Page 19 of Green Flag (StormSprint #2)

Luca

Four weeks later

I refused to be out. Dislocated shoulder? I could race. Fractured wrist? I’d taped worse. But when the Ciclati medics said no — and StormSprint’s chief medic did too — it was game over. Cris put his foot down and threatened to bench me for the next race as well.

With Nix beating everyone by miles, they didn’t need me to pick up an insane amount of points for Ciclati to still dominate the scoreboard.

He had my best interests at heart, but if another team were going to pick me up to race for them… I had to race—and race bloody well.

The lounge was busy as I nursed my drink. Henri Alho, a Finnish singer, was going to perform before the StormSprint race and it had young women flocking to the race track. As the price of tickets had gone up, the track wasn’t often sold out. Today it was.

He’d seemed humble when he came to meet Nix — he was a big fan — but he knew Everly. And their interaction boiled my blood. He kissed her hand.

And I couldn’t even hold it.

My Sprint3 friends had already been on the track and were at a table waiting for me to join them. I just needed to get out of this funk before I ruined everyone else’s mood too.

Three whiskeys deep, my jaw hurt with how stiffly I held it.

If I weren’t on the grid, I wouldn’t have an excuse to talk to Everly. I wanted to coax details out of her about Henri and how she knew him.

It would also be nice to see her again. I was stealing every moment I could. They were fleeting now.

She hadn’t called me. Hadn’t texted me.

I hadn’t contacted her.

Because I couldn’t fucking control myself.

I shouldn’t have told her it wasn’t enough when I was getting my cock soaked. I shouldn’t have told her how much I wanted to sink into her heat. It wasn’t fair on her.

It was true, but I didn’t want to guilt her into something she didn’t want. Especially not in the lust-filled moment and I couldn’t trust I wouldn’t do it again.

Because I wanted her so fucking badly .

Now that I’d had her, stalking through her socials would never be enough.

Whereas seeing a man’s lips pressed to the back of her hand was too much.

Over the last four weeks, I filmed videos for her like our original messages. I probably had hours’ worth of footage by now, all unsent.

She fit right in across StormSprint, though. She always posted about being out with the other grid girls. On nights out, I avoided her, not wanting to make a drunken mistake.

But I was mostly sober now.

If I couldn’t see her on the tarmac, I’d go and meet the crowds with her after the race. That’s what I’d do.

But I ordered another drink first.

A man next to me chuckled. “Never see many people up here in their leathers,” he said.

I didn’t look at him, just swilled my drink. Yes, I’d put my leathers on, hoping I wouldn’t be turned down. Ready for them to change their minds.

“Cris Bacque,” I muttered. “Refused for me to race after my crash yesterday at qualifying.”

“ Miserabile pezzo di merda ,” he said in Italian. Miserable piece of shit. “ Ciclati è diventata spazzatura.” Ciclati has become rubbish.

I sat straight and looked him over. He was dark-skinned, with pitch-black hair, thick brows and a strong jaw. He was probably in his mid-30s, if not older. He was exactly the man Everly said was her type.

But if he hated Ciclati, he was my type too.

“Not a fan?”

He downed the rest of his pint. “That’s putting it mildly. I hate him.”

Livie had made it very clear we weren’t to speak negatively about the team, but…

“You’re Alv’s cousin, aren’t you?”

I nodded, my expression softening at any mention of him. “The man himself.”

“I’m so sorry to hear what happened,” he said gravely, looking down at his hands clutching the bar. “Please tell Cally I’m thinking of her.”

How did he know Alv’s wife? My cousin had done everything possible to keep her name out of the press. No one in the media even knew he had children.

“You know Alv?”

He nodded, a serious expression still on his face. “We used to work together here. We were quite good friends.”

Anyone who worked with him would have been his friend. It was impossible not to enjoy being around him.

“So how come Bacque said you can’t qualify?”

“Broken bone,” I said with a sigh, looking down at the damage. “In my hand.”

“You’re holding that whiskey fine,” he said, gesturing towards it. “I would have let you race. I’ve raced with worse.”

I was holding it with my right hand, not the left, but I purposely waved my left to make a point, even though it ached.

“You raced?”

“Yeah, nearly twelve years ago,” he said, taking his drink from the waiter.

Now that I looked at him again, there was something vaguely familiar about him, but back when I was thirteen, the only racer I cared for was my cousin.

“Wasn’t until I crashed and had to have metal plates put in my knee that I knew I was out.

