Page 11

Aday and a half later, I’m still falling apart. I can’t think, I can’t sleep, I can’t focus.

Yet Harper bloody James is rocking some kind of weird glow. I’d call it post-orgasm, but neither of us came.

I’m undeniably envious at how he’s bounced back so quickly from our aborted fuckfest. I’m also … hurt? Offended? I can’t quite articulate how I feel about the fact that he seems completely unaffected by what happened between us. Especially since it feels like my whole world has been plunged into the kind of chaos that does not bode well for my upcoming performance. Every time he looks at me my skin prickles and I have to look away – my nerves are completely shot. I can’t sleep because whenever I close my eyes, I see his hand on my cock, I feel the pressure of his tight grip, the sensitive pull as he tugs, the tightening of my balls … I’m struggling to remember to do even the most basic things as I prep to get in the cockpit.

Stupidly, I haven’t brought my earbuds with me to the track, because when I woke up this morning, gritty-eyed from restless tossing and turning, I should have been visualising the course here in Miami and thinking about what I needed today. But all I could think about was Harper.

Is he thinking about me?

Probably not, I tell myself harshly. He does this all the time. He’s used to it, used to that rush of adrenaline, the feeling of weightless falling and delicious anticipation.

I sound like a bloody teenager with a crush, for fuck’s sake!

I tell myself that it only seems meaningful because the last time I had sex was, like, eight months ago. It had been quick, like scratching an itch, and exactly what we’d both been looking for – something to take the edge off.

I haven’t had a serious relationship in almost four years. Christine and I were together for eighteen months. She broke things off shortly before I was heading off for pre-season training because I wasn’t home enough and she couldn’t face another season before the little I had to give was hers again. I wasn’t ‘present’ she claimed, even when I was around. And I don’t blame her – the way I have trained myself to be able to focus has always been my superpower. It’s one of the reasons I have such a strict and disciplined routine. It’s why I don’t drink or go out partying. When I get behind the wheel, I need to know that I’m one hundred percent committed to winning. No distractions.

What made it worse, at that time, was that during the break between seasons, Mum got her Parkinson’s diagnosis and my sister was really unwell with chronic morning sickness. I felt overwhelmed and anxious, and there was nothing left in the tank for Christine after caring for my mum and my sister.

We parted amicably, and I went on to start pre-season training without looking back. Any spare mental or emotional capacity was taken up with family stuff, and I was able to compartmentalise on the track with no problem.

Unlike now.

The feel of Harper’s lips on mine is seared into my brain. I can feel the imprint of them still on every inch of my skin — even places they hadn’t touched.

There was no amicable parting of ways with Harper. He swaggers about with his usual arrogant nonchalance and I am a pathetic ball of anxiety and awkwardness. In public – in front of Anders and the team, the media, and basically anyone else – we continue to maintain what passes for a friendly truce.

In private … well, there is no private. I make sure that we’re never alone together. I do everything I can to forget about it. Yes, I know, very mature.

‘You okay?’ Cole asks. ‘Your heart’s racing.’

Of course, he’s got all the data from the various monitors for both the car’s health and mine on a screen in front of him.

Great. Just Great.

While I’ve been off in my own world, on a trip down memory lane, Cole’s been watching me have a minor heart attack. The world of knowing what Harper James feels like underneath me is really messing with my concentration. It’s not a fun place to be. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.

Enough, Walker! For fuck’s sake.

I don’t know what to tell Cole. He’s my eyes and ears when I climb in the cockpit so I should probably be honest about where my head’s at, but there’s no way I’m admitting any of this. Denial it is!

‘Just trying to get myself in the zone. Forgot my earbuds and I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on.’ I rub my temples for good measure. I can feel the stress tugging at the back of my head, making my forehead feel tight. Good thing it’s only practice – the final one before qualifiers – but not race day.

‘Let me get one of the runners to grab you something with electrolytes in it, so you don’t start to flag; down it and then get going,’ he says, signalling to one of the team to grab a drink from the fridge in the garage.

If only electrolytes could flush Harper out of my system.

One of the elite performance coaches that Hendersohm brings in says that sometimes the only way out is through. You can’t avoid a problem forever, nor can you find a way around it; you have to accept the truth and face the problem with courage. Let yourself feel it, but keep pushing through, he used to say. If Harper is my problem, then…

Shit. Maybe the only solution is a naked rematch. Maybe that’s the only way to get him out of my system.

