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‘What do you mean he’s got a broken leg?’

I should be packing for Bahrain when my agent, Will, and the team principal, Anders, decide to drop an absolute shitstorm into my life.’

‘I’m not sure what more I can say, Kian, other than that it was a freak accident and Elijah slipped on the side of a pool. His leg’s broken in three places, the muppet.’

Hearing the story a second time doesn’t settle the riptide of stress my brain releases into my body.

It’s a no-brainer at this point. My teammate’s out for at least the first six months, maybe more, of the season and everything is truly about to go to shit.

I look down at my suitcase lying open on the bed. All the packing cubes in the world aren’t going to make me feel better. And that’s saying something, because I bloody love sorting my life into tiny, organised squares of neatness. Elijah Gutaga and I have been teammates for the last five seasons and we’ve developed a bond not only on the track, but off the track, too. I’m godfather to his three-year-old. He’s my best mate in a world where it’s hard to find people you can trust. In one of the most dangerous sports in the world, there has to be a level of trust within your immediate circle and within the wider team too. That bond, especially for the Constructors’ Championship, is vital. Without this trust, everything falls apart.

It takes me way too many seconds to realise that I’m sitting in silence whilst the two people who hold my career in their hands wait for me to respond. I don’t quite know what they expect me to say. Holding my nerve is one of the most important skills in this sport and it feels slightly shaken right now. Racing isn’t exactly a team sport, but Elijah and I have been training together for years and we’ve always worked really well together.

With Elijah out, well, I don’t know what that means for me.

Jeez I can’t afford to think about it like that. There are already whispers about this being my retirement season – I’m thirty-three and I’ve been world champion four times, most recently last year. Even so, I need this to be a spectacular year in order to shut the press up.

‘Okay.’ I move away from the phone mic to take a calming breath. ‘That’s fine. It’s not the end of the world. I’ll give him a call. I did wonder why he hasn’t returned my texts in the last twenty-four hours.’

Anders immediately pounces on my words. ‘You’ll be fine, Kian, and we’ll make sure Elijah gets the best care. He’ll definitely need surgery so we’ll get Harley Street’s finest surgeons on the case. We want him back and fighting fit as soon as possible.’

‘So you think he might return before the end of the season?’ I ask hopefully.

That would be something, at least.

‘Best not to count on it at this point. We’ll have to play it by ear. It depends first on how the injury heals and then his recovery. All you can do is focus on your own game plan and let us work with Elijah to support his recovery.’

‘Okay, well, I’d best finish packing, then.’ I survey the mess I’ve created whilst trying to organise myself. It’s probably going to take all night. At least I can sleep on the jet.

And I can sleep well knowing we’ll have London, the team’s back-up driver, taking up Elijah’s spot. He’s come on leaps and bounds in the last year.

‘Good man. That’s what we wanted to hear. We’ll see you and Harper on the runway first thing tomorrow.’

‘Tomorr— Hang on, what?’ Did he just say Harper? ‘Did you just say Harper? As in, Harper James?’

‘The one and only. We’ve called him up from the lower category to take Elijah’s place whilst he’s out. I dropped him a line before we called you.’ Anders sounds completely calm about this, like it isn’t the worst possible news he could be giving me right now.

Through gritted teeth I say, ‘Of course. Makes sense. See you tomorrow.’ The line drops and I have to resist the urge to lob my phone at the wall.

Harper bloody James.

I could write you a list of about twenty other drivers I’d rather share a podium with than Harper James.

Face like an angel but an absolute devil on the circuit. He’s better known for his partying and seduction techniques than his skill on the track. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, because he did win the lower category last season, but his antics captured on social-media and in the press overshadow anything else he’s achieved in his career. He makes the headlines every other day even in the off season and I’ve seen more of that guy’s body than I could ever wish to. If there’s a scandal in the sports pages, chances are his name is attached to it. I’m surprised that Anders is willing to put this aside and risk pissing off the sponsors – Harper James is good but he’s not that good!

That’s the only thing we’ve got in common, actually. Having been raised in the public eye from the second I was born, I’ve made enough headlines to last me a lifetime. The stories about you as a kid – and the awkward, unflattering helmet-hair pictures that accompany the lies – follow you around forever. He could do with learning that.

