Page 31 of Drive Me Wild (Drive Me #2)
THIRTY-ONE
THEO
Every time I turn around, my heart plummets when I realize Josie’s not here. She hasn’t made a final decision about Kelsey’s offer yet, but she did request this race weekend off and her absence is glaring. And not just for me; Wes threatened to smack Blake in the head with a fire extinguisher if he didn’t stop acting like an “entitled brat” and Ella had to step in to play referee.
Spending time apart from Jos is unwittingly forcing my hand. Without her smile or laughter to distract me, I have no choice but to think about my contract. The end of the season is quickly approaching. To sign with McAllister or not to sign with McAllister, that’s the question twenty-first century Shakespeare would be asking.
My radio snaps me out of my thoughts. “How you doing, Walker?”
I roll my eyes, thankful they can’t see behind my helmet. I’ve kept to myself this weekend, opting out of additional fan encounters and interviews. I’m not sure who knows about my breakup-slash-break-slash-time-out and who doesn’t, but I don’t give a shit. I can’t think about that. All I can think about is winning. It’s all I can allow myself to focus on. Because when my mind wanders, it always finds its way back to Josie.
“Fine,” I reply.
“Everything good?”
“Mm-hmm.”
The voice on the other side snickers. “Um… this is Theo, right? Not Blake? Want to make sure we didn’t press the wrong button.”
I snort at the comment. My one-word answers are reason for concern. “Yeah. I’m all good, mate.”
“Alright. Good luck out there.”
Josie should be the one wishing me good luck.
Taking a deep breath, I rest my hands against the wheel, letting the familiar smell of burning rubber and fuel calm me. The race is business as usual, until lap forty-seven, when McAllister fucks up. Big time. They pit Blake early because they’re worried his tire degradation won’t last through the final stretch of the race. They may be right, but now he’s running over the same piece of track as me in the final third of the Grand Prix. That means our strategies are overlapping, and I’m two-point-five seconds ahead of him.
“Don’t hold up Hollis,” the guys from the pit wall instruct. “Pull back.”
Rage churns inside me, resentment clouding my thoughts. Does Blake have a better chance of winning the Drivers’ Championship this year? Yes, probably. But this may be the last year I’m able to willingly fight for it.
I ignore the radio. Fuck it.
Switching gears as I head into the next turn, I brake a second early, using the downforce to open the exit of the corner and gain acceleration heading down the next straight. Thompson is ahead of me, taking a curve at an impressive speed. Kid’s honing in on his instinct, I’ll give him that.
“Walker, do you copy?” I hear Andreas’s tense tone through the radio. “Pull back. We need you to fend off Adler.”
“Andreas? Are you saying something?”
“Yes!” he shouts. “Stop holding up Hollis, for fu?—”
“All I hear is a really weird crackling,” I lie, the chaos of my rage taking over. “Something must be off with my radio.”
Why shouldn’t I be able to hold my own pace? I’m here to race, not be a goddamn pawn piece to Blake’s King. I continue to ignore my radio for nearly half a lap more. As we go into turn ten, Blake underbrakes, forcing me to pull back so I don’t ram into the barricade.
Biting back my frustration, I maintain my position, not edging any closer to Blake. God knows I’ve pissed off the pit wall enough. The crackle from my radio simply tells me, “Keep Adler and Fraser at bay.”
The minute the race is over and I’m out of my car, Andreas is on my ass. I tune him out—something I’ve become relatively proficient at over the years—as he admonishes me for my unsportsmanlike behavior. Whatever . Blaming my radio, I brush it off as an unfortunate accident. Blake won regardless. Can’t he just let it go?
I head to the press conference alone so I can avoid Blake as long as humanly possible. There’s no way in hell he’s going to let me off the hook so easily. As his competition, I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary, but as his teammate and friend, I drove like an absolute asshole. My only saving grace is that I placed third and Thompson placed second, so he acts as a buffer between us at the table. My human shield.
It’s no surprise when the first question of the press conference is aimed at me. “How do you feel about the outcome of today’s race?” a reporter asks. “You had a chance to secure a first or second place win, but were told to stand back for Blake.”
“There’s a lot of times when we have to play as a team,” I say, each word eating at me. “This race was one of those times. We need to win both titles—Constructors’ Championship and Drivers’. If Andreas thinks Blake is in a better position to help secure McAllister those wins, then that’s the situation. My radio was going in and out, so it took me a little longer to realize the strategy shift.”