One of the guys comes running over with my favourite brand of sports drink – the blue flavour. I offer him my thanks but he’s already being called off to do something else.

‘It’s only practice,’ Cole reassures me. ‘See what happens out there and then bring your absolute A game tomorrow. Get some laps in to shake off whatever’s eating away at you.’

And now I have images of Harper eating me out. Thanks Cole, super helpful.

I feel immediately guilty, because how could he possibly know?

‘Yeah, thanks, mate. I think I must just be a bit dehydrated.’

For the walking thirst-trap that is Harper James.

Cole gives me an odd look as I continue to chug the sports drink. He points out something on the monitor playing footage from this morning. I’m waiting for my allocated turn on the track but Yorris, Johannes and the two McLaren Swedes have already done their laps. They’re my biggest competitors this season, I reckon.

I should probably be including Harper in that running order, too, since he’s in the top five positions more than he’s not. I hate to admit it, but he’s doing better than Elijah did at this point last season.

Cole and I look for ways that our competitors’ cars betray them and point out micro-errors that indicate where their weaknesses are when driving. Especially with the Swedes, who are brothers. They work so well together as they try and box off P1 and P2 – precisely what Harper and I don’t do. I’m constantly on the lookout for opportunities to slip past them or to maintain the lead. The older brother, he’s fearless, with a killer instinct on the track. It’s like a natural gift. The younger brother can sometimes be induced to panic if you put enough pressure on him. He’s the weaker of the two, and I’m always confident I can take him.

It’s an interesting dynamic, siblings racing together. I’m glad I don’t have to do it, that’s for sure. Elise is as tough as they come and I’ve always looked up to her, but she’s got the killer instinct of a buttercup.

‘Feeling ready to get out there?’ Cole asks after I drain half the bottle of blue liquid.

I nod. I need a great practice session to put me in a good headspace for the qualifiers tomorrow. To make sure my head’s in the game.

Balaclava secure and helmet donned, I climb into the cockpit. My second home. Cole’s voice snugly back in my ear; the familiar cadence of his breathing is calming as I wait to be told I can go.

Miami’s track might be newer, but it was my favourite to race last year. It’s just three long straight runs that I know how to exploit to my advantage, and then some elevations on certain bends that feel thrilling to fly over.

The flag drops for me to go and the main man is already chattering encouragement in my ear.

‘Push mode, push mode,’ Cole’s saying and I ramp up the throttle and tear down the first straight. ‘Oh, and Kian? Try to have fun, won’t you?’ That has me smiling and laughing to myself as I brace my body against the G-force of the first bend.

Free practices are so much fun in Miami. The sun might be blaring down on us, but there’s an atmosphere in the arena that lifts me out of my funk of the last thirty-six hours as I zoom past the stadium that houses the Miami Dolphins. I notch up the speed and feel the car respond, and that’s when the fun finally kicks in.

I’m trying not to think too hard about anything other than my foot on the gas, my hands on the steering wheel, and the way the moulded seat hugs my body. I mentally catalogue anything that doesn’t feel right on the tracks, passing on the info to Cole who will work with the technicians ahead of tomorrow’s qualifiers. Finally, I start to feel like myself again.

I pull into the garage after fifteen laps and climb out, discussing with Cole and the team what tweaks we can make for tomorrow that will address the sluggish third quarter. Cole and I then look at the specific data and I give him my overall report on today’s session.

Those fifteen laps are all I needed today. Sometimes I need more, but I’m good for today. I’m glad my schedule is packed. I need to keep this positive mindset and the flow that I found on the circuit. I have a big ‘from the track’ interview to do for ESPN and then I’ve got a gym session with my personal trainer followed by an evening of sports massage and stretches. Perfect.

I love my routine. It keeps me sane – and winning.

And then I walk into the interview and am completely blindsided by the host introducing a set of questions on my father. I look around for Anna. This is definitely not on my list of approved topics. It’s actually on the blacklist, the only thing on there that Anna knows to emphasise with anyone wanting to interview me.

‘We had Tyler Heath on earlier this morning, talking about how the first part of the new season is going for you and the line-up at Hendersohm. What do you think he had to say about your performance?’ Kelly Sikes asks. She was one of my favourite sports presenters to watch, until now.