I shoot Elijah a text asking him to call me as soon as he has a moment. I’m sure he’s devastated, and things at his end must be utter chaos right now. I can’t even imagine how hard a season-ending injury has to be just days before we jet off again. I want to make sure he’s okay and let him know I’ll be by to visit as soon as I can.

As I hit send, my phone pings with a news blast, containing a press release I was sadly already privy to.

‘Elijah Gutaga out for Hendersohm. Harper James in, with the new season just around the corner.’

Well. It’s official.

The article quotes not only a tweeted statement from the team, but also an Instagram post from Harper himself announcing his call-up. Of course he’s tasteless enough to announce it shirtless in just a pair of Hendersohm shorts and baseball cap.

It’s not enough that I’ve had to mingle with him at the occasional Hendersohm party in the past, now I’m going to be stuck with him every day for the best part of a year. All the excitement for the new season starts to drain from me. Normally, at this point I’m buzzing with energy for pre-season testing, but not anymore.

In the most insane way, I find peace from doing this sport, despite the intense pressure, and now Harper James is about to shake that all up with his bullshit attitude and recklessness on the track. I’ve had first-hand experience of his type and I don’t need, or want, that kind of chaos in my life. He’s a reminder of all that is wrong with this sport.

A few hours later, I park my packed case by the front door and pull on a jacket. It’s time for my least favourite pre-season ritual – saying goodbye.

* * *

When I let myself into my mum’s house, I’m instantly hit with a whiff of freshly baked apple pie. That smell used to soothe my soul as a child. Once she’d stopped touring, there was nothing Mum loved more than baking. Now, though, it’s my sister who stress-bakes and it’s always a sign that it’s not been a good day.

A familiar niggle of guilt creeps into my stomach and I force myself to step over the threshold for the last time for the next nine months.

Cartoons are playing on the TV in the front room, which I quickly bypass, heading for what is now Mum’s bedroom, downstairs. Peering in, I find her fast asleep, a contorted, distressed look pulling on her face. There’s a fragility to the way her cheekbones protrude so sharply and I have to take a couple of seconds to watch the blanket on her chest rise and fall to reassure myself that she’s breathing.

Not wanting to disturb her, I gently pull her bedroom door shut and find my sister amongst a mess of pots, pans, and plates in the kitchen.

‘Hey, sis.’ She jumps slightly, but nothing prepares me for the bloodshot eyes that meet mine as she turns to face me.

Wordlessly, I pull her into a hug, soft sobs ricocheting off my shoulders as I hold her close.

Four years ago, Elise was in the final year of her nursing degree when she found out in the same week that she was pregnant with my niece, Cassie, and that our mum had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Both discoveries changed her, one for the better, the other not so much. She gave up her nursing degree and when Mum started to lose more of her faculties, Elise became her full-time carer.

Elise and her husband, Grant, rented out their house and moved into Mum’s farmhouse set in several acres of land in Norfolk. Their first child, Cassie, and their second, Jesse, have been raised here for the last three-and-a-half years. I can’t imagine them ever leaving now.

I admire everything about my sister, but the way she’s taken care of our mum is truly something else. Especially as I haven’t been here to pull my weight anywhere near as much as I wish I could. Elise would never say a bad word about that. She’ll tell you she’s grateful that I get to keep my career, that she more than appreciates the trust fund I’ve put aside for her kids to go to university or travel the world or whatever they want in the future. I wish it was enough. I wish I could do more than just pay for the best equipment and doctors and visiting support workers to make Mum’s remaining time in this world comfortable.

I’m not sure how many minutes pass with us just standing there, me holding Elise up, but we never get too many undisturbed moments like this. And then Cassie is screaming her head off, causing the baby, Jesse, to cry, and we have to break apart before either of us are ready to let go.

Elise rushes off to sort them out and I make a start on the washing-up. It’s the least I can do. Everything’s on the draining board and the worktops are sparkling when Elise returns, peace restored in the living room, weariness carried heavily in every ounce of her body.

‘I’ll bathe and put the kids to bed. You go and grab yourself a glass of wine and chill in front of the TV,’ I tell her. It’s an order, not a suggestion.

‘Lifesaver, thank you, Ki.’

