Page 2

TWO

Blake

MY ANGER MANIFESTS itself in one of two ways. I either lose my temper and yell at people or stay so quiet that they’re uncomfortably on edge. Right now, it’s the latter. I can see the silence wrapping around Keith and George like a scratchy blanket. I’d feel bad, but I’m certain if I talk, one of them will leave this meeting with a black eye.

“Keith tells me you’re not happy with my co-author,” George finally says, sipping his cappuccino calmly. “What are your concerns, mate?”

“This has to be some sort of a joke, right?” The sharpness of my voice leaves no room for questions. “You didn’t seriously hire her.”

My anger doesn’t seem to shake George. Instead, he seems rather amused. He takes another sip of his coffee, his cool gaze meeting my fiery one. I want to take the mug out of his hand and break it into a million fucking pieces.

“Need I remind you of George’s contract?” my manager interjects. “He can employ whomever he pleases to help him given the tight deadline.”

“I’ve read the damn thing,” I argue. Well, my lawyer has, but semantics. “My team has to approve anyone he hires at least two months in advance.”

“Ella was vetted and approved back in December, Blake,” Keith confirms. “You just refused to have a conversation regarding the book until now.”

“She questioned my abilities as a driver and then said it’s no wonder my head’s not in the game on the track since I’m too busy getting head off the track,” I snap. “Did you think I’d be happy about that? What experience does she have besides a stupid podcast? How is she even remotely qualified to write a biography? Do we even know if she’s literate? This is bloody ridiculous. I’m not spending the season with her, so you need to find someone else.”

“Nope,” Keith says, shaking his head at me. “Don’t try to sabotage this. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if it weren’t for your manic desire to kill your career.”

“I didn’t ruin my career.” I narrow my eyes at him. I’m aware I wasn’t on my best behavior last year, on or off the track. “I’m still signed with McAllister and all my sponsors. Plus, even bad press is good press, right?”

“Bad press? Blake, you partied so much you don’t remember throwing hotel furniture into a pool. The paparazzi caught you screwing a chick, who may have been a call girl might I add, in the back seat of a limo. That’s not bad press, that’s just fucking bad .” Keith’s thin lips purse into a straight line, brows furrowing together. He always does this when he’s exasperated, and it looks like two angry caterpillars moving across his face. “You may still have your contracts in place, but don’t pretend like they didn’t warn you to clean up your act this season or you’re out. You don’t think Thompson would jump at the chance to take your spot?”

“Listen, Blake,” George cuts in before I can respond. “No one’s out to get you. We’re doing this biography to remind the world and your team why you’re the best and why they’re lucky to have you racing and representing them. You know if I didn’t have other commitments, I’d be the one spending the season with you, but I’d need help regardless. We’re doing everything from A to Z in twelve months. It’s all hands on deck, and that includes Ella.”

I’ve known George since my early days of karting. He’s one of the only journalists I actually like. He’s respectful and doesn’t ask ignorant questions just to get a rise out of me. We’ve grown close over the years and rather than write about what a mess I was last year, he showed up at my house uninvited to see what he could do to help. If I didn’t trust George, and if it wasn’t him working on this project, there’s no way this book would be happening.

“She said Formula 1 must’ve required me to get a special license to behave so idiotically,” I remind them.

Keith looks down at his Rolex. It was my apology gift after last year. “Are you done with your temper tantrum?”

I clench my jaw and nod, wanting to know why the bloody hell they hired her more than I want to yell.

“She’s qualified, Blake,” George says. “And she’s good. Really good. Ella’s the type of person you want helping us.”

He pulls out a folder and slides it across the table. I warily open it to find Ella’s résumé inside. Taking it out, I lean back in my chair and start reading. Ella Gold. From Chicago, lives in New York City. Well, lives until she follows me around like a damn mosquito. Graduated summa cum laude with a bachelor’s degree in Journalism and then went on to get her master’s. Interned at the Big Ten Network and The New Yorker . Worked as a sportswriter and podcast host at PlayMedia, a digital sport, entertainment, and media brand, until late last year.

George even printed out some of her work for me to look at. He clearly came prepared. Wanker. Her interview with Olympian swimmer Lilly King is annoyingly fantastic. Her story on Rafael Nadal losing to Novak Djokovic in the 2021 French Open Semifinal is even more annoyingly fantastic. And her article on my Monaco Grand Prix win from a few years back is just obnoxiously fucking fantastic. Objectively and subjectively. Shit, shit, shit.

