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A self-assured smirk spreads on Max’s pouty lips.
“Could you flatter him any harder? Jeez, Gordon, give him a big, wet kiss,” I say aloud to the TV.
“This is half the battle. The mental part.” Max taps his temple.
“How do you think your recent breakup with pop singer Ella will affect your driving?” the reporter asks.
I snort. Like Max cares about anything but the sport right now. When I broke up with him he was able to walk away from me and never look back.
Max shoots him a withering stare. The smirk is gone. “Ella and I were never a couple. We’re friends. Nothing, especially not women, affects my driving. You know that.”
“I sure as hell do,” I reply. That was the one thing that kept me from total despair after I left him—that he’d thrive. And he has.
Max claps the reporter on the shoulder and melts into the crowd on the track. I turn back to the butter and sugar mix, then give up and set the bowl on the stand mixer. It’s only then that I realize my heart’s racing faster than the RPMs on those cars.
There are times when I wonder what life would’ve been like had I stayed with Max, and this moment is one of those times. Would I have eventually gotten used to the “WAG life”—the glitzy, fast-paced world of wives and girlfriends of professional athletes? Would my father have eventually accepted our relationship? Would my father have hired the man I was dating?
It’s the same, ruminating thought spiral I’ve had for years, and the answers are clear. I’d have never gotten used to the lifestyle, and Papa would’ve been bent out of shape for years had I continued dating a driver. And since I’d seen what the sport had done to my own parents, I knew I’d made the right choice.
With a sigh, I pause for a glass of water while the mixer does its job. For the next twenty minutes, I preheat the oven and throw the rest of the ingredients into the mixing bowl. The cookie dough is ready when the drivers are in their cars and on the grid, and instead of scooping the dough onto the sheet in perfect round balls, I swipe a spoonful of raw dough.
“It’s three o’clock here in Miami and the cars are pulling away for their formation lap for the inaugural Florida Grand Prix,” the announcer says.
You’re not supposed to eat raw dough, but whatever. I slide the spoon into my mouth and stare at the screen while leaning against the island counter.
“As the cars make their way around the track, this is the lineup: Max Becker from Team Onassis on pole position, Hsuki Morishita from Force Japan beside him in the front row, Esteban Alba from Team Onassis, and João Olivera from Mercedes in the third and fourth places.”
I tune out the rest of the grid position announcement while I shovel more uncooked dough into my face. Max once told me that the moments before a race were the second most exciting thing he’d ever experienced, a rush like no other.
Seven years ago I’d asked him what the first most exciting thing was. I was twenty-four at the time, he was twenty-two.
“You,” he’d replied.
Stupidly, I’d believed him. Maybe he’d believed it himself. He’d been a virgin. New to the world of professional racing and to the money, glamour, and girls that came along with it. This was before he became a tabloid sensation; before he turned into the superstar athlete he is today.
Back then, those blue eyes were wide and trusting. His hair was blonder and his smile more genuine. His face was less angular then, padded with a little plump of fat. I adored everything about him, and even now, my heart aches when I see him on TV.
There are deep, dark parts of me that are still raw about how our relationship unfolded. How my fear of commitment ruined it all. Which is the main reason why I didn’t go to the race today. That and the fact that I didn’t want the press to ask me about my recent, well-publicized layoff.
It was my father’s day, not mine. I preferred to be out of the spotlight at all costs.
“The cars are making their way around the final corners to start this Grand Prix during a sweltering Florida afternoon.”
I set down the spoon and open the second package of chocolate chips, shoveling a handful into my mouth. The formation lap is a casual drive around the circuit to warm up the tires. Soon the cars will be back in place on the grid, pausing for a few seconds before the race formally begins.
“Becker is about to start on pole position, and he leads this new season in the championship by twenty points. Adrian Onassis watching in the garage . . .”
The camera cuts from the track to my father, who stands in the garage with his arms folded, staring at a monitor. His white hair is rumpled, and face looks uncharacteristically beet red. Perspiration runs down his cheeks, and I grimace at the sight.
“Goodness, Papa. Get into the air conditioning. Drink some water,” I murmur to the TV. Why he insists on being in the garage when he could be in one of the team’s air-conditioned trailers with all the TV monitors is beyond me. He knows the Miami heat is brutal.
The camera flashes to a different scene. “And look, there’s actor Jack Foxx, who starred in that Formula World miniseries, and his wife, singer Misha. I see a few others, too, a few A-listers watching in the Force Japan garage. All eyes are on the pole position because Max Becker barely squeaked out that first spot over Hsuki Morishita. Can Morishita fight Becker back? Has Max Becker finally loosened up and allowed himself to have some fun on the track?”
Another announcer comes on and discusses Max’s well-known, and very calculated, risk taking while driving. I’ve heard this discussion a thousand times from announcers over the years. Categorize, analyze, and opine.
But Max Becker always surprises everyone.
Sure surprised me a time or two.
