Page 5

FIVE

Ella

IT’S ONLY the first Grand Prix of the season, but I’m already addicted to the visceral feeling it elicits. The hum of the cars, the vibration as they whiz by, the cheers from the fans, the smell of burning rubber and fuel. It’s a high I imagine no recreational drug can ever compare to. It’s mesmerizing, the cars shooting by in a technicolor blur.

I stand in the garage with the pit crew to watch the race. Mechanics don their helmets, armored with their tools, ready for any emergency pit stop. Guests crowd toward the TV in the back, fighting for the best view. Most of the action is in the midfield where the drivers battle it out to secure points for their teams, but everyone in the garage is focused on the McAllister men.

The reckless driver from last season is gone and forgotten, replaced by the Blake Hollis fans scream over and sponsors fight for. He’s devastatingly fast. His charming smile and devilishly handsome good looks are an easy distraction, but he’s a cold-blooded killer. All of these drivers are impressive, but there can only be one winner, and Blake’s talent speaks for itself.

Blake keeps his lead for the first thirty laps. Theo’s not far behind him, with Everest’s Harry Thompson and AlphaVite’s Lucas Adler close behind them, aiming for a top position. The pendulum swung back and forth between Harry and Blake last year, and a win for Blake will hopefully set the tone for the season. The thick anticipation in the garage prohibits much conversation besides the occasional cheer or curse. The 191.5 miles leave room for a lot to happen and no one wants to jinx anything.

Blake takes a pit stop at lap thirty-six. Holy shit. I’ve never seen something happen so quickly in my life. Before I can even take a step forward, he’s zooming back out of the pit lane, new tires fitted and ready for the second half of the race. Two point four seconds … it took the crew two point four seconds to change his tires. Want to know what I can do in that time? Nothing. Literally nothing. I can’t even say my full name in that time frame.

The sixty-four laps end with Blake securing his first win of the season. Everyone in the garage storms out to the fences, shouting and whooping as Blake hops out of his car. It’s the boost of confidence McAllister’s brooding Brit needs. Soon enough, the drivers are back in the garage, elated grins lighting up their faces.

Theo takes off his helmet and shakes his head, beads of sweat flying at me. Gross . Although Blake’s been tactfully ignoring me, Theo’s been more than happy to step in. He’s been my personal Formula 1 tour guide for the past few days. He’s shown me around the motorhome, given me pointers on who’ll be most helpful with the book, and let me ask him questions about his car. I like him a lot. He’s got major golden retriever vibes—friendly, high-energy, and always running around. It doesn’t hurt that he’s extremely handsome.

“Impressed by my skills?” Theo winks at me.

“Never doubted I would be.” I take a step back to avoid more sweat hitting me. “Third place is a podium win. Ain’t too shabby, my friend.”

“Oof.” He stumbles back as if stabbed in the heart. “Just a friend, babe?”

Blake overhears us as he walks past and slaps his friend on the back of the head.

“Winning first isn’t shabby either, Blakey boy.” Theo turns to me with a sheepish look on his face. I’m sure Blake’s given him an earful about me being here. “He’s not usually such a wanker.”

I shrug, pretending I don’t care. Blake may not want me interviewing him, but he can’t avoid the journalists at the post-race press conference. It’s the first one of the season, so I have no doubt I should be there taking notes.

I’m looking for an open chair when I spy Josie. I climb over lots of knees and feet before sliding into the empty chair next to her.

Her dark brown eyes shoot me a knowing look. “How’s Blake been? Any better?”

“Let’s just say I’ve made no progress whatsoever.”

She sighs sympathetically. “Imagine trying to get him to sit down for a YouTube Q and A. My new personal hell. He’s so crabby sometimes.”

“I’m sure press conferences aren’t much better.”

I nod toward Blake, who is not so subtly pretending Harry, who placed second, isn’t next to him at the long table at the front of the room. The two racers’ rivalry is well-known and almost came to blows last season. I talked about it in great depth on my podcast last year. I don’t think Blake dislikes Harry as a person; I just think he hates that Harry was there to pick up the pieces when he struggled. Now there are two Brits competing on two of the best teams—one veteran with a sultry smirk, one newbie with a sweet smile.

Josie starts singing “Macho Man” by the Village People. I’ve learned that she loves incorporating song lyrics in place of actual sentences. Blake briefly glances in my direction, a slight frown appearing when he notices me. I bet if I asked him what superpower he wants, he would say teleportation. That way he could send my ass back to New York.

The press conference starts off with all the usual questions.

How do you feel about the race?

Were you confident in your starting grid position?

Were you surprised by the pace of any of the drivers?

How does it feel to be back?

