Page 4 of Green Flag (StormSprint #2)

Luca

When my cousin crashed on the track, I’d been taking a celebratory shot in the VIP lounge with some racing friends. They were patting me on the back after the first test ride of my bike. In my eyes, I’d made it.

Lifting my drink, I caught the unofficial StormSprint race on screen.

My cousin, Alvaro Mendes, was on the straight, his teammate Nixon Armas speeding to catch him.

Our group cheered as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and slammed the empty glass down.

My grin was enough to show my friends how happy I was. My next goal was StormSprint, the major league. My manager said teams were already interested—if I played this year well.

And I would.

With Alv’s help.

Matteo — Sprint3, team Velvár, my fellow Italian — passed me yet another shot. This time tequila. “So proud of you, Luca. Up from Sprint3 to Sprint2 in a year ! Storm Sprint next, I have no doubt.”

With my friends and I so loud, we hadn’t noticed how quiet the rest of the bar had become. I looked again at the screen the other drinkers gawked at.

Two red and green bikes were splintered across the track. One racer was lying on the tarmac, helmet on the green, while the other was sitting on the grass, tearing his helmet off.

Alv lay there. Just lay there. No helmet. No movement. As if taking a nap.

I wished he was taking a nap.

The camera jerked away to Nixon Armas crying, crawling towards his teammate.

My blood ran fast—and icy cold.

He’d crashed more than a few times. He’d always been fine. He was old for a racer now, and the last few crashes slowed him down. He’d become a touch more breakable — a broken rib, a few fingers, an ankle. But it hadn’t stopped him from racing for long.

He was going to get up.

He had to get up.

But he’d always risen with his helmet on.

And it lay so far away from his still body.

An ambulance was there, medics surrounding my cousin as Nixon cried for the stadium to see.

I didn’t even grab my wallet. I just ran.

* * *

“The safety of the riders was put at risk and was diminished by a poorly fitted helmet and a faulty clasp.”

Since the enquiry was given to the team last week, I had read it at least twenty times. Our team coordinator, Saliha, even offered me her highlighters and pens to annotate a printed copy with my thoughts and concerns.

Not for worries about my own helmet — that had been changed months ago — but more scribbles of my hatred.

Ciclati had killed my cousin.

Yes, the doctors said he might recover. But he wasn’t breathing by himself — hadn’t since the accident — and it looked like when he eventually woke, he would be paralysed, at least from the waist down.

That wasn’t a life for the motorbike champion.

I’d put the file into a folder. I’d scribbled out many of my hate-fuelled, unprofessional comments to the point that our team’s media manager, Livie, had offered me her iPad to write down the notes afresh on a PDF.

But I liked the anger of my sprawl.

My toes tapped against the floor of the meeting room. Tap, tap, tap. Originally, Livie was meant to be here before Cris, the team director, so we could talk through my goals for the meeting. Her worried look when she suggested it told me she feared I’d go too far.

That morning in the hotel’s gym, I had got out most of my frustration and gone particularly hard on the punching bag, having to wrap my hands repeatedly because I was so unfocused on anything other than getting my anger out.

Bloody knuckles were a small price for a little relief from the media and the headlines that kept on flashing in my mind.

‘A future up in the air… he feels like he’s filling someone else’s shoes… the burden of being a replacement… excitement turned to regret…trapped in the spotlight…a dream he doesn’t believe is his…’

Livie had told me not to google my name. I hadn’t listened.

To everyone on the outside, I put on my normal smile, chatting away about everything and anything else. But there was acid in my throat when I swallowed. A tightness in my grin. A blockage in my chest.

I locked my phone and was picking at the scabs on my knuckles when Cris opened the door and came in with Livie at his side, sitting across from me in the small white meeting room. She mouthed a ‘sorry’, shaking her blonde curls in sympathy.

To show my hesitation, I hadn’t put on my racing leathers.

Cris gave me a sad smile — more of an upside-down smile, his lips turned down with pity.

I didn’t want his pity.

Words wouldn’t help us here. I slid my annotated inquiry across the table towards my team director and clasped my hands together on the desk.

This man was my cousin’s best friend. I didn’t want to hurt him.

Not when he and Nix had taken me under their wings when I was promoted to their team.

I missed Alv’s guidance, but they were trying. Out of guilt.

“You’ve read this then.”

“Once or twice,” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm, and jerked my head towards the paper I’d thrown his way. “Made some notes for Don.”

