in case—but not wanting to appear more eager than I already am.

And feeling like a prick for wanting my phone.

I keep myself occupied. Elio and I talk about the tweaks and what he aims to accomplish with them. I go over finances with my team manager because fuck if F2 isn’t like that weird dichotomy of looking like you have it all while knowing you’re single-handedly paying for it out of your own fucking pocket.

To the world, it looks like you’re eating caviar when to those in my shoes, we’re lucky if we get fucking sardines.

Is Moretti going to pull a reserve driver from another F1 team? Or will they temporarily promote a driver from F2 to fill Maxim’s seat until he returns?

Seconds drag into minutes. Minutes slide into hours. None of us drivers want to leave—just in case.

But we do. One by one. Little by little. The track empties out as rumors begin to settle in around me.