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“It wasn’t supposed to make you feel better,” Amanda says.

She sounds amused. This session is actually going a little better so far. She asked me about my family when I first sat down,

and it was much easier to complain about them than to talk about Travis. But now we’re back on the topic. Travis, and racing,

and how I feel about it all.

“What was it supposed to do, then?” I say tetchily.

“It was supposed to make you reflect on your relationship with him, and how you feel seeing him win the championship without

you.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” I say. “I’ve reflected, and I feel shitty. What’s next?”

She chuckles. “This isn’t a checklist, Jacob. Therapy isn’t like a video game, where you beat all the levels until you win.”

“Good lord.” I roll my eyes. “Did you make that shit up yourself?”

“Oh, no,” she says. “I got it from my Therapy For Dummies textbook.”

I snort out a surprised laugh. Amanda’s eyes crinkle in amusement.

“Now, then,” she says. “Let’s do another thought experiment. Tell me, in a perfect world, what would you want your life to

look like?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you had a magic wand, and you could have anything you wanted, what would your life look like? Give it a try. There

are no wrong answers.”

I roll my eyes again. “Okay. I’m a billionaire, and an F1 driver, and I’ve won, like, ten championships in a row. And teleportation

is a thing, I guess. Because flying is stupid.”

She laughs. “What else?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” I cast my mind around. “It’s never cold except at Christmas. But it’s not crazy hot, either. It’s

just, like, fall all the time.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and I have a dog.”

“Alright.” She taps her pen. “Anything else? Maybe sticking closer to the realms of reality, this time?”

“You should’ve said that in the first place.”

She chuckles. “Go on.”

“I don’t know.” I look at my hands. “I wouldn’t have been in that crash, I guess.”

“That’s not within the realms of reality,” she points out.

“Ah. Right.”

She studies me. “Keep trying. Think about what you want, Jacob. That’s all I’m really asking.”

I hesitate. It should be such an easy question. I’m not sure why it’s so hard to answer.

“I don’t want to live with my parents anymore,” I say finally. That’s true.

“Okay.”

“I want a dog.” Also true.

“As you should.”

“And I do want to be in F1.” I let out a humorless breath. “But I guess that’s outside of the realms of reality.”

She frowns. “Why?”

I fight a stab of frustration. “Look, I know you mean well—believe in my dreams and all that—but that’s not how F1 works.

My old F2 team already replaced me with a seventeen-year-old.”

“Then find another team.”

“It’s not—that’s not how it works. They’re the only team that can take me back. I had a contract with them. I still do, technically.

It doesn’t expire until next year.”

“So, ask them to release you from your contract. Hire a lawyer if you need to.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Impatience creeps into her voice. She leans forward, putting her notepad onto her knees. “I deal with two types

of people in this work, Jacob. People who are unhappy because they don’t know what they want, and people who are unhappy because

they do know what they want but they won’t let themselves go after it. You know where you want to be. You’re just making excuses

because you’re afraid of failing.”

I hesitate. She’s never spoken to me like this before, firm and direct. I feel like I’ve been thrown off balance. “Aren’t

you supposed to, like, make me realize that on my own through your weird thought experiments and annoying questions?”

“If we had years to do this, yes. But you just told me yourself—your sport moves on quickly. You can’t afford to spend a year wallowing in misery, afraid to try, afraid of failing.

Get through your rehab. Find a new team.

Go to a lower league if you need to. There must be something below F2. F2-and-a-half, perhaps.”

I crack a grudging smile. “F3.”

“F3,” she agrees. “Go there if you need to. Hell, go to F10 if you need to. Work your way back up.”

“There’s no such thing as F10.”

She holds my gaze. “Look, Jacob. Last time, we did reverse psychology. This week, it’s time for another classic. Tough love.

The biggest obstacle between you and the things you want isn’t your injuries, or your parents, or a contract. It’s your own

attitude and lack of motivation.”

I let out a harsh, disbelieving breath. “You think I’m not motivated?”

“Yes,” she says evenly. “I do.”

I stare at her for a minute, fury and defiance burning hot in my chest. But when I open my mouth to argue, she interrupts.

