Page 13 of Faster
Chapter Seven
Somehow, in the crush of humanity, a sense of calm settled over Luca on race day. He lived for it. He could ignore the reporters trying to get a glimpse into the team, the celebrities trying to be seen, and the engineers and mechanics just trying to do their job.
Since he’d joined the team so late, he didn’t have a physio assigned to him.
Just a glorified body man who made sure he had water when he wanted it or various pieces of team kit that he could put on or shed, depending on where he was in the paddock, and whether the race was going forward or stopped under a red flag.
He wasn’t used to wearing Lupo’s fiery red, though. It felt as though he was wearing a beacon that said, Here I am. Come watch me fail again.
But he wasn’t going to fail. He knew he wasn’t going to fail so much that he’d put himself on pole position yesterday. He hadn’t started the race from the front during his final three years on his former team. It hadn’t taken long for commentators to declare his career over. And he’d believed them.
Until the team principal at Lupo had called.
They were one of the most storied teams in the series—they’d been there from the beginning.
Sure, they’d only wanted him because he was the only high-caliber, experienced driver available when their golden girl, Micaela Cartwright, had unexpectedly spurned them on 4 January. But he would take it.
It was almost like that night with Cece had broken a curse. It had initiated a whole bunch of other bad omens, but it was a few hours of feeling like he’d won something—like he could beat Ethan at something.
It seemed like she’d gone back to him and either pretended as though she hadn’t seen what she’d seen, or they’d ironed things out.
Although they hadn’t been doing their usual tourist-documented date nights in Monte Carlo, they’d walked into the paddock today holding hands and bumping arms as they made their way to the facility.
So, maybe he couldn’t get the girl. But he could beat the shit out of the guy who’d taken her from him.
The burning in his gut every time he thought about Ethan being able to touch her had driven him in qualifying.
It was dumb—they were fucking married—but he swore his jealousy gave him a few extra thousandths on that last lap in the third qualifying session.
Ethan was starting in P3, right behind him. He hadn’t looked at him all day—not even in the mandatory briefings with the engineering team. His former friend wasn’t giving anything away. He hadn’t even grimaced when they’d been informed that the strategy was favoring Luca.
That didn’t mean that Luca trusted Ethan to listen. He knew him too well. Out of the corner of his eye, he let himself look at his teammate. Everyone thought that he was cold. His face was all brutal lines and frigid glares. He held himself like the descendant of aristocrats he was.
But Luca had been around before all of that facade had hardened into the carefully curated exterior the world saw now.
If he looked hard enough, which he wouldn’t do right now, he would see the years fall away.
He’d see the eight-year-old boy that he’d met at a dusty track in the middle of Sussex.
He’d been choking back tears because his father had slapped him across the face for taking second to an Italian immigrant kid who’d grown up in a council estate in Brixton.
Luca didn’t let himself fall for the aristocratic veneer. He’d seen enough from the inside to know how fake it all was. It might all look smooth and curated, but every bit of cold Ethan projected had been built from rage and pain.
And Luca wouldn’t think about the times that his friend had shown him what was underneath. That would make him feel things he didn’t get to feel anymore. It would interfere with the objective—winning. That’s what he had left now, and he’d take it.
Micaela Cartwright was starting in P2. A lot of people in the paddock thought she was a novelty. Most of them were raging misogynists who wanted to see her fail—they thought women were meant to be ornaments on drivers’ arms, not racers.
Some female pundit—a former racer in another series herself—had said that women lacked the killer instinct to make it in this series. So, the sexism ran deep. But Cartwright didn’t seem to care. She was a pure racing driver.
Sure, it didn’t hurt that she was the daughter of a former world champion and a total smoke show. She had hair that belonged in a shampoo commercial and looked as though she stepped straight off a runway and into some fireproofs.
Scuderia Lupo had wanted to sign her because of her skill, her name, and the sponsorships that poured in when she was one of their junior drivers.
She was the total package, and Luca guessed a lot of the guys were jealous that they couldn’t pull half the endorsements that Micaela had before she was even in the series.
He wanted to win, but he kind of hoped she kicked everyone else’s ass.
Liam stood next to her car in a crisp, light-blue shirt peppered in sponsor logos. He looked grumpy, but then he always looked like that before a race. She knew because she’d always watched him, even before she was associated with his team.
Earlier, when a commentator was doing a grid walk, she’d heard him speculate as to why Liam was next to her car instead of his son’s. If Brent heard that, it certainly wasn’t going to help the mood in the team.
He’d rolled into the paddock on Thursday angry, giving terse responses to the press and refusing to do videos with the social media admin. Paola, the team’s press officer, freaked out on him. That hadn’t helped his attitude either.
Liam hadn’t done anything. Yet. But his gaze tracked his son all over the garage, and she had a feeling he was standing near her to keep him away.
Her breath had caught when Liam approached her, and she nearly choked on her own tongue now as he put his hand on her shoulder. She could tell herself it was just nerves, but she didn’t make a habit of telling bald-faced lies to herself.
“Are you ready?” Liam asked.
He is only concerned about the team’s performance. He is only concerned about the team’s performance. He is only concerned about the team’s performance.
With his dark eyes searching her face, she had a hard time believing that. But she was simply a racing driver to him. Probably a tool he was using to drive his son to get faster. He didn’t look at her like she wanted him to look at her. That could never happen.
So, she nodded. “I’ve been ready my whole life.”
He smiled at her as though he believed in her. No one had ever looked at her like that.