I might have come over here to moan about Harper, but I can tell that now is not the time. I don’t want to add to her burden when it’s so clear she’s already physically and emotionally worn out from the day. Even though I know she’d protest, saying she’s always here, regardless, to listen.

‘Who wants a story?’ I call out as I enter the living room. Cassie cheers, racing into my arms so I can spin her around and Jesse springs up and down in his bouncer. I can’t believe he’s already fourteen months old.

Bathtime turns into a slip and slide, but it’s worth it to listen to the sounds of my niece and nephew playing happily together. When they are dried and creamed, I lay Jesse down in his cot and thankfully he settles almost immediately, but Cassie is another story. Literally.

I finish one of her favourite books and she quickly requests a second, which turns into a third and it takes all my willpower to reject her pleas for a fourth. She’s only three, but she’s every bit as strong-willed as her mother and has the too-pretty-to-deny eyes to match.

‘I’ve still got to go give your mum a story, so it’s time for you to settle, missy. Come on, bedtime.’ I tickle her sides and she screams, legs thrashing around under her duvet. I need to leave soon, and Elise won’t thank me for riling Cassie up like this, but it’s worth it to see the pure joy radiating off her face.

It’s not the kind of bedtime I ever remember having as a kid. When we were on tour, Mum would be warming up or already on stage by the time Elise and I were put to bed, and Dad … well, the less said about that the better. I know it really matters to Elise that her kids have what we didn’t, which is why I always find it so hard to resist their pleas for just one more story.

‘Okay, Uncle Ki Ki, Mommy deserves a story.’ She claps and then rolls on to her side to face the mountain of teddies she keeps with her. It’s precious to say the least.

Pressing a kiss to Cassie’s forehead, I pull the duvet up to her chin and wish her goodnight. She mumbles back but is more interested in how many of her bears she can cuddle at once. She’s peaceful when I check on her after grabbing the baby monitor from Jesse’s room, so I head back downstairs. One of the best things Elise and Grant ever did was make Mum’s house feel like their own home so it feels like a wonderful multi-generational household.

Elise is curled up on the sofa in her pyjamas, hair scraped back, no remains of today’s make-up left on her face. Her glass is full of a straw-coloured white wine and there’s some crime drama on the TV. She appears calmer, but I can see in her eyes that her mind is still going a mile a minute. She’ll only have one glass so she can hear Mum or the kids in the night, and yet again, I feel guilty that I’m about to disappear for the best part of nine months.

‘You okay?’ She asks, like it’s been me taking care of the rug rats and Mum all day.

‘I’m good, kid, are you?’ My sister glares at me with the same stare she’s been giving me since we were little – the one that reminds me that she is exactly thirteen minutes older than me.

‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tired. Cassie’s been full of beans all day and Jesse just wants to shove anything he can reach into his mouth.’ I appreciate that she doesn’t mention Mum and instantly feel bad about that.

‘Mum okay?’ It’s a stupid question, because of course she isn’t. She has a godawful disease which is slowly taking her from us.

The Parkinson’s diagnosis came as a complete shock at first, and then within a few months we noticed every single symptom they warned us about. Elise was incredible and took it in her stride, and I just about coped with seeing it eat away at Mum for the three months a year I was around.

‘Bad day. She thought I was Aunt Judith this morning.’ I try to hide my wince, but a frown pulls at my sister’s lips and I know she’s concealing how bad it really is from me. ‘Her memory is really deteriorating and it feels like the rate of decline is increasing every day.’

This is something else the doctors warned us about. Dementia. Another disease that often comes hand in hand with Parkinson’s as the condition begins to worsen.

‘I’m so sorry, Elise,’ I apologise like she isn’t my mum, too, but I know the burden is not shared equally between us. Mum will forget me first because I’m just not around enough. It will kill Elise to be forgotten, and she’s the one who will have to face it every single day. It is truly the cruellest disease. I feel a stab in my heart every time Mum looks at me blankly, unable to place me as a part of her fading life, but at least I’m not confronted with it every hour of the day.

‘Anyway,’ Elise says as she waves the stress away, ‘what’s going on with you? I love you, bro, and I know you love us, but you didn’t barge your way in here just to put the kids to bed.’

