Page 35 of Heartbreaker

“Did you collect them as a kid?” I ask.

“I had four, and they were my most prized possessions. I got them at a birthday party, and they were so cool. I still have two of them, but I’m 99% sure Archer stole one for an experiment or something.”

I watch with rapt attention as she opens another one, oohing and smiling at it. I think she’s dropped the topic, but then she expands, giving me more of the glimpses into her life I’m desperate to collect, the same way she’s collecting the toys.

“I grew up with Matchbox and Lego before they had the fun, girly sets. I had exactly two Barbies, and I only had two because Archer stole the first one I got for my birthday and decided it would be a good idea to play baseball with her.” She smiles softly, remembering it with fondness, it seems. “Her body went in one direction, her head in the other, and the shriek I let out was so loud, all the neighbors on the street came out to make sure I wasn’t being abducted. When my dad found out, he marched all three of us right into the boy’s room and made Archer give me all the money in his piggy bank. Then we went to the store, and I had enough for two Barbies.”

“So you didn’t have girly stuff even though you loved it?” I ask, trying to follow. She shakes her head quickly.

“Being girly in my house wasn’t frowned upon; I should clarify that. My dad loves me and would have gotten me an entire Calico Critters house if I asked for it.”

“That’s a thing?” Her eyes widen, and she nods excitedly.

“Yes. But I wanted to be cool like my brothers. I wanted them to think I was cool, and I wanted to fit in. So for birthdays and holidays, I’d ask for ‘boy’ things, and the few girly things I had, I played with quietly in my room when they weren’t around. But for the most part, I was a huge tomboy. I skateboarded, and I rode dirt bikes. I got interested in what they were interested in because it made me feel like I belonged, and I was around it all the time.”

“You’re not a tomboy now,” I say. “What changed?” She gives me a small smile, reaching for another baggie.

“College. I went away to school, was away from my brothers, and met a few girls. I wanted to fit in again, so… I brought out the girly side and hid the tomboy. I wanted to be accepted.”

“And now?” I ask.

“And now…” She lifts a shoulder and gives me a soft smile. “Now I feel like they can coexist a bit more. I’m starting to feel like I’m somewhere I belong, not because I was forced into it, but because I made a place for myself here.” She bites her lip, looking nervous. “I’m sure that doesn’t make any sense to you.”

“Yes, it does,” I say without a moment of hesitation. “It makes perfect sense.” She turns to me, rolls her eyes, and shakes her head.

“No, it doesn’t. You fit in everywhere you go. King of the hill, coolest person in every room.” I reach over, grabbing her hand and twining her fingers with mine.

“Not even close,” I tell her, and she looks at me skeptically. “Because racing was all I ever wanted, all I ever strove for, I was a nerd. All I focused on was racing, what I’d do when I finally got into Indy, what I’d do in the meantime, how to start building a brand. I didn’t have many friends in school because of it.” I take a breath, uncomfortable but sharing anyway. “I joined Monster Smash right out of high school, and I had a crew. Tyler and Oliver, but that kind of faded once I got into Indy. And when I joined that team, everyone thought I wasn’t added on my own merit. They thought that because my dad was part-owner, I was just given the spot.”

I sigh, sitting back and crossing my arms on my chest. Lana is watching me intently, clearly as eager to learn about my history as I was to learn about hers. “Every accomplishment I had was overshadowed by the assumption that I was just a nepo baby. Teammates, commentators, press, fans…. They all said it. And I get it. I am a nepo baby, in a way: I had privileges and experiences at a much younger age than most people because of who my dad is, but… my talent is all me.”

“One day, we were out drinking, and someone said something to piss me off—I don’t even remember what—and I got frustrated. It had been two years of the same shit, and I’d just won a race, gotten the most points for the team of the season, and still I was getting this shit. I… I don’t know. I snapped. I hit him, and we got into a fist fight. We made up quickly, and it wasn’t a big deal, but the next day, it was all over the papers. The headline was ‘Rome DeLuca Wins and Celebrates with a Black Eye.’ No mention of who I was related to, no hidden jokes implying I didn’t earn it. None of it. And the team was different with me, too, like they suddenly thought I was cool. I get it now. It was because I was in the press, and they wanted that too, but in the moment, it felt good to be seen as something other than Kevin DeLuca’s son. The next weekend, I went out partying and went home with two girls.” Her eyes widen, and I grin.

“It’s not what it sounds like. They were both too drunk to stand, and I wanted to get them to their hotel rooms safely. Nothing happened, but the media doesn’t know that.”

“So it’s all fake?” she asks with a somewhat disbelieving lift of her eyebrow. I shrug noncommittally.

“I mean, I am an asshole. And I do get in fights, and I have been known to get into very… zesty situations.” She lets out a loud laugh at my description. “But the rest is just… strategic branding, I guess. I started leaning into it, and within a year, I was Indy’s bad boy.”

“And you were okay with it because asterisks no longer tainted your accomplishments?” she asks, understanding written across her face. A sense of relief washes over me, easing the nerves I felt.

“Exactly. It’s stupid, but… Before I knew it, I was in too deep. People were trying to rile me, to get a reaction, to get a clip or a story to sell. The last two years, I’ve barely gone out. I rarely celebrate wins because it’s not even fun anymore, knowing the press will be on my ass. It got out of control. It became who I am, this playboy asshole. Now I don’t really know who I am,” I confess.

“Oh, you’re still an asshole,” she says, and I laugh, relieved that the pressure is melting, turning into something more familiar. “But it’s more of a lovable, sweet asshole.”

“You think I’m sweet?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

“I think you’re sweet when you want to be,” she says, sitting back and looking at me through seemingly new eyes. “You know, it’s kind of nice, knowing you feel like as much of an outcast as I do.”

“You feel like an outcast?” I ask, and she shrugs, grabbing another packet, opening it, and taking out the little animal as if to change the subject. “Is it because Jordan and the other guys are still giving you shit?” She lifts another shoulder, and I think that’s all I’m going to get before she speaks.

“There are a lot of people who think that I don’t deserve this spot,” she says, and even though she opens her mouth to expand, I shake my head vehemently and cut her off.

“Fuck that. You might be new, but you’ve got raw talent. It’s unrefined, and you haven’t been doing it for years, so you’ve gotta work at it, but it’s there.”

“You think?” she asks, looking adorably hopeful.

“I know it,” I say, reaching out and grabbing her hand. “You can make it into the world championship if you keep going.” She chuckles, shaking her head.