Don Velente. Ciclati’s CEO.

“It goes live tomorrow,” Livie said. “There’s no time for changes or—”

“I don’t need changes, I need out.”

No one could force me to race in Alv’s saddle, not with what I knew now. I’d been his replacement for no reason other than I was a familiar name. I didn’t get in on the merit of my own ability, just to soften the reaction to what Ciclati had been negligible for.

Because if the victim’s cousin could forgive the team, then why couldn’t the public?

But I hadn’t.

Cris muttered before breathing in deeply. “Luca, you are safe. You and Nix. We’ve changed the helmets and they’re now the safest across StormSprint. We have other teams wanting to buy ours, so, if it’s to do with safety, you—”

“I could not care less about my safety,” I snapped.

In fact, I’d been pretty reckless with my health.

“Then you want to know how it happened?”

“Every race, we have a trailer dedicated to equipment. New leathers. Gloves. Helmets. You want it, we’ve got it. I can’t believe in StormSprint, his equipment wasn’t checked.”

Dozens of trailers were moved between the races. Thousands of workers checked the equipment. Bike racing generated millions every year and Ciclati were the best of the best — they’d fallen short. If they could sweep my cousin’s accident under the rug, God knew what else they were willing to hide.

“It was overlooked,” Cris said with remorse. “It was an accident.”

“How am I meant to race for a team that overlooked my cousin’s life? How am I meant to get on that bike knowing how negligent Ciclati are?”

“ Were ,” Cris stressed. “We’ve changed everything. New checks. New protocols. You know Alv. He kept gear to himself. That helmet? Personal use.”

Did he just fucking talk about Alv in the past tense?

“Don’t blame the victim.”

“He’s not,” Livie chipped in. She was in PR mode. Not friend mode. “He’s just saying there have been changes since.”

“And you want me to be quiet about all of this? I don’t know if—”

“You have no choice,” Cris said. “The report and our statement are all the world needs to know. Anything negative you say goes against your contract.”

Yet Nix could bitch all he liked and get away with it?

“Nix—”

“He’s careful,” Livie stressed but of course she would seeing as she was in love with the guy. “He complains about StormSprint, not Ciclati.”

“I bet he’s not happy about the helmets, though, is he?”

“I’ve already spoken to him,” Cris said, but looked down at the folder.

“And how did that go?”

They looked at each other before Livie said, “He’s not going to talk.”

No, because that would mean extra work for her, and Nix liked to keep her all to himself.

“Ciclati—”

“If you’re going to blame anyone, blame me,” Cris said, and through my frustration at Ciclati, I could see the distress in his eyes. As well as the tears. “I already do. You might as well. But don’t go after your team, you’ll ruin your career just as it’s getting started.”

My career meant nothing compared to my cousin’s life.

I wouldn’t have had the career without him. His knowledgeable, gentle yet firm voice was ingrained in my brain. Careful round the bend, Luca. Steady of the breaks, Luca.

And I could never compare.

I was in this strange no-man’s-land in my head. I’d quit boxing three years ago, needing a new rush, and wound up here.

As a teenager, you couldn’t get me out of the ring or off the track. My granddad moved me to an American boarding school, hoping it would improve my grades. There, I found people more like myself—not necessarily intelligent but driven.

I wasn’t so driven anymore.

“Luca, there is no getting out of your contract, trust me, I know,” Cris called, pulling me out of my thoughts with a few blinks.

He wiped away a tear and my hard surface was cracking.

Everyone loved Alv. Including his boss. “It’s not just your career.

If you go against your contract, Ciclati will sue you. It’s worth hundreds of thousands.”

“It’s just money.”

But Cris cocked a brow. “It’s a substantial amount of money and your reputation, Luca.”

Livie was nodding along, her eyes wide with sympathy.

“If you want to race, you need to see out your contract. I know you want to leave and I completely understand that. Your family…” He shook his head. “Stay. Continue his legacy.”

Legacy. Right.

I couldn’t think straight. I should hate Cris. Try and get back at him. But he was hurting too.

No one was winning in this.

Cris stood and I clapped him on the back. This wasn’t his fault. It should be Don I was talking to.

“I’m so sorry, Luca,” he said, his voice breaking.

I wondered what camp he was in. He was rarely emotional and managed us with quick quips, his focus nearly always the bikes. He was a practical man. So when it came to Alv… did he know, like I did?

My family still clung to hope, but I knew we were either at the end of Alv’s life or the beginning of an arduous journey.