Page 9

NINE

LUCAS

As the cold, bubbly splash hits me square in the face, I startle back. You’ve got to be joking .

I enjoy a glass of sparkling wine as much as the next guy, but I prefer sipping it from a glass over wiping it from my eyes and nose. The top three finishers pop bottles and spray fans and one another—it’s all part of the podium ceremony—but usually, we don’t aim for the face. Unless you’re Theo, who always claims it’s “an accident.”

“Aw, shite, man,” Cooper says, his Scottish accent peeking through. “Sorry about that. I swear I’ve opened one of these things before, but the adrenaline’s making my hands shake.”

“No worries, man.” I use my sleeve to wipe the liquid dripping from my face.

Cooper’s second-place finish was well-earned. The Interlagos circuit is full of high-speed straights, technical corners, and steep elevation changes. Add in the rare counterclockwise direction of the course, and it’s one hell of a challenge. And since it’s his first time on the podium as a Formula 1 driver, I understand his overzealousness with the champagne. Though a first-place finish never gets any less exciting—and I’m buzzing about my win today—we learn to contain the exhilaration it brings to avoid coming across as cocky.

Theo barks out a laugh at my wine-soaked face as he waves his bottle around like it’s a water gun. It’s better than the last race, when he held the bottle in front of his crotch, making it look like he was pissing sparkling wine. He’s an idiot, but it’s impossible not to love him.

The rest of the podium ceremony passes without incident, and soon we’re ushered into a room adjacent to the stage. The space is cool, thank fuck. Racing in this heat means my balls are practically glued to my thighs and I have sweat in crevices I didn’t know existed. We get a few minutes to cool off, and I take advantage of every damn one, chugging water and wiping the sweat and wine from my face.

The TV interviews and press conference go off without a hitch, much to Mitchell’s delight. To say he’s on edge about Theo’s new position as my teammate is an understatement. He likes the guy well enough, but he’s worried that his love of attention will overshadow my unassuming attitude toward it.

In my time as an F1 driver, I’ve indulged in plenty of the luxuries that my status grants me. I’ve dated award-winning actresses, I own a boat that costs more than my brothers’ college tuitions combined, and I attend Fashion Week as a guest of Gucci every year. I’m a lucky son of a bitch. But I’ve never felt the need to flaunt my status. Maybe it’s because, unlike most of the F1 drivers, I don’t come from money. My parents did well enough, but I grew up in hand-me-downs instead of Hermès, and I learned to drive in my dad’s 1997 Toyota Corolla, not a brand-spankin’ new Ferrari.

Fame and notoriety are fickle. Both can vanish as quickly as they come, so I do my best to enjoy the opened doors quietly. Mitchell respects this, but he also worries that I’m robbing myself of opportunities by sticking to the sidelines.

“I’m surprised Theo let you answer so many questions,” Mitchell comments as the two of us stand off to one side, far from the reporters, after the conference.

Taking a sip of my water, I roll my eyes. “Because he knew they were directed at me. He can be a professional.”

“Hmm…” Mitchell purses his lips. “Is that why he mouthed ‘suck my dick’ to his trainer mid-interview?”

“I said he can be a professional.” I bite back a laugh. “Not that he always is.”

Chuckling, my manager undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, the only indication that the heat is affecting him. “Oh, I got the tickets you asked for, by the way. Forwarded them to your email, so you should be all set.”

“Ringside, right—” My question is cut off when Ella wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes tightly.

“Congrats!” She takes a step back. “That was such a well-deserved win.”

“Thanks.” I swallow thickly, suddenly a little less enthusiastic about it. “How’s Blake doing?”

I have a feeling I already know, but I still want to get a pulse check. He was handed a five-second time penalty when he caused a collision trying to overtake another driver. Those five seconds cost him a podium finish.

With a grunt, she punches my arm. Hard. “Can’t you just accept my compliment and bask in the glory?”

My stomach twists. “But Blake?—”

“Is fine,” she says, wearing a genuine smile. “He’s on the phone with his sister, and Champ’s keeping him company.”

Champ, short for Champion, happens to be the cutest dog I’ve ever met. He’s twenty-five pounds of caramel-colored fluff and boundless energy. He also has the funny habit of bringing objects to people when he greets them. He’s brought me shoes, socks, empty chip bags, a tampon (unopened, thankfully), and Gatorade bottles as welcome presents over the months. Although they didn’t get him with the intent of training him to be an emotional support animal, he acts like one for Blake all the same.

