Page 4

FOUR

Blake

THE MOMENT I arrive at the sponsor event, I feel it—the excitement pulsing through the air, the energy flowing through the room. Man, I love it. Everyone is hopeful about their chance at victory. With no points distributed and rivalries from the previous year ignored, we all focus on the current season rather than the last. I smile as I survey the room. After a disastrous season last year, I’m ready to be back. New season, new mindset. I’m going to protect the throne that’s rightfully mine and add another World Championship to my roster. Fuck anyone who tries to take it from me.

The first event of the season is always overly extravagant. Limousines and expensive cars queue up outside the hotel as guests wearing expensive diamonds and luxury watches sip champagne inside the ballroom. It’s the usual crowd of snobby, rich white men looking like penguins in their too-tight tuxedos. They’re trying to relive their youth by living vicariously through us—which means giving us money. Not that I’m complaining. Their money allows me to drive the best car for the best team. It also buys absurdly large ice sculptures.

“Hey, hotshot,” Theo calls out from the bar. “Fancy a bevvy?”

I snake my way through waiters quietly sharing hors d’oeuvres and sidle up next to my driving partner. He’s sipping a Cosmo with no shame, his navy-blue eyes dancing with mischief.

“If it isn’t my favorite Formula 1 fuckboy.” I slap him on the back in greeting. People find it odd that Theo and I are so close. Formula 1 is one of the only sports where your teammate also happens to be your biggest competitor. But the two of us have known each other since we were kids. He’s one persistent motherfucker and wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed to be his friend. We’ve grown up racing together and rather than turn the competition into a bitter rivalry, we use it to push ourselves to become better drivers.

He rubs a hand over his beard-stubbled chin. “I prefer Formula 1 ‘fuckman’ rather than ‘fuckboy.’”

“I’ll consider it once your balls drop,” I tease.

Lucas, an AlphaVite driver, appears on Theo’s other side. His usually shaggy dirty-blond hair is slicked back, the silver rings on his fingers glinting from the crystal chandelier dangling overhead. “Speaking of balls, how was your winter break, Theo?”

Theo had been spotted getting lovey-dovey with a famous model in Cannes, only to be seen making out with an up-and-coming movie star in Paris a few days later. An ugly social media war had started between the girls, rivaling an episode of reality TV. He found the entire situation amusing.

After the end of last season, I’d forced myself into hibernation, meaning I hadn’t joined the off-season party circuit with my friends. I’d needed time to reset and refocus.

“Who cares about that when Blake still hasn’t pointed out who George’s lovely writer is,” Theo says, eyeing the room.

He and Lucas both scan the crowd, pointing out a handful of old, grumpy-looking men. I’ve failed to tell them about Ella. The amount of shit they’re going to give me is not something I’m looking forward to. PlayMedia is the end all be all of everything sports-related in America, and Luc’s an avid listener of Connor Brixton’s Trash Talk and Ella’s Coffee with Champions . He’s the entire reason I even heard her Formula 1 episode.

“I bet it’s that one.” Lucas points to a short and stout bald guy.

“Oh! Good guess.” Theo nods while running a hand through his nut-brown hair. “I love his handlebar mustache. I was thinking it’s the bloke by the door. The lanky one that sort of looks like a green bean?”

“You’re both so wrong,” I grumble resignedly.

Scanning the room for Ella, I find her easily. She’s quite impossible to miss; I’m surprised I’m just now noticing her.

“Wait.” Theo chokes, placing his pink drink on the bar. “She’s the journalist?”

I give a short nod, unable to take my eyes off her. She looks absolutely stunning in a floor-length black dress with her dark brown hair falling in loose waves down her back. The outfit she wore to our meeting the other day hid the fact that she’s got a great body with curves in all the right places. It’s one I wouldn’t mind having naked underneath mine. She’s the perfect combination of sweet and sultry, and it seems like I’m not the only one who’s noticing.