I’m starting to zone out just as a reporter asks, “Thompson, how does it feel to place podium during the first race of the season? You made your mark last year with some solid wins over who some are calling your biggest competition. Do you think this is a precursor to what the rest of the season will look like?”

Now I’m on high alert. Harry chuckles and rubs a hand over his chin. He’s twenty-three years old, but his clean-shaven appearance makes him look even younger.

“Well, I’m not sure I’d say Hollis is my biggest competition. I’d like to think I’m my own biggest competitor. But it’s only the first race of a long season, so we’ll see what happens.”

I mentally applaud him on his neutral answer.

“Blake,” a different reporter asks. “Last season you said Harry was, and I’m quoting you here, ‘a low-budget knock-off version’ of you with ‘driving skills equivalent to a senior citizen at night after a glass of wine.’ Do you still feel the same?”

I cough to cover up a laugh. His comment may be rude, but it’s kind of funny.

“I’m way better looking than Thompson, so I doubt I would’ve compared us.” Blake grins at the reporter before taking a sip of his water. “And Theo’s nan just passed her driver’s test at the age of ninety … not much of an insult.”

His deep voice and British accent are quite the panty-dropping combination. I accidentally lick my lips. Although his answer is a complete non-answer, it’s much better than anyone was expecting. Given his change in demeanor from last season’s press conferences, it’s clear he’s been through some extensive media training in the past few months. Good job, Marion. I’m pleasantly surprised by his carefree tone and relaxed smile. Now, if only he would act that way toward me.

I GAVE Blake his space during Bahrain, but we’re in Australia at Grand Prix number two and he’s still avoiding me like I’m the flu and he’s unvaccinated. Blake is the founder, president, and most active member of the Go Fuck Yourself, Ella Club. I feel like I’m going to have to Guantanamo Bay him in order to get him to talk. I’ve never waterboarded someone before, but if it comes to that … I plead the fifth. He’s almost thirty, yet his emotional intelligence is closer to that of a three-year-old. This shouldn’t surprise me, but it annoyingly still does. I don’t think men exist. They’re all boys.

I’ve had other people to interview—mechanics, engineers, the marketing team—but Blake’s going to have to sit down with me sometime soon. He can’t keep dodging me forever. I’ve got a book to write and he’s got an image that needs rehab.

The days leading up to the race, I follow him from a safe distance. He barely has a second to himself. The team arrives on Thursday to settle in and attend the first sponsor event of the weekend. Fridays are filled with practice and technical debriefs where the team evaluates the setup of the car and its performance. Saturday is more practice and then a warm-up before qualifying the car. It’s a stressful day because if Blake makes a single mistake or suffers a mechanical issue during his qualifying lap, he can find himself starting the race from the back of the grid. If he lands in one of the top three positions, he attends a special press conference and then attends more debriefs, more press conferences, and another sponsor event. And this is all before the actual race day.

I spend the night before the Grand Prix tossing and turning. I give up on falling back asleep and scroll on my phone until my alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. I’ve been trying to work out every morning to give my days some structure. My therapist suggested I find an activity that lets me feel in control; I chose exercise. It’s become an outlet for me. An added perk is that the stronger I get, the more capable I feel of defending myself.

I’m allowed to use McAllister’s facilities as long as I’m not obstructing or distracting the drivers. Turns out, I’m not the problem this morning, Blake is. He’s working out with Sam, his performance coach, at the other end of the gym. I didn’t realize I purchased tickets to a gun show this morning, but there Blake is, showing off his arms like the weapons they are.

Can there be a rule about the drivers distracting others in the gym? How does he manage to make sweat look hot? His gray shirt is drenched and it’s making me warm even though I haven’t started my workout. There’s no way I’m going on the treadmill while Blake is five feet away from me. I don’t want him to think I’m following him around before his day even starts. Neither of them notices me, so I sneak over to a mat behind the free weights. Looks like today’s going to be a light day.

My spot has a great vantage point because I can see and hear them without being spotted. And you bet your ass I turn the volume down on my earbuds to listen to what they’re saying. Blake seems at ease, which is nice to see. Sam’s been part of Blake’s teams for years. It’s his job to make sure Blake’s in the best place mentally and physically to perform at his peak. It looks like last year didn’t scare him off because he’s still Blake’s right-hand man.

I attempt some leg exercises and crunches, making sure anything I do keeps me hidden below the height of the weights. I’m not looking my best thanks to a rough night of sleep. I have bags under my eyes, and they definitely aren’t designer. Oscar de la Renta? More like Old Navy.