I don’t care what he’s said about me. I’m sure it’s been nothing but good things because he loves to talk about me when I’m doing well and whenever it’ll bring him in a couple of quid. But quite frankly, his opinion is irrelevant.

‘I’ve got my eyes on another top-of-the-podium finish this season,’ I say. Despite being forced into media training at the very beginning of the season – which I still blame on Harper – I’m actually good at this. It’s hardly the first time I’ve neatly sidestepped any mention of the connection between me and my infamous father.

I laugh along as she plays me soundbites of the earlier clips. He says things like, ‘he’s just like his old man on the track,’ and that ‘I couldn’t be prouder of the driver Kian’s become over the last decade.’

It’s enough to make me want to vomit, but I fake pleasant acquiescence and quickly find a way to move on from the topic.

Thankfully, the rest of the interview is painless. We talk about how the Miami Grand Prix is becoming as big as the Super Bowl each year, and what I’m excited to see and do while I’m in America.

I’m sure she’s not expecting me to gush about the beach yoga, but Anna’s always saying I need to come across with a bit more warmth and ‘emotional authenticity’. I know this is to counteract my refusal to discuss Tyler Heath, and to court sponsors, so I go on about mindfulness for a bit and show my enthusiasm for the sunrise beach crowd. If Kelly is surprised, she hides it well.

Then she blindsides me again.

‘I hear there’s going to be a Kian Walker night at one of the bars in the gay village. Will you be attending that?’ Not even I’ve heard about this night that’s apparently being thrown in my name, but I definitely won’t be putting in an appearance.

‘While that sounds very cool and I’m honoured, it’s not really my scene. However, if you let me or the team know which bar it is, I’ll get some signed merch down to them.’ It’s the least I can do if I’m not going to go, and I don’t think Anna will object.

We end the interview on that and Kelly’s assistant hands me a business card with the name of the bar so I can get in touch. I’ll put the Hendersohm PR team on that straight away so I can focus on tomorrow’s race.

I’m lucky enough not to cross paths with Harper for the rest of the day. Physically, I’m doing a great job of avoiding him. Mentally, I’m actually feeling pretty robust after this afternoon’s session on the track. I’m so focused on not thinking about him, however, that I miss the window of time to call Elise to say goodnight to the kids.

I eat what the hotel calls a ‘soul bowl’ alone in bed. I stay off social media and go through my night-before-a-race meditation routine. When I finally close my eyes to fall asleep, Harper James swaggers into my thoughts as though he’d never left.

I haven’t had sex dreams like that for a long time.

Needless to say, I go into the qualifiers half-asleep. Maybe even dangerously tired, to the point that I down two espressos in the garage and have to splash my face with ice-cold water.

It’s not my best pre-race warm-up, but it has to be done. The first two knockouts go fine – nothing special, but nothing truly awful. I’m in P6 going into the final qualifying round which is not where I want to be, but it definitely could be worse.

Yet, the second they let us go for the third time that day, I know something’s really, really wrong. I’m pushing the pedal and I’m still going forwards, but the car feels like it’s shaking. The engine is shuddering and spluttering as if it can’t find the energy to go any faster.

Maybe the engine and I are one, because I am eerily familiar with the feeling. It’s unsettling to have my inner turmoil reflected in the inanimate beast that’s normally growling and rumbling with barely leashed power. Today, neither of us has the edge.

‘What’s going on, Ki?’ Cole asks.

‘You tell me, mate!’

I’m not quite limping yet, but after one semi-decent lap everyone overtakes me and I just want to crawl back to the garage. For the first time in my career, I feel like giving in and going home.

Cole is buzzing in my ear with suggestions and feedback, but nothing’s working.

‘Just can’t get going. Doesn’t feel like the car’s even reaching half-throttle let alone full.’

‘Engine seems shot mate, sorry. It’s not putting out what we’d like. Everyone’s pissed off in here right now,’ Cole quickly replies.

Slamming my fists against the steering controls, I let out a deep, earth-shattering roar of frustration.

‘I thought we sorted this yesterday!’

I feel my temper flare. I’m really angry now – and only some of it is due to the technical failure of the car. I know I’m annoyed with myself – for losing focus, for getting side-tracked by Harper, for a missed opportunity that could cost me the trophy.

