Page 34 of Drive Me Wild (Drive Me #2)
THIRTY-FOUR
THEO
I stomp my foot, really leaning into the whole toddler-throwing-a-tantrum attitude I’ve had all morning. “I don’t want to go.”
“Dealing with you is like having a kid I didn’t ask for.” Russell throws his hands up. “If you don’t mind a fine, then by all means, skip out on the press conference.”
Fuck fuckity fuck fuck. I forgot about the FIA’s tendency to fine drivers for missing mandatory media interviews. God knows Blake has enough of those to keep his lawyers busy for the rest of their lives.
I frown once again. “You know what they’re going to ask me.”
The same shit they’ve been spouting at me all weekend. Will you be re-signing your contract with McAllister? What’s the holdup with your contract negotiations? Are you considering switching teams? Who else has offered you a contract? There are rumors you’ve met with other teams, care to comment on that?
“You’ve had media training,” he reminds me, his voice losing its sliver of annoyance. “You know how to answer the questions, Theo. It’s nothing new.”
Media training requires giving diplomatic answers with a blank face. I’ve never been known for my subtlety, or filter for that matter. Giving them a cookie cutter answer is akin to admitting guilt, and I tell Russell as much.
“It’ll look worse to skip out,” he replies. “They’ll start digging. And if anyone approaches McAllister, who knows what they’ll say.”
Shit . He’s right. The ball is in my court; it has been since they gave their final counter. Taking a deep breath and pasting on a smile, I waltz into the press room like it’s any other post-qualifying press conference. As predicted, they start off with a doozy, not bothering with any of the niceties.
“Theo! Theo!” an ESPN reporter shouts. “McAllister had some recent internal management changes. Is that what’s been holding up your contract negotiation?”
Oh fuck.
Blake leans in and simply says, “Yes.”
“Oh, um, that question was directed at Theo,” the reporter clarifies. “Not you, Blake.”
Blake shrugs and takes a sip of his water. “Well, if I had to guess what’s holding up Theo’s contract, it’s that the internal management changes at McAllister suck. They hired a piece of shit for their CEO, and he’s going to run the team into the ground.”
Every nerve in my body pinches, like crabs are hanging off every available surface of skin.
“Um. Blake? Shut the fuck up,” I mumble. Now I know how Ella felt last year when Blake accidentally shared her secret to millions of people on live television. It’s like watching a dumpster fire and not having any water to put it out.
He pretends not to hear me as he scans the room with a scowl. Reporters shout questions over one another, trying to ask the follow-up questions that are bound to be replayed on every sports show for the next few days.
“Blake, what gripes do you have with the CEO?” a woman from SkySports shouts. “Do you think he’s not leading McAllister in the right direction?”
I kick Blake’s shin under the table, hoping to distract him, but he doesn’t even flinch. Fuck.
“I think James Avery presents a potential risk to the integrity of Formula 1 as a whole, not just McAllister. That’s what happens when you care more about the money than the honest outcome of the competition. His actions go against the very definition of the word sports and if?—”
My hands shoot out in front of Blake, knocking his microphone off the table. It falls to the ground with a loud thud that everyone hears since the room’s gone completely quiet. I’m not sure who’s more startled by my actions, though I think it’s me.
What the fuck is he thinking?
“We need to talk,” I murmur under my breath.
“Uh, I’m kind of in the middle of something, mate. Like saving your contract.”
“Meet me under the table. Now.”
Without a second thought, I sink down into my seat and onto the floor, slithering underneath the black Formula 1 tablecloth covering the table and crouching on the scratchy green-and-gold-patterned carpet.
“Walker, I’m not getting under the table with you,” Blake hisses. His dark eyes move back and forth from me to the roomful of reporters. “We’re at a goddamn press conference.”
“Unless you want me sharing what happened in Barcelona,” I say, throwing him a pointed look, “I suggest you crawl under this table with me.”
Barcelona involved a cop Blake thought was a stripper. Not a story that should be shared, probably ever. Mumbling something about how he wants to strangle me, Blake pushes back his chair and joins my impromptu hide-out. It’s an extremely cramped space meant only for legs, not two full-grown men.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “You’re going to get sued for slander or defamation or whatever the fuck it’s called. I hate Avery more than anyone, but I’m not going to let you risk your career just to start shit with him.”
“Nothing I said was untrue.” Blake shakes his head. “He’s spot-fixing based on the clause in your contract.”
