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“This question is for Lennox,” another one of them stands and is handed a microphone by the F1 Press Coordinator. “Lennox, is this your comeback year? Is this the year you’re going to make a run for the championship and return to your previous form? And the second part of my question is…”
“What kind of question is that?” I interrupt him. “Do you think I, or any of the drivers sitting up here,” I wave my arms toward them, “set out to not win a race? Do you think that’s why we got into racing, to not win?”
“I just, I mean,” he stutters, “I just thought we’d like to hear your thoughts on being relegated to the Number Two driver at Celeritas and if that team structure still exists this year.”
This fucker.
The correct answer, the one Celeritas wants me to give, is that this is a team sport and I have the team’s full backing and I will do whatever is in the best interest of the team. That’s the canned response. I know this because they give me actual printed materials of acceptable answers.
And those go right into the bin.
Because the real answer, the one I should give to this asshole, and all his asshole colleagues, is that my team hasn’t had my back in two years and I no longer give a shit about them beyond ensuring they deliver large sums of money into my bank account on a regular basis. I should tell them that the team would happily tie me up and light me on fire in a blazing effigy if someone paid them enough money to do so.
I should tell them that I still race to win because I fucking love this sport, the one I have dedicated my entire life to, but that my own team doesn’t really want that. They don’t want me to win. I’m welcome to come in second place, of course, but winning is frowned upon.
But instead of that, I answer in the only way I can possibly muster and still have some sense of dignity - with sarcasm. “Is this my year?” I start, “Probably not. Might want to try back next year.”
The journalist sits back down, or maybe he’s still standing, I don’t know. I’ve gone back to picking at my loose thread.
My phone starts buzzing in my pants pocket so I pull it out while half-listening to the journalists terrorize the other drivers and I’m grateful for whoever this is that’s sending me a text or an email, anything that is more interesting than this press conference.
Text Alert - New Nanny: STOP IT!
I pick my head up from looking at the phone hidden in my lap under the table and there’s my eager little babysitter scowling and shaking her head at me from the back wall of the press conference room. She’s standing with Jack who is oblivious to these ongoings by now and is as bored as I am.
But Mallory’s pissed.
I was split fifty-fifty on whether she’d even show up in Melbourne. I was rather hoping not. A grown-ass man doesn’t need a full-time babysitter, regardless of what Celeritas makes her official job title. I guess I need to try harder to get rid of her and send her back home to New York or New Jersey or wherever the hell.
I grin at her mischievously and fire back a text, the journalists still droning on about some new regulations and how we feel about them. As if anyone cares how we feel about them. We just drive the cars and dance like monkeys when ordered.
Lennox: You look hot in that little team uniform.
New Nanny: Act like an adult and answer the questions appropriately!
Lennox: Undo a button on your shirt and I will.
New Nanny: Are you insane? What is wrong with you???
Lennox: is that a no?
New Nanny: Of course it is a NO, you pig! Do your job! This isn’t funny!
Lennox: Ok then.
I continue staring at Mallory and refuse to take my eyes off her even when the next mundane question from the next bloodsucking wanna-be journalist comes my way.
“Lennox, it’s obvious there’s been tension in the team since DuPont came aboard, is there anything you want to address with us today on that matter?”
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A corner of my mouth quirks up and my eyes are still locked in on Mallory’s as I answer, so much that some of the people in the room are looking over their shoulders to see what I’m staring at. Mallory fists are clenched at her side and daggers and ice explode from her eyes.
“I’d say I’m more focused on undressing things right now, mate,” I say into my mic while still locked onto Mallory like a heat-seeking missile.
Alessi, one of the drivers from Anora Sport who’s sitting next to me at the press table, snorts and hangs his head as he laughs trying to hide it from the press.
The room is giggling as several of them turn to look at Mallory who is absolutely livid. Jack is giggling next to her and as the room quiets and everyone turns back to face the front she whips an arm across her and smacks Jack in the side.
