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Chapter Thirty-Four

Shantal

I ’ve been trying to convince myself I’m not hallucinating for hours.

I handed him the flag – the flag he flew during his victory lap. I’ve seen photos, which made it feel both more and less real. I’ve seen videos, which made it feel like an out-of-body experience. I could see his eyes through the tint of the visor. They caught mine and didn’t move until he’d taken the flag from me.

Amid all my thoughts, there’s a loud thumping knock at my door. I creep over and peep through the hole warily. Speak of the devil: Darien is there.

I take a deep breath and open the door. ‘Weren’t you … supposed to be getting ready for that nightclub thing?’

It’s a fair question. The Imola GP afterparty is in an hour, and he doesn’t look anywhere near ready to go out. In fact, his curls are as unruly as they’d been when he took off his helmet earlier today, and he’s dressed in a grey T-shirt and a pair of pyjama pants with pictures of little cars on them.

He just grins his usual stupid grin, no thoughts behind those deep brown eyes. Dimples etch his cheeks as he glances at my outfit, a similar degree of un-club-like as his. I’ve got running shorts and an old college football shirt. ‘You don’t look like you’re ready, either.’

‘Is that a concern? You’re the winner of the race,’ I point out. Some unexpected burst of confidence bolsters me enough to press an insistent index finger to his muscled chest.

His gaze flicks to my finger, and then back to my face with a raised eyebrow. ‘Come with me.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘I swear. I’m not being weird. C’mon.’

I’m intrigued, if not slightly lost, but I grab my phone, close the door behind me, and follow Darien as he sets off down the hall. The further we walk, the louder something playing in the distance – someone talking – gets. Eventually, we stop at the source of the noise, room 812. His room?

‘Your room?’ I echo my thought aloud.

‘You’ll see.’ He presses his key card to the lock, the door pops open, and I walk into a scene that has me in total and utter shock.

I don’t even know how the logistical parts of this situation fell into place, but somehow there are three queen-size hotel beds in the middle of Darien’s enormous sitting room, all pushed together in front of his TV. Now there’s no question I’ve been hallucinating since this morning, because I believe I see Miguel, Henri, Diana, and … is that Peter Albrecht? Whatever the case, they’re sharing a pizza, sprawled across the span of bed . If I’m not mistaken, it’s Keanu Reeves in an American football uniform on the television screen (when did that happen?). A full spread of candy, ice cream, fries, burgers, and more fast food has completely overtaken the dining table.

‘Henri’s not gonna be back with us till mid-season,’ says Darien, as if this will explain everything. ‘We thought this was an apt send-off.’

‘A …’ I search for the right phrase. ‘Slumber party?’

Darien and the others turn to me, waiting for my reaction. I don’t expect the laugh that bubbles up in my chest. ‘You know what? I’ve not eaten a really greasy pizza in ages .’

The room reverberates to excited cheers. Diana bounds over to me, beaming in her usual radiant way. She’s got on the same car pyjama pants as Miguel, Henri and Darien, coupled with an old Jolt shirt. ‘We have PJs for you,’ she says in a foreboding tone. ‘And lots and lots of pizza. We have more than enough pizza.’

‘How …’ I gesture vaguely towards the beds. But never mind the how, I’m pretty sure that has to be against hotel policy.

She presses a finger to her lips with a smirk. ‘Shhh.’

Once I’ve changed into my car pants, Henri, who’s downing M only a part of my heart that I thought had been closed off for ever last year.

This time, the weightlessness lasts much longer than a mere moment.