I blink slowly. Gambling has never been my thing, but even I know that ensuring a certain result in a prop bet is very illegal. “Excuse me?”
Blake huffs. “I have proof that he’s been in contact with sports wagering sites to make a buck at your—and McAllister’s—expense.”
“How in the hell do you know this? Did you hack him?”
Blake shrugs. “Yes. Well, no, not me personally. Jesse Adler did.”
My jaw nearly hits the floor. Lucas doesn’t talk to his brother Jesse anymore, so for him to reach out for this? To code and hack and do cool shit for me? Holy hell.
“Paul and I came up with a plan,” Blake says firmly. “It’s all going to work out. You can re-sign your contract, and Avery will be gone. It’s a win-win for everyone.”
“Who the hell is Paul?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice down. “I told you not to tell anyone, Blake.”
He narrows his eyes. “My therapist.”
I know now’s not the time to dig into this, but old habits die hard. “His name is Paul? I always envisioned him as more of a William or a Gregory. Does he look like a Paul?”
“What the hell is a Paul supposed to look like, Theo?” Blake gives me a perfected eye roll. “You know what? I don’t want to know. Can you just let me expose Avery so you can re-sign your contract and we can move on from this?”
I pause and shake my head. “I’m not sure I’m going to re-sign with McAllister.” My voice sounds way more confident than expected.
Blake’s head shoots back so violently, it slams against the underside of the table. A barrage of colorful swear words fly from his mouth. “Why the hell not? Is this because of Josie?”
“No, it’s… I mean yes, but no. Part of why I love McAllister so much is because of her, but now that she’s not here…” I take a deep breath, knowing once I say it, I can’t take it back. “I wonder if my dedication to McAllister is holding me back from other opportunities. Maybe it’s time to let go and try something new. Drive for another team. Focus on me instead of what everyone expects from me.”
What I thought my dad wanted for me.
“Wow,” he mutters. “Um, shit. Well okay. Paul and I didn’t really prepare for that outcome.”
It may be dark under the table, but the telltale sign of his shallow breathing indicates how anxious my comment has made him. The last thing we need is for him to have a panic attack under a table mid-press conference.
“Deep breaths, Blakey Blake,” I say, lowering my voice. “No matter what team I drive for, you’ll still be the person to help me get my dick out of a water wiggler.”
He groans. “Oh God, I forgot about that.”
Rosalie had left a water wiggler—a brightly colored vinyl tube filled with liquid and glitter and beads—at my house, and I wanted to test out if it was like a FleshLight. I figured it’d be easy since the kid’s toy is slippery and squishy, but it was not. Blake ended up having to use a kitchen knife to cut through the material. It was almost a second circumcision.
“You nearly carved your initials into my manhood,” I scoff. “That’s not something you easily forget.”
“Who puts a children’s toy on their manhood for fun? Do you know how bloody?—”
“Uh, hey,” Lucas says, his blond head peaking underneath the tablecloth. His green eyes dart back and forth between us. “You guys nearly done? It’s getting a little crowded up here, and I can only talk about qualifying for so long.”
I turn to Blake. “You good?”
“Can I still get rid of Avery? With or without you, I don’t want that bloke anywhere near this sport.”
I haven’t seen angry Blakey Blake in quite some time. Wish I had a bag of popcorn. “Let loose, mate.”
My legs are stiff as I crawl back out, taking my seat once again. The amount of people in the room seems to have doubled since we disappeared. Lucas shoots us a questioning look before sharing, “Every news organization called backup during your tea party.”
“Sorry ‘bout that,” I apologize into the mic, holding up my hands. “Blake wanted a blowie, but I was explaining to him how inappropriate that is at a press conference.”
Blake grabs my microphone since his is still laying on the floor like a crime scene victim.
“As I was saying,” he says, straightening his back, “the FIA explicitly prohibits participating in sports wagering activities, yet James Avery is providing information regarding McAllister’s team strategy to outside parties.”
The questions come at rapid-fire speed, making it impossible to hear what anyone is saying. For once, I’m happy to sit back and let Blake handle all the talking. Taking out my phone, I check my texts.
Martin the Manager
I don’t go to one race and the press conference turns into a zoo? For fuck’s sake.
Theo Walker
Let’s meet once I’m back in London.
Martin the Manger
You make a decision while in your makeshift fort with Blake?
Theo Walker
A few of them, actually.