It feels like the engine’s about to fail completely, so I have no choice but to slow even more. I’m limping along now, and trying not to deafen Cole as I take out my frustration on his eardrums. I never really got going in these qualifiers, and the stats Cole’s giving me show I’ve hit nowhere near the numbers I expected. Come race day, I’m going to be staring at the exhausts of people I should have in my pocket. I don’t need to see anyone else’s lap times to know that.

At least I’ll still be top ten. I hate relying on other people having a worse day in order to do well. That’s not what elite performance should be about.

‘Where am I sitting?’ I ask Cole as the engine shudders.

‘P9. Everyone else is almost finished so that’s where you’ll end up.’ What he’s saying is I shouldn’t even try and finish. I should just get out now and let them pick the car up and return it to the garage. The team’s going to have an all-nighter to get it fixed and ready for tomorrow. I don’t envy them, but they’re not the ones out here doing the driving. The most useful thing I can do is rest up and come back with a good strategy for the race.

Thankfully, it’s not a sprint weekend so I’m not losing out on possible extra points. Silver linings and all that.

‘Harper’s position?’ I ask once I’m stationary on the side of the track. I wait for the go-ahead that says it’s safe to climb out, and I want to have time to compose myself before I face anyone.

‘P4.’

Damn it! That motherfucker!

His first time on this Miami track and he’s gone and crushed it.

It’s like he’s coated in Teflon. Nothing sticks!

If I wasn’t so annoyed at myself and at the situation I’d probably find his skill a turn-on.

‘Track’s clear. You can step out now.’ Following Cole’s instructions, I walk the final few metres to the finish line. Walking over it on foot instead of speeding past is a weird feeling.

Of course, the first bloody thing I see is Harper hugging Johannes. The pair jumping up and down like little children at Christmas.

Does he not understand the concept of a team?

Was he not crying over Johannes just the other day?

For fuck’s sake!

‘Who finished P1?’

I’m glad to still have my helmet on so no one can see my face.

‘Johannes,’ Cole says simply.

Fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic.

They are going to be truly insufferable.

From where I’m standing, I contemplate whether I can get past them without having to acknowledge them, but I’m sure all eyes are on me because of my poor performance today, and if I dodge two of the better top finishers – one of whom is my teammate – it’ll reflect poorly on all of us.

Time to put on your big-boy pants, Walker.

So I get it over with, striding up to them, offering my congratulations, fist-bumping and clapping backs and shoulders, before retreating to the Hendersohm pit to lick my wounds. I prepare myself for a barrage of questions from the technicians about how the car actually felt at different points, and I’m quick to engage in the discussion, because I need the car to be perfect tomorrow if I have any hope of getting out of P9.

I’m afforded only five minutes of downtime before Harper swings by to collect me for the post-qualifying meeting in the Hendersohm garage.

‘You okay?’ Harper asks.

This is the first time I’ve been alone with him since the other night.

I grunt in response, not quite sure how to dredge up eloquence appropriate to this situation. I definitely don’t want to talk about what happened. The only thing I want to know is how he does it. How does he manage to go through life without anything touching him?

‘I don’t know how you just did that.’ The honest truth rolls bitterly off my tongue.

‘Did what? Qualify fourth? Mate, you’re normally above me. You know how better than I do.’

I don’t know if he’s deliberately misunderstanding the question or if this is exactly how he does it – by not overthinking.

Or by not thinking at all.

‘You’re like a worm in my brain, James.’

I try to shrug it off, but this moment’s too important, I need Montreal under my belt to keep me in good standings to take home the Drivers’ Championship this year.

‘Was it my magic kisses?’ he teases.

I’m horrified by the heat that rises in my cheeks and the way my body betrays me. He always seems to know exactly what buttons to push to get me off-balance.

‘Fucking hell! Maybe I should go round kissing all the competition if it’s gonna have this kind of effect.’

‘Fuck off,’ is all I manage to say before our conversation is no longer private.

As we arrive at the team meeting, I am wound up so tightly that I can barely speak. Harper James is living rent-free in my head right now, and he knows it.

The little fucker knows it.

He goes around doing whatever the hell he wants, kissing whoever he wants, shagging whoever he wants, and he’s still killing it on the track!

He only has to look at me the wrong way and I fall apart.

I can’t believe I convinced myself yesterday that the answer was to sleep with him, to scratch the itch so I could stop letting the intrusive thoughts win.

Maybe I really am getting old.

He doesn’t have magic kisses, but he is a distraction and I can’t take that right now.

I just need to stay away from Harper. That’s what this comes down to.