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Liam
Even after winning the Canadian Grand Prix, the press conference sucks. I get hit with a couple questions I don’t want to answer. Cameras focus on me, their bright lights causing my skin to flush. For once, I don’t appreciate the limelight, the surrounding reporters stifling me as I aim to keep my composure.
A sleazy reporter eagerly moves up to the front of the group. His slicked-back hair and beady eyes send some creepy vibes as he licks his lips. “Liam, several sources claim your McCoy contract is on the fritz. Your performance is competitive, yet you’re struggling to beat Noah this year.”
“Is there a question somewhere in there?” I rub the back of my neck with my hand, despising how uncomfortable I feel under the intense scrutiny from everyone in the room. Jax and Santiago shift in their chairs.
“Uh, right.” He licks his lips again. “So, is it worth putting your contract on the line for Claudia McCoy?”
This shit again. New race, new reporter, same crappy questions.
“The status of my contract is not contingent on my relationship, or lack thereof, with Claudia McCoy. I’d appreciate if it’s no longer brought up during these press conferences. I’m here to race, not discuss my private life.”
McCoy’s PR agent will have a field day with this one. I see another meeting with Peter in my future because he hates when we sass reporters. But fuck all this shit. I’ve been staying out of the headlines and playing nice with others. Plus I’m a role model for abstinence. Sophie’s probably to thank for keeping me in line, to be honest. I haven’t slept with anyone for almost three months already. My free time is spent constructively as of late, no longer plagued with bad mistakes and easy women.
Another reporter speaks. “Liam, there’s talk that you may switch over to Kulikov’s racing team at the end of the season. Would you like to share more about that?”
“No comment.” My response garners some hushed whispers.
The reporters process my response. I have no idea where they get their information from, but their sleuthing skills suck.
“Can you tell us more about your relationship with Miss Mitchell? Are you looking to join Bandini next year?” The same slimy reporter from earlier speaks up.
Where the fuck did that come from?
“My friendship with Sophie Mitchell is of no one’s concern. Not everything in life revolves around contracts and signing deals.” I smirk at the reporter, hoping he shuts up.
He slyly grins. “As of an hour ago, a source reported you’re sleeping with Miss Mitchell to climb the career ladder.”
My fingers clench in front of me. “Seeing as you mentioned Claudia a moment ago, I’d double-check with your sources about their reliability. Whoever I decide to sleep with, whether it’s Miss Mitchell or not, is no one’s business. I’d rather commit career suicide than sleep with someone to get ahead in this sport. I’d advise you to find better stories that don’t involve the latest scoop inside my bedroom.”
The reporter settles back into his seat, his shoulders held high.
The press conference wraps up in record time. My mood darkens despite a Prix win, tainted by tactless questions and untrue stories.
My day goes from bad to worse when I get a call from my agent about Peter wanting to meet with us. I grace them with my lovely presence, my foul attitude from earlier following me around like a dark cloud.
McCoy’s motorhome palace greets me, the cold gray aesthetic no longer filling me with a sense of pride. I step into a conference room to find an agitated Peter and my agent seated.
“When I said to stay away from women, I didn’t expect you to befriend James Mitchell’s daughter. How stupid can you be?” Peter’s meaty fists bang on the table.
The notion has me shaking in my sneakers.
Not.
Unnecessary politics need to stop. I show up to drive, place on podiums, and schmooze with sponsors. My contract doesn’t include discussing my bedfellow schedule.
“You should’ve been more specific. You told me to respect your niece and I did that. Sophie and I are friends. It’s not my problem if reporters twist our friendship to fit their agenda.” I flick a piece of invisible dust off my jeans.
“For the love of God, I appreciate your skills as a racer, but you need to control your private life. I hate hearing reporters talk about you like that and I don’t enjoy having McCoy associated with Bandini.” Peter comes off genuine for the first time all season. He reminds me of the old him, of the guy who took me under his wing when I was lost.
“I think what Peter means to say is how hanging around someone from Bandini may not be the best choice, especially the team principal’s daughter. What if this blows up again? Let’s say you have your fun with her and then leave her behind. She can’t go away because she’s always around.” Rick assesses me.
My agent’s words make my blood run hot. He should be on my side rather than sucking Peter’s cock and appeasing him.
“No, it won’t. You two are acting like I’m fucking around behind her back. You’ll have to trust me. If you believe I can drive a million-dollar car and win, then you can count on me to not mess up.”
Despite my confidence, I know they’re right to question me. That’s the thing about trust. Once you break it, the journey to get it back tends to be long and tedious. I want to put in the work for my team.