“Why her?” The articles sit in front of me, each one of them read. “There’s a long list of other experienced journalists and writers who haven’t talked shit about me.”

Keith stares at me like I’m crazy. Fine. The list isn’t that long; it’s rather short.

“You trust me, right? That’s why we decided to work together on this?” George tilts his head, daring me to disagree. “So then trust me when I say she’s the right person for the job.”

I take a deep breath to control my frustration. “How do you even know her?”

“She studied abroad for a semester when I was guest lecturing. She was in my class—Advanced Issues in 21st-Century Sports and Media. We’ve kept in touch, and I knew she’d be perfect for this.”

“She said I treated the Baku circuit like a game of Mario Kart last year.”

“She’s not wrong.” He lets out a long, low chuckle. “You drove like a maniac.”

I flip him the bird. He’s right and I hate being wrong.

“Give her a chance, Blake. She’s a brilliant writer and one of the only people I think can put up with your smart ass for an entire season.” He gives me a pointed look.

I push my thumbs into my temples, trying to relieve the tension headache this conversation’s giving me. “I don’t like this. Not one bit.” I hate how whiney I sound. Like my nephew when I tell him it’s bedtime, but he’s not finished playing with his action figures.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like having to clean up your mess.” Keith shrugs. “Get over it.”

An incoming call from my sister interrupts my manager’s next rant. She’s the one person I’ll drop everything for and they both know this. I excuse myself from the room to take the call.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite sister,” I answer.

“If it isn’t my favorite brother.” Neither of us has much competition considering we’re each other’s only family, but the familiar greeting makes me smile. “So … the season’s starting soon.”

“Really?” Sarcasm drips from my voice. “I would’ve never guessed. Great reminder, Ashley.”

She sighs through the phone, making her annoyance clear. “Don’t be a jerk.”

I can’t help but chuckle at my niece’s small voice shouting in the background that jerk is a bad word. A very bad word according to Millie.

“Sorry. I’m just tired and pissy about the biography.”

“I’m excited about it,” she says. “It’ll let people get to know the real Blake instead of the A-R-S-E you make yourself out to be.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I don’t bother mentioning that my problem with the biography is that I don’t want people to get to know the real me.

“How do you feel?” she asks. “And don’t say fine because that’s what you said last year and then you got penalized after purposefully causing a crash, Blake.”

It wasn’t on purpose; I was just trying to sneak past Harry Thompson and it backfired. Horrendously. “We’re not getting into this again, Ash.”

She doesn’t push me any further, no doubt to avoid World War III. I’ve been a ticking time bomb this past year, known to blow up at the slightest comment. God knows she got hit with enough shrapnel. It turns out mixing antidepressants and loads of alcohol isn’t a great idea. Who knew?

“Did Finn and Millie get my postcard?” I ask, my voice softening. My niece and nephew love getting snail mail and I try to send some as often as possible, even when we’re in the same city. The last one I sent had their favorite cartoon pig eating a macaron in front of Big Ben.

“Yep! They just sent you back a hand-drawn card. It’s very … unique.”

I snort at the descriptor. Unique is a nice way to describe their artistic abilities. Finn’s triangles will put his future Geometry teacher into cardiac arrest, and Millie exclusively uses orange because she “feels bad it has to share a name with fruit.” My sister’s an interior decorator, but her penchant for color-coordination and clean lines hasn’t manifested in her children.

“Finn tried to draw you two juggling at the circus, but it looks more like”—she cuts herself off with a laugh—“you know what? I’m not going to ruin the surprise. You’ll know exactly what I mean when you see it.”

“I’ll be on the lookout for it,” I tell her with a small grin. “I have to get back to my meeting, but I’ll come over for dinner soon, okay? Tell everyone I say hello.”

“Dinner sounds lovely,” she replies. “Be safe, okay?”

I mumble goodbye before sinking against the wall. If it could just swallow me and spit me out into the depths of hell, that’d be greatly appreciated. This season is make it or break it, and right now I can’t afford to break down. If I’ve learned anything from last season, it’s that I need to do a better job keeping my emotions in check and off the track.