She’s deep in conversation with Josie. It’s no surprise that Josie’s taken Ella under her wing. She’s been with McAllister for a few years and knows everybody and everything. I like Josie. We’re not the best of friends, but we’re friendly enough. Theo’s tried getting with her, but she’s loyal to her boyfriend, Andrew. One of my favorite pastimes is watching her shut my driving partner down.

“Dude.” Lucas’s jaw drops to the floor, his usual cool, calm, and collected demeanor disappearing. “Do you know who that is?”

“Blake’s writer, duh,” Theo answers with an eye roll. “He just said that, mate. Listen up.”

“That’s Ella Gold … as in the host of the Coffee with Champions podcast.”

I don’t bother mentioning that the podcast is no longer around, so she’s no longer the host.

“The one who said epically hilarious things about Blakey Blake?” Theo nudges my arm. “When the hell were you planning on sharing this with us?”

“Never,” I mumble under my breath. Clearly, that was wishful thinking.

My friends sip their drinks, giving Ella a look I know all too well. Hell no. I momentarily tear my gaze away from her to glare at them. “She’s off-limits, mates.”

Theo tilts his head at me in amusement. “Are you staking a claim?”

I roll my eyes and ignore the question. I don’t do relationships and my friends damn well know this. I’ve been walked away from too many times to think anyone would want to stay, so hit it and quit it tends to be my strategy. I’m more than satisfied. If there’re no expectations, no one gets hurt.

Lucas and Theo aren’t able to pester me for much longer before we’re herded to our respective tables. I’m stuck sitting on the end next to Marion while Ella’s place card seats her between Theo and Andreas, our team principal. I watch from across the table as they talk amongst themselves.

The dinner is just as boring as I remember. The head of the FIA makes a speech, some sponsors talk, and a few team principals make a toast. Shortly after dessert is served, Ella sits in Marion’s now-abandoned seat and greets me with a sexy-assin smile. Her eyes are the color of the caramel apples I used to get with my sister at Camden Market growing up. A swirling mixture of green, brown, and gold.

Apparently, she’s decided to pretend our entire conversation from the other day never happened. George wasn’t fucking around when he said she doesn’t tolerate big egos. I’m more than happy to put that to the test, though.

“Good first night back?” she asks.

“Mm-hmm.” I eye the glass in her hand. “I didn’t peg you for a rum and Coke girl.”

“That’s because I’m not.” She shakes her head as color blooms across her cheeks. “Last time I drank rum, I tried getting into my apartment with my credit card instead of my key.”

A chuckle vibrates through my chest.

“It’s Coke Zero,” she confirms. “I’m more of a Diet Coke girl, but I’ll take what I can get. Since I’m a lightweight and this is my first big event … I figured it’d be best to stick to pop.”

“Pop?”

“Soda. Sorry, Midwest habit. I’ll most likely call your trainers gym shoes at some point, too.” She takes a sip of her drink, the pink lip gloss she’s wearing leaving a mark.

“So,” she says, leaning forward like she’s sharing a secret. “Were you pretending I was the chicken?”

I stare at her with fascinated confusion. Huh? I was definitely looking at breasts, but they were hers, not the chicken’s. From the way her dress accentuates her chest, it looks like she has a great rack. Perky and firm. I wonder if her nipples are classic pink, pale coral, or cherry red.

“You were stabbing at it pretty aggressively,” she explains, thrusting the tumbling hair back from her eyes. “Either no one ever taught you how to properly use a fork and knife or you were using it as a voodoo doll.”

The throaty laugh I release catches me off guard. “No, I wasn’t voodoo-doll-ing the chicken. I’m just not hungry.”

I don’t add that the emergency anti-anxiety meds I took earlier suppressed my appetite. The weight of everyone’s expectations is sitting heavily on my shoulders and I needed something to take the edge off.

Ella plucks the untouched dinner roll from my plate, ripping off a small piece before popping it into her mouth. She doesn’t even bother buttering it.