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine. Winning is nice, so I appreciate the recognition.”

“Winning is nice,” Ella repeats, her face a mask of disbelief. She turns to Mitchell and shakes her head. “I don’t know how you deal with his modesty.”

Mitchell shoots me a victorious smirk. “I don’t know either.”

“Are we talking about Lucas’s modesty?” Theo, suddenly appearing on my left side, swings his sweaty arm around my shoulder. “Because I have a lot to say on the matter. For starters, I know Americans love their board shorts, but there’s nothing wrong with tailored, fitted shorts. They’d show off that epic thigh tat of yours, mate.”

“Not what we were talking about.” I shrug him off. “But your input is duly noted and ignored.”

“Your loss,” he says with a shrug. “Where’s Charlotte? Did she leave already?”

She left about ten minutes into the press conference, but rather than tell him that and throw her under the bus, I shrug. “Maybe she went back to the hotel.”

Chin lifted, he surveys the room as if she’ll magically appear. “Will you check her location?”

“Sure.”

I already know she’s at the hotel because I’ve already checked the app—I was worried; don’t judge me—but I’m definitely not mentioning that. Once the app loads, I show Theo the small dot indicating Charlotte’s approximate location.

“I’m heading back now. Want me to check in with her? Make sure everything’s good?”

Nodding, Theo slaps me on the back. “That’d be great. I’ve got another interview before I can head out. These reporters just can’t get enough of me, mate.”

Ella ducks her head to stifle a laugh. Theo’s post -race interview was originally supposed to be a pre -race interview. It had to be rescheduled after he went thirty minutes over his allotted time with SkySports , and it threw off his entire media schedule.

I wish him luck before catching a ride back to the hotel with Mitchell.

While he spends the car ride going over my sponsorship obligations for the next few months, I check my notifications for the first time since the race ended. There are two missed calls from my mom, a missed call from each set of grandparents, and a fuck ton of texts in The Gentleman’s Club—the ridiculous name for the Adler brother text thread.

Grayson Adler

Congrats on the win, bro!

Jesse Adler

Holy shit.

That was an unreal race.

Great fucking job, Lucas.

Finn Adler

My favorite part was when Cooper Fraser hit you in the face with champagne. There are already memes circulating.

Ezra Adler

How pissed off is Blake?

And congrats!

Finn Adler

After that win, you’re definitely Mom’s favorite again.

Ezra Adler

What do you mean Mom’s favorite again? I’m always the favorite. As the baby of the family, it’s my birthright.

Jesse Adler

You’re younger than Finn by two minutes, idiot.

Finn Adler

He bitches like a baby, though.

Grayson Adler

You’re Mom’s second favorite, Ez. Lucas has been the favorite since he bought her that Bvlgari bracelet for Hanukkah.

Ezra Adler

Ah shit. I forgot about that.

Sort of dickish for you to do that, considering I’m a jeweler, but whatever.

Jesse Adler

There’s a Red Sox game the first weekend Luc’s in town. Anyone want to go?

Finn Adler

brOS’ NIGHT OUT. LET’S FUCKING GO.

Ezra Adler

I don’t know how we shared a womb. You’re so weird.

Grayson Adler

Jaclyn’s out of town that weekend, but if Mom and Dad will babysit Madison, I’m in.

Ezra Adler

Mom would kidnap Madison from you if she could.

Pretty sure she’ll agree to babysit.

Grayson Adler

True. Someone else needs to give her a grandkid soon.

Finn Adler

There’s a chance I’m someone’s baby daddy and just don’t know it.

Ezra Adler

I bet that’s exactly what she wants to hear.

Lucas Adler

1. Thanks! Was a good race, for sure.

2. The Bvlgari bracelet was from all of us, considering you assholes also signed the card (and forgot to write my name on it).

3. I’m Mom’s favorite because I’m the only one who knows how to properly do laundry without fucking everything up.

4. Down for the game. Will Dad want to come with us?

A new text from Theo comes in as we’re pulling into the hotel. It’s nothing but four digits, though I realize quickly that it’s Charlotte’s room number. Good thing he remembered I’d need it. I don’t think I’d have the same kind of luck she did if I tried to sweet-talk the front desk into giving out guest information. I chuckle when I arrive at her room and see the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the handle.

I knock, then slip my hands into my pockets while I wait for her to answer. Amusement works its way through me when I hear muffled swearing, then an object clattering to the floor and more choice words. When the door finally swings open, I find myself face-to-face with Charlotte, who’s wearing a T-shirt that says olive you , with two olives positioned where her nipples are.