I’m resting on my back, sprawled out like a starfish, giving myself a minute of rest in between sets, when a shadow crosses over my face. I glance up to find Blake hovering over me. My body freezes. Not because I’m scared, but because I can see directly up his shorts. Thankfully, he’s wearing compression shorts, but I really can’t handle the view this early in the morning … or probably ever.

Blake tilts his head as if trying to figure out if I’m doing some new yoga stretch before asking, “Why are you here?”

I roll my eyes. “To knit a blanket. Obviously.”

What the hell else does one do in a gym? His eyes stay trained on me as I readjust so I’m sitting cross-legged. Feeling unnerved by his stare, I blurt out, “Why did the cheeseburger get a gym membership?”

Really, Ella? A dad joke?

I wait for him to answer, which he soon does. “Um … why?”

“To get bigger buns.”

I’m about ready to knock myself out with a dumbbell so I don’t have to die from embarrassment when Blake lets out a low chuckle. The sound reverberates off the gym walls and sends goose bumps up my arms. Definitely blaming my hardened nipples on the air conditioning and not his laugh.

“Hey, Ella!” Sam positions himself next to Blake and shoots me a friendly wink. “We’re about to grab breakfast if you want to join us. If you’re done working out, that is.”

I hop up with ease. The hopeful look I give Blake goes unnoticed, but I don’t care. Breakfast with him is the most progress I’ve made. He’s quiet the entire walk to the motorhome. I can see the muscles in his neck ticking in irritation. It’s clear he’s not happy I’m crashing their breakfast. Too bad, so sad. He’s going to be a lot unhappier when I eat at the pace of a snail to drag out our time together.

Chef Albie claps his hands together as he notices me behind Blake. “Ella! I can’t believe you’re back after I almost killed you yesterday morning.”

I’d tried Albie’s French toast and he put so much maple syrup and powdered sugar on it that I almost choked to death. Blake’s eyebrows rise in surprise at our familiarity.

“It still tasted better than anything I could ever make,” I reassure him.

Albie nods at Blake. “She’s a good taste tester.”

Thank you for the vote of approval, Chef. He fills my plate with every carb imaginable. It’s stacked with potatoes, a new and improved French toast, a croissant, a crepe filled with Nutella and strawberries, and a breakfast burrito. I can eat maybe a third of this. His eyes are definitely bigger than my stomach.

Blake slyly eyes my croissant as we situate ourselves at a small table in the front of the motorhome.

“Want some?” Half lands on his plate before he can respond. “If anyone needs to carb up, it’s you, not me. I don’t think my crunches even burned a sesame seed.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, the walk over here probably burned off a few poppy seeds, at least.”

The man makes jokes!

Sam spends the entirety of breakfast asking me about what I’ve been up to. I know via Blake’s calendar that all he’s done is spend time at the McAllister team HQ in London, using the simulator to prepare for this weekend. I spent the week in London as well, but George went with Blake to talk to the team so I could explore my new home base. Josie doesn’t live too far away and was more than happy to show me around. I swear it’s like someone shoved a battery up her ass. The girl does not run out of energy.

Blake seems floored to learn I’ve been here since Monday considering he only flew in yesterday afternoon.

“I’ve been spending time with the pit wall engineers,” I explain coolly. “I figure that until you decide I’m not public enemy number one and actually let me do my job, I may as well get to know the rest of the team.”

Sam nearly chokes on the eggs he’s shoveling into his mouth. Blake doesn’t seem to appreciate me calling him out based on the way his nostrils flare. Whatever . If he takes the time to get to know me, he’ll quickly learn I don’t back down easily. I’ve interviewed some of the douchiest sports players and worked in a boy’s club culture for the past four years. His attitude is nothing I haven’t dealt with before.

“I don’t think you’re public enemy number one,” he huffs, his voice quiet and tense.

“Blake.” I raise my eyebrows. “If your looks could kill, I’d be dead already.”

I focus on cutting my crepe, not bothering to watch his reaction. I have a feeling it involves an icy glare.

“I just don’t like people digging into my life.”

“Well”—I sigh—“you probably shouldn’t have agreed to partake in the book then.”

His brown eyes narrow to slits while his lips form a hard, thin line. A brilliant idea suddenly hits me. I’m trying not to bounce in my seat with excitement, but I can’t help it. I’ve never been great at hiding my emotions. There’s a reason I’m not an actress.

“How do you feel about a little wager?”

His forehead puckers in thought. “Depends on what it is.”

“You place podium later today,” I offer before revising my idea. “No, scratch that. You place P1, and you can interview me instead. If you place anything but P1, I get to ask you anything I want.”

The intrigued look in his eyes lets me know he’s in. He’s going to try to place podium regardless of this bet and we both know it, but I also knew he wouldn’t back down from a challenge. When’s he going to learn that neither will I?