“Am I wrong?” No longer impatient. Just a question.

I hesitate. Then, slowly, I shake my head.

She’s not wrong.

“If you want something,” she says, “and it’s within the realms of reality that you can get it, then you need to do something

about it. Right?”

I swallow and say, in a small voice, “Yes.”

“Yes?”

I clear my throat and try again. “Yes.”

“Good.” She leans back, and it feels like the tension has snapped, as if she was holding me on a string and suddenly cut it.

I let out a shaky breath. “That was impressive,” I admit. “Much better than the video game line.”

She smiles. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

I would laugh, if I didn’t feel so off-balance. “So... what do I do next?”

She shrugs. “How would I know? I don’t know anything about motorsport. I told you to go back to F10.”

I snort. “Fair enough.”

“You’ve got about fifteen minutes, this time,” she says, rising to her feet. “I’m going to make a cup of tea while you think

on your next steps.”

“You’re really milking this tea break thing,” I say.

She smiles, and the door swings shut behind her. I’m left alone with her words circling around and around my mind, like a

horse on one of those carousel rides.

If you want something, and it’s within the realms of reality that you can get it, then you need to do something about it.

“Want some more coffee, love?” my mom asks.

I look up from my computer. “Sure. Thanks.”

She puts her hand on the back of my head. I don’t pull away, even though I want to. I hate it when she does that, like she

thinks I’m five years old. It didn’t use to bother me, before the crash. Or maybe I just didn’t notice, because I saw her

so infrequently.

“What are you working on so early?” she asks.

“Just... writing an e-mail to Porteo.” That’s the name of my old team.

She looks alarmed. “Why? Did they reach out to you?”

“No. I just thought I would let them know I was getting better. They wanted me to stay in touch.”

“Didn’t they hire someone to replace you already?”

“Yes,” I say stiffly.

“Well, okay,” she says warily. “I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

“It’s just an e-mail,” I mutter.

She touches my head again, and this time I do lean away. Her words are like poison, seeping into my skin and making me rethink

this whole idea. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this e-mail idea is stupid.

But then I hear Amanda’s voice in my head, talking about my attitude and motivation.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I say through my teeth. “I’m just going to get back to this.”

It’s about as polite a dismissal as I can manage. My mother sighs heavily, but after a moment, she wanders off. I take a sip

of coffee and refocus on my e-mail. I’m trying to find the right tone, somewhere between apology and self-defense. I stare

at it for about ten minutes and then delete all the self-defense. The team boss, Carl, is a bit of a hard-ass. He won’t want

to hear my excuses.

A few hours and a hundred drafts later, I hit Send, then I slam my computer shut and drive to the gym. I get on the treadmill

and tell myself I’m not going to look at my e-mail again until after dinner.

I last about an hour before I open my e-mail on my phone. I’m not expecting anything. Carl is a busy guy, he’s not going to

be sitting around checking his e-mail.

But there is something.

My fingers go numb as I click on it. As I read it, my stomach sinks lower and lower.

To be fair, he isn’t a dick about it. He says he appreciates my reaching out. He admires my dedication to motorsport. He hopes

my recovery continues to go well. But, no. There isn’t a place for me on the team right now.

I’d offered to come back in any capacity, even as a reserve, but he doesn’t even acknowledge that. And at the end is the worst part—a polite note that he’ll connect me with the team lawyer to arrange a release from my contract.

My heart twists painfully. If he thought I had a chance of getting back in F2, he wouldn’t be offering to release me. The

fact that he is... it means he knows I don’t have a chance at any other team.

My hand drops heavily to my side. I’m trying to stay positive, but there’s a painful lump in my throat.

Fuck.

Somehow I get back on the treadmill, just to have something to do, and I end up walking another five miles, staring off at

the wall, trying to feel nothing. My physiotherapist is going to tell me I pushed myself too hard, but I’ll deal with that

tomorrow.

I go home and shower and stare at my reflection in the mirror, and I say it out loud. “Porteo doesn’t want me back.”

Then I crawl into bed and have a stupid cry in the dark.

In the morning, I make a list of all the other F2 teams, and start hunting for contact information.