Oh hell .

“I wasn’t expecting the stripper for another”—she flicks her wrist, as if to check an imaginary watch—“hour or so, but come on in.”

I can’t help but grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As you should.” With a wink, she pulls the door open farther and waves me in. “I’ve got high standards when it comes to strippers.”

Unsure of how to reply to that, I shake my head and change the subject. “I saw you left the conference early.”

“Are you stalking me?” she asks, splaying one hand over her chest. “Because if you are, that’s definitely the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

A huff escapes me. “Did you just insinuate that stalking is romantic?”

“There’s a whole fan base for it in romance books,” she tells me with a wave of her hand. “Willow loves a good stalker romance. I’m more of a forbidden love girlie, but to each their own.”

I met Charlotte’s best friend at the Australian Grand Prix. The woman is as fiery as her hair color suggests. Her fondness for stalker romances doesn’t surprise me as much as it probably should. “I remember Willow. She’s the one with?—”

Charlotte perks up and grins. “An attitude and a great arse?”

Affection for this woman and her ridiculous commentary warms my chest. “I was going to say auburn hair.”

“Oh.” She nibbles on her lower lip. “Well,” she hedges, “yes, she also has auburn hair. She’d love you for saying auburn instead of red, by the way. Now let’s get back to you stalking me. I find that way more interesting. ”

“I’m not stalking you,” I chuckle. “I told Theo I’d check on you.”

If I hadn’t been watching her face closely—to avoid accidentally looking at her olives—I would’ve missed the way her smile faded almost imperceptibly and the subtle dimming in her eyes. “Ah. Well, you can tell him I’m right as rain.”

“That’s not the only reason I’m here,” I quickly clarify, my chest tightening at the idea that I’ve upset her. “I have two tickets to a fight tonight.”

The beginnings of a playful smile dance on her lips. “Is that an invitation or simply a status update?”

“An invite. You are, after all, the one who reminded me that I’m not geriatric and can still check things off my bucket list.”

I’ve wanted to attend a professional match since I picked up boxing, but the timing has never worked out. I train with the legendary retired boxer Kelsey “the Hitman” Wells a few times a week, and when he texted me that another one of his clients had a match out here tonight, I decided to be spontaneous. For me, at least. It’s not the same as seeing the sunset at Praca P?r do Sol or checking out the street art in Beco do Batman, both things Charlotte did while I practiced on Friday, but it’s a small step out of the rut I’ve found myself in.

“I have been known to give rather sage advice from time to time.” She flips her hair over her shoulder. “This isn’t the kind of fight where two blokes wear Speedos and wrestle in a kiddie pool filled with Jell-O, is it?”

A grin curves up my lips. “No, not exactly.”

Charlotte nods. “That’s unfortunate, but I’ll still go. Why the hell not? When should I be ready?”

With a glance at my watch, I do a quick calculation, considering the buffer I’ll need to add, since there’s no way she’ll be on time. “An hour.”

“An hour?” Her gasp is so animated, one would think I’ve just revealed the existence of extraterrestrial life forms. “Okay, I can make that work.” She turns in a circle, inspecting the room. “I think. Hopefully. Maybe.”

To my surprise, it only takes her an hour and eleven minutes to “make magic happen.” Her words, not mine. And holy hell, does she abracadabra herself into a walking wet dream. I swear I mean that in the most respectful way possible. She’s always beautiful, but the knee-high black boots and a short leather skirt make me desperate to bend her over the nearest surface and fuck her until my knees give out.

Charlotte’s shoulders tense when she catches me staring. “What? Is it my outfit? Do you think it’d look better with a white shirt? That’s what I originally had on, but then I got foundation on it, which is particularly annoying because I did my makeup before getting dressed so this exact scenario wouldn’t happen. But how was I supposed to know I had extra contour powder on my hand? Do you reckon I should change?”

Clasping my hands in front of me to hide my dick’s painful attempt to join the party, I manage a grin that may or may not resemble a grimace. “No, sorry. You look… great.”

Great? Who am I? Tony the fucking Tiger? She looks phenomenal .

“Thanks.” Her body deflates in relief. “You don’t look too bad yourself. It’s giving suave instead of stripper,” she says, hiking her purse higher on her shoulder. “Ready for fight night?”

“Let’s do this,” I say, holding a hand out and gesturing to the elevator.

Little does she know that the fight I’m more focused on is the one occurring in my briefs.