“Are you still in contention for the title?”
I won’t be next year if I sign the contract.
I give a half-assed smile. “Aren’t we all?”
“Let me rephrase,” the reporter says. “Are you allowed to fight for the title? Or are you being told to stand back for Blake to clinch his seventh win?”
He may as well have given me a stake and asked me to shove it through my heart.
“We all want to win—races, points, championships. My goal is to go into every race bringing in as many points as I can for the team.”
This seems to satisfy the reporter, at least for now. What about when they ask next season? I can’t openly say, “I signed away my right to beat Blake just so I could stay on the team.” It feels just as pathetic as it sounds.
“Blake!” a SkySports writer asks. “How do you feel about what happened during lap fifty-three?”
Blake moves his chair closer to his microphone. “Uh. It happened. It’s over. What more is there to say?”
For once, I’m glad Blake doesn’t give too many details during interviews. He hates press conferences as much as I hate going to the doctor.
“Did you know that Theo was told to back down?”
Blake rolls his eyes. “Were your ear plugs in when I said, ‘Why the bloody fuck isn’t he letting me pass?’ on the radio?”
“So you were upset with Theo not giving you back the lead?”
“Listen.” Blake sighs, narrowing his eyes at the pesky journalist. “Theo’s a great teammate, and I highly doubt he went into the lap with anything but good intentions. Sometimes we’re put in a position where we have to put the team first, ahead of our own desire to get the most points for the Drivers’ Championship. Does it suck? Sure. But we want McAllister to get the maximum number of points. That’s key.”
The room is eerily quiet. That may be the most Blake’s said during a press conference in years. Little does he know, the sucky position he spoke about is where McAllister wants me to reside permanently.
Thankfully, the reporters move on, asking Harry about his last-minute strategy change. The moment the press conference wraps up, I’m out of my seat and out the door. Blake is hot on my heels as I walk back through the paddock. He leaves just enough space so I’d look like an arse if I yelled at him to leave me alone.
That changes the moment we’re in the privacy of McAllister’s motorhome.
“So, are we going to talk about what the fuck happened out there?” he asks, not bothering to lower his voice.
“You said it yourself,” I snap, not turning around as I stomp up the stairs to the second floor. “It happened, it’s over. What else is there to say?”
Blake scoffs at the fierceness of my tone. “What the fuck is up with you? Is this about the breakup?”
“Fuck off,” I mumble, walking into my suite.
This is one time when visitors are not welcome in my room, but Blake doesn’t seem to give a shit. His tall frame takes up the space of my doorframe. “Seriously, Theo. What the bloody hell is going on? You’ve been a dick to me the past week, and I have no idea what I did wrong. You fucking railroaded me out there.”
“It’s a race, Blake,” I grunt. “I’m so sorry I didn’t make it easy for you to win. God forbid I try to get points for myself, yeah? Now can you get out? I’d like to be alone.”
Blake shakes his head in disbelief. “We’re going to talk about this, Walker. This isn’t you.”
“No, we’re not.” I take a step forward, shoving his chest. It feels really fucking good. “So get the fuck out of my room.”
Blake lets out a sharp laugh. “You really want to go this route? Because I’ll?—”
The palm of my hand connects with Blake’s cheek, and a resounding smack vibrates through the room. Oh fuck. I glance at Blake, wondering if I can slip past him and down the hall before his fist dislocates my jaws. I’ve held him back from many bar fights over the years, but I’ve never been the victim of his right hook or left jab.
“Did… did you just bitch slap me?” he asks with wide eyes.
I take a step back. “Um… yeah?”
His shoulders shake as his laugh rumbles through his chest. He leans against the doorframe, using it to hold himself up. I’ll take this reaction over a broken nose any day of the week.
Blake wipes tears from his eyes. “Didn’t want to punch me instead, mate?”
“And risk breaking my fingers before the end of the season? Hell no, Blakey Blake.” I shake my head as my anger makes way for exhaustion. “I am sorry about that, though. Don’t know what came over me.”
He gingerly touches the bright red mark covering his cheek. “I’m quite proud of you, mate. It was a long time coming, although I usually know what I did to deserve it. This time, I’m not so sure. So why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on with you?”
I fall back onto the couch and rest my elbows on my thighs. Where the fuck to even begin? “Everything.”