My career didn’t end well with Cris, though. ”

Not surprised. Unless you were Nixon Armas, who could get away with anything and everything. If he had a broken wrist, I didn’t doubt he’d still be on the track.

“Luca,” I said and gave him my left hand, refusing to wince when he took it.

“Pedro,” he said before taking another sip of his drink. “Surprised you signed with Ciclati for next year.”

Same, I wanted to say, but Cris reminding me of my contract stopped me short.

“How come?”

“I assume it was before that business with the helmet came out? No wonder you’re not a fan of your boss,” he grunted even though he hadn’t given me the chance to confirm or deny.

Cris wasn’t the problem here. It was Don.

He was still avoiding me despite my desperate emails, calls and begs to his PA. “But who is around here?”

I shrugged, looking around pointedly, hoping my act was working. “Not even his daughter.”

It felt wrong to lie and slag off Cris, who had been nothing but good to me, but there was something in the presence of this man. Something within this stranger made me want to appease him.

“ Not the first time he’s behind something dodgy like that, ” he muttered darkly in Italian.

Through my narrowed eyes, he took a large gulp of his drink, looking up at one of the screens where they were finishing Sprint2’s celebrations, the last racers returning to the pit box.

I was a good judge of character. Rarely had I been proven wrong by my instincts. This guy… he was giving too much too easily. I didn’t need my ego stroked by him, yet there he was, ready to pet it.

And somehow, he was here with exactly what I needed—in Italian. He knew my cousin, and he knew my mother tongue.

“ Don’t go all ominous ,” I laughed, speaking back in the same language. “ You’ll have to disclose a little more. ”

He shrugged. “Just look at his family. Look at the history of Ciclati. Ever knows all about it.”

Ever not Everly.

He knew the family intimately.

My broken fingers itched to text her about this strange man who seemed to know more than he should.

But with someone like this… he would be perfect to use. We had enough in common.

“Abbé still work with you guys?” he asked in English.

“He does,” I said slowly, hesitant to change the conversation. “Most decent man on the team.”

“I haven’t told him I’m here today,” he said, checking his silver Piaget watch. “Was going to go down to the pit box to see Nix. We go way back. But they wouldn’t let me.”

“You used to work for Ciclati ?” Not just StormSprint?

He grinned and pulled out a faded StormSprint Staff pass, placing it on the bar.

“Haven’t for a few years,” he said and paid for his tab with a wave of his card. “Probably not since you started racing. Sprint2 is over, so I guess they’ll be up soon. Abbé will need his gin.”

“How did you get out?” It was a rush of words.

He looked me over, pausing to drain the last of his glass. “What are you willing to do?”

I wouldn’t quite say anything , but… There was a shorter list of things I wouldn’t do.

“Don won’t let me go,” I told him.

“Cris won’t either?”

“He says it’s not his call.”

He scoffed. “If he wanted to let you go, he could. You’ll just need to do one of two things.”

“Which are?”

“Rig the races so you purposely fail,” he said, but judging by my outraged expression, he nodded, already knowing that wasn’t my style. “Or make him hate you. His daughter is a good shout.”

I nodded, trying to shake the idea into my head. Hate was an option. Using Everly wasn’t.

He tsked, knowing that was almost impossible for me too. When he grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, the words escaped me before I could stop them because I couldn’t let this stranger go just yet.

“Come down to the pit box with me,” I said and he immediately stopped. “See everyone. They’re filming a StormSprint documentary today, it might be nice for you to get involved.”

Sure, Livie would be fuming, but a man who hated Cris was probably a friend worth making.

Nix would be getting changed, and Abbé would be tuned into his iPad, looking at Nix’s performance from qualifying. Livie would be wrapped up with the producers and camera team.

With them busy, maybe I could get more out of this all-too-willing man.

“Are you sure?” he asked with a blink.

“Yeah,” I said. “Our media manager probably won’t appreciate me coming down with a drink in hand while they’re filming, so let me just finish this.”

We continued to talk about our love of bikes, the championship and how racing had changed since he’d last been on the tarmac. When I told him the power difference between my Sprint3 bike and my StormSprint bike, he almost choked on his pint.

Security looked alarmed when I took him to the back.

I had no names attached to mine for VIP entry.

Ever. Most of my family were known by everyone here, and my friends were all racers.

I never had any romantic interests worth inviting.

Down the walk to the pit box, he remarked how nothing had changed in the four years since he’d been there last, even down to which pit box was Ciclati’s.