I blink rapidly. “How do you know I wasn’t saving that for later?”

“Were you?”

“Well, no. But who steals someone’s dinner roll?”

Ella throws her head back in unabashed laughter, the sound wholesome and seductive at the same time. “You just said you weren’t hungry, and it’s hardly called stealing. This isn’t Les Misérables .”

She opens her purse to take out her phone and I can’t help but notice the pepper spray nestled next to her lip gloss. She’s a pretty woman traveling to foreign countries, so it makes sense, but I have insane security who can do a lot more damage than a small canister can.

“Oh, wow, it’s late,” she comments to herself. “I’m going to head up and get some sleep. Jet lag and all of that. See you tomorrow?”

I give a quick nod, not able to stop the mixture of incredulity and exasperation I’m feeling. Don’t really have much of a choice but to see her tomorrow. Her arse looks damn fucking fantastic in her dress as she sashays away, completely unaware of the looks of appreciation it’s garnering. At least I’m looking forward to seeing that tomorrow.

The hour before any Grand Prix is the most hectic. The hour before the first Grand Prix of the season? Absolute fucking mayhem. What people see on TV are the drivers casually rolling onto the grid, ready for the race. They don’t see the behind-the-scenes. Mechanics giving the car last-minute checks, engineers running through strategy, and the media buzzing around, asking annoying questions. The garage is the heart of the entire team and it’s bumbling with everyone running by and shouting in organized chaos.

Sixty minutes: I do a few final stretches and reaction drills, while my team preps the generators and cooling fans for the grid.

Forty minutes: The pit lane opens, and I exit the garage with my mechanics and their equipment. Fans cheer from the stands, the sound like music to my ears. I do a quick installation lap around the track, familiarizing myself with track conditions and noting any last-minute adjustments that’ll have to be made.

Thirty minutes: My engine powers off and I’m pushed to my grid position. I hop out of the cockpit and head to the front of the grid for the formal procedures, as the mechanics on the grid check my car, measuring and monitoring what they can. I calm my rapidly beating heart as Bahrain’s national anthem plays.

Twenty minutes: Josie and the rest of McAllister’s marketing team run around my car, snapping photos that I’m sure I’ll see on McAllister’s social media accounts later today. Journalists circle my car like vultures, asking questions I’m able to ignore thanks to my headphones.

Fifteen minutes: I get back into my car, my gloved hands resting steadily on the steering wheel. A sense of calm envelops me. Nowhere else in the world do I feel like I’m most myself.

Ten minutes: Everyone but the drivers, start crews, and FIA officials leaves the grid. My chest expands, a lightness fluttering through me.

Seven minutes: My team performs their last-minute checks before removing the tire blankets and lowering my car from its stand.

Five minutes: Personnel and staff exit the grid, leaving just the twenty drivers—my competition, my friends, my enemies. My whole world is condensed into one two-hour circuit.

Three minutes: We take our formation lap, trying to simultaneously warm our brakes and tires while cooling our engines. I perform a bite point find to help with my clutch control before driving into the grid again. I’m upfront in pole position, where I belong.

One minute: The five red light start sequence is initiated. The first light on the starting gantry flicks on. Let the countdown begin. The race engineers buzz in the radio attached to my ear. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.

Forty-five seconds: Another light goes on. The excitement of the crowd drowns out the sound of my engine.

Thirty seconds: Three lights now illuminate the starting gantry. My helmet obscures the smile radiating on my face. I’m ready to go.

Fifteen seconds: The fourth light turns on. I can’t tell if it’s me or my car vibrating with energy.

Ten seconds: I hyper-focus on the track ahead of me as the fifth and final light switches on.

Five seconds: The calm before the storm. My fingers drum against the wheel. A burst of anxious energy appears just as quickly as it dissolves.

Zero seconds: All five lights extinguish, signaling the start of the race. It’s go time, baby. I’m ready to remind the world who I am and what I’m capable of.