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“This was why,” Donnie replies gruffly.
He tries to block them from my path but there are too many. I shake my head, trying not to make eye contact, trying not to listen to any of the individual questions because I know they’ll be too upsetting. But it’s impossible.
They know. They know about me and Max.
“No questions,” Donnie shouts, and I wonder if Max told him to say that. Probably I should be grateful, but all I feel is ashamed.
They don’t stop screaming into my face, and by the time we run inside, my nerves are frayed and I feel raw, violated, even. I slip into the little office alone and shut the door, gasping for breath. The echo of the probing questions ring in my brain, and it’s as if I can’t get the looping sounds to stop.
When did you and Max Becker start sleeping together?
Does your father approve of your sexual relationship with Max, his driver?
Doesn’t Max have a potential sexual harassment claim against you because you’re his boss?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
MAX
Days before every Formula World race, drivers and engineers from each team participate in a time-honored ritual.
The track walk.
Sometimes this happens on Wednesday, the day before practice. Other races, like this one in Montreal, the track walk happens on Thursday morning, prior to practice. For the seasoned drivers like me, it’s optional, but for the younger drivers, it’s essential.
Walking the track is a way to get to know the circuit. See if anything’s changed since last year. Look at the curbs and judge in our minds how our cars—and our driving—will fare. It’s also a chance for the team social media crew to get photos and videos of us scrutinizing every millimeter of the track, and fans believe that we’re doing this to look for any possible advantage on race day, however small.
Mostly, though, the track walk is tradition. For me, it’s superstition. I could shrug off, having won here in Montreal four times in my career. God knows I have a ton to do, from charity appearances here in the city, to autographs, to a session with my physical therapist.
But I enjoy the walk, and today with Esteban, Jack, and a few other engineers, is no different. We’re gathered to walk around the 4.361 kilometer circuit—that’s just over 2.7 miles—in drizzly, cool weather. Lucas stays behind because he’s not part of the technical team.
The four of us are bundled in black Team Onassis windbreakers, and Esteban and I are wearing knit caps. It’s that chilly out here, and neither of us want to risk getting a cold.
As we leave the garage our group of engineers protectively form a circle around Esteban and me—this is also the day when fans with weeklong, VIP tickets can stroll around pit lane. We don’t need to be distracted or delayed by people seeking photos or autographs.
A few people slip through, though, so Esteban and I pause to accommodate them. Both of us are big softies when it comes to that, never turning down a request if we don’t have to.
Finally, we’re out on the asphalt of the track, walking briskly. The Circuit Gilles Villeneuve is one of my favorite tracks in the world, actually. While I love Monaco for the glamour and street racing, and Singapore for the night circuit, the Montreal track is unique because it’s set in an actual park, one that’s normally open to the public, except on race week. It’s situated on an actual island in the St. Lawrence River, but also a quick subway ride to the heart of downtown.
We set out in the soft rain. Jack and I spread out from the others, and several hundred yards ahead I see another team doing the same thing we are.
I couldn’t get enough of this track. I wanted to soak it all in. That was the joy of the track walk, seeing the course in its pristine state, without fans, without engines. It’s me and the asphalt, and it always feels like I’m soaking up the energy of the track with every step I take.
“How were your few days off?” Jack interrupts my reverie with a hesitant tone, then clears his throat. “I saw the photos of Lily at the hospital.”
I keep walking, my hands stuffed in the pockets of my jeans.
“She’s doing much better. The doctor said she’s got quite an allergy to those plants,” I say in a clipped tone, hoping he won’t ask more questions.
“Mate, let me give you a piece of advice,” he says.
I glower at him. He’s going to warn me about Lily’s father, the man who signs my paycheck. Surely Jack understands that since I’m at the peak of my career, I’m practically untouchable.
“No woman is worth your career. You’ve still got years ahead of you in this sport.”
I remain silent, mulling this advice over. Do I have years left? At twenty-eight I’m nearing the twilight of my racing career. Sure, other guys have stayed in until their midthirties and early forties. But the reality is, this is a young man’s sport, and the injuries I’ve sustained are bound to slow me down at some point.
As we walk, I think about all the times I’ve raced on this track. It’s always been good to me—great, actually. I’ve won four of the seven races I’ve been in here. The first, when I was only twenty-two, was my first podium. I’d come in third, and that was when I was dating Lily.
