Page 29 of Downforce

“You know what I mean.”

“I do …” He trails off.

I stare out at the beauty of the lake, adoring the way the sun makes the water sparkle like tiny diamonds dancing across the top as if it was a dance floor. Stupidly, I’m reminded of the last time I danced, and Max’s masked face comes back to mind.

I still kick myself for not immediately picking up that it was him.

How could I have not known?

“It’s too risky,” my dad finally answers.

My stomach becomes leaden with guilt. Here I am on the phone with my parents, thinking about a dance I shared with their son’s biggest rival.

Where’s the loyalty?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I force myself to center on my dad and this conversation. It takes a beat before I can reconcile what he’s just said.

“Don’t all athletes take risks?” He’s a retired NFL quarterback for goodness’ sake. The man risked serious injury every week when defensive players twice his size aimed to take his head off.

“Yes, but it’s different.”

“So if a female football player had designs on playing in the NFL you would be opposed to it?”

“Yes,” he answers directly, shocking me. “There are already leagues for women football players. Same as soccer, basketball, fencing, etc., granting women and girls plenty of opportunity to play at a competitive level.”

“Except motorsports,” I remind him.

“Maybe they should.”

My shoulders deflate.

“It’s different,” I insist. “In motorsport, the vehicles are the drivers of the competition not individual bodies, so comparing something like soccer or football to F1 isn’t a one to one.”

“You do have a point,” he acquiesces. “I still think it’s risky. This Bree Walters doesn’t sound like she’s ready for the added pressure of being the first woman in a sport like F1 would bring,” he says. “You said she’s had four agents in two years.”

“Three,” I hastily correct as if that’s any better.

An odd sensation comes over me as I run my free hand over the back of my neck. I can’t help the feeling of being watched. There are people strolling back and forth, some sitting at tables, not too far from me engaged in their own conversations.

Why would anyone be watching me?

I start to think it’s yet another intrusive thought, threatening to take form in my mind, but the hairs on the back of my neck suggest this might not simply be a figment of my imagination.

One look over my shoulder confirms it.

Standing there with hooded eyes and something between a smirk and a frown playing at what I can only imagine are soft lips, is Max Ferreira.

“That’s not a good sign,” my dad continues. “Maybe I’m wrong, and perhaps this Bree will prove the naysayers wrong this season. Honestly, though, I don’t see it happening.”

My lips part to respond to my dad but my eyes remain glued to Max. He hasn’t said anything, but he also hasn’t made any effort to turn away or acknowledge that I’m engaged in a conversation.

“Th-Thanks for your input, Dad,” I say. “I have to go. I love you.”

“You know I love you more than the sun, the moon, and the stars combined.”

His usual parting words make the corners of my mouth rise before I disconnect the call.

“Eavesdropping isn’t going to win you any races,” I say, glaring at Max.