I groan, the lavender candle burning on the mantelpiece not doing a thing to soothe the anxiety that’s been curling in my chest since the phone rang this morning. ‘Elijah’s broken his leg. Three places. It’s bad.’

‘Oh, shit.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, so he’s out for, what, three to six months? Half a season or thereabouts. Isn’t that what the back-up guy is for? That’s not what’s got you in this funk.’

She knows me way too well. ‘I think Anders has written him off for the whole season. Oh, and Harper James is his replacement.’

The room falls silent. Elise pauses the TV show to allow us to talk properly and the house suddenly feels unnervingly still.

‘Look, baby bro,’ she says, which only makes me want to groan louder. ‘I know what’s going on in that head of yours. He’s so much like the man you’ve desperately tried not to become, and I know you hate everything about his attitude and how he treats people, but it’s temporary. He’s temporary. Elijah’s leg will heal, the team will go back to normal, and the rookie prick’ll be shunted back down into the lower category faster than he’s crawled up.’

And this is why she’s the best sister in the world. She’s the best mum, daughter, carer and, when she can finish her degree, she will be the best nurse, too. It’s everything I need to hear. I know she’s right. Deep down, in the rational part of me that’s buried by the anxiety, I know this. My brain loves to catastrophise while hers is made of steel – or carbon fibre. I always joke that she stole all the sensible genes in the womb.

‘I just…’ I’m not even sure what’s left to say. I just want everything to be okay. Easy. ‘I thought this was going to be the season.’ I can’t find the words to say it, to say that I’m wondering if this will be my last season. I’m not sure I’m there yet. I’m not sure I’m ready to say it out loud. ‘I thought this was going to be the one where everything would be?—’

‘You finished top of the podium last year and got your fourth world title,’ she quickly interjects. ‘You’re already a legend. Way better than Dad ever was.’

‘I know, but I still feel like I have everything to prove this year. I’d like to go for the points record, if I can.’ She’s heard the whispers about me retiring – and no one knows me better than Elise – so she knows exactly what I mean.

‘Harper doesn’t have to get in the way of that. Elijah doesn’t stop you winning. As your second driver, he supports you and the team. You just have to put Harper into a little box in your head and focus on your own drive.’

If only it were that easy. We’re going to be breathing each other’s air for months, sharing pits, simulators, private jets, locker rooms. The whole atmosphere is about to change and it’s going to affect my performance, no matter how hard I try to prevent it. I’ve been around men like him before and I know what it will do to me. I don’t know what Anders is thinking.

But my sister’s right. I’m an elite sportsman and if I lose the mental game then I don’t deserve to win. I mentally prepare a box and shove Harper James into it, padlocking it closed.

‘Okay, smarty pants. You’ve got me there. I have every intention of bringing home the cup this season, don’t worry. It’s not like I don’t already have four.’ I shrug like it’s nothing, but it means everything to me. The first one has pride of place in my home. The second lives in Mum’s room, and the third was for Elise. The fourth is displayed in the premises of a local youth charity that I’m the ambassador for. I think it’s finally time to bring one home for Cassie and Jesse.

‘Good. Now can you let me get back to my show?’ she admonishes with the most obnoxious eyeroll I’ve ever seen. I can’t help but silently laugh.

She unpauses the TV, chucks a blanket at me, and I sink into the cosy L corner of the sofa. I fall asleep within minutes in the worst position for my back and neck, only to be woken by Jesse’s screaming at 4am. It’s perfect timing because a car is coming to get me in an hour to take me to the airport … to meet Harper James.

Elise comes downstairs carrying Jesse, face puffy and hair askew, grumbling about never getting a full night’s sleep. I plant a kiss on her forehead and whisper my goodbyes.

‘Good luck, bro. You can do this, regardless of who’s in the other car. You’ve got this. And don’t forget: we love you, whatever happens.’

I drive back home and wait for the car to pick me up. My sister’s words stay with me until the second I climb the stairs to board the jet and find Harper James kicking back in a recliner, his trademark arrogant smirk curling the corners of his lips. My hope and excitement evaporate and I’m left with nothing but frustration and irritation.

‘All right, Walker? How’s it going, mate?’

His face is almost split in two by how wide his grin is, and I loathe him instantly. We’ve only met a couple of times, and we definitely aren’t mates. Urgh.

It’s going to be a long season.