Page 12

Never did I think one kiss could have the power to reduce a grown man to a jittery mess. Miami was a technical issue, but there’s no doubt it affected Kian’s performance in Monaco and Spain, placing him P2 in both. There was some chat in the garage about ongoing problems with his car, but we both know that’s not what his problem is.

At first, I thought we’d get past it quickly, but he takes everything so damn seriously. You’d think he’d never had a one-night stand before. Not that we even got that far before he freaked out. He really could do with loosening up a little.

He’s gone from scowling at me constantly to now going out of his way to avoid me entirely. Unless we’re surrounded by the Hendersohm team or out in public, he’s a ghost. He’s obviously tweaked his routine to be wherever I am not at any given moment. And he calls me immature!

I thought maybe he’d cut himself off from everything except driving, press and working out. But then I stumble across a realisation that while he’s been dodging my company as though I’m carrying some kind of infectious plague that might tempt him away from being a boring bastard, he seems to have become pally with Anders’s son, Jackson.

Jackson was raised on motor racing. He eats, sleeps and breathes it. He started out with a blog that turned into a popular podcast with expert guests, and he’s regularly called upon as an industry expert to comment on everything from chassis design to track safety to driver stats. He’s a nepo baby, for sure, but he knows his stuff.

He hasn’t been working the media circuit quite so heavily this season, which seemed strange to me at first. Instead, he’s been travelling with us a lot, working closely with his father and being invited to senior leadership meetings about strategy and finance. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Anders was grooming him to take over.

I don’t know how long Jackson is going to be hanging around, but he’s certainly making the most of the opportunity to work out with golden-boy Kian while he’s with us. I’m not sure who’s sucking up to who, but they can have their little bromance. It makes no difference to me.

Working yourself up about shit like that – getting ahead of yourself and worrying about the future – is for people like Kian. I deal with what’s right in front of me – in life and on the track – and so far it’s served me well. Overthinking is the best way to get left behind by younger, hungrier, faster people who’ll take risks that you’re not brave enough to. If Elijah comes back next year, someone else will want me and I’ll win for them instead. In any case, the best thing for me to do is win and hope Anders isn’t stupid enough to let me go.

Having said that, it does seem like lately, whenever I enter a room, Kian’s always mid-conversation with Jackson. They’ve always got their heads bent towards each other or they’re on the way to the gym together. I’m not jealous – it just seems like mighty convenient timing. A paranoid person might worry that Kian’s persuading Jackson to drop a word in his dad’s ear about kicking me off the team, but that’s not me. And why would Anders do that when my results speak for themselves?

If Kian asks I’ll tell him to his face that he’s being childish. So what if we kissed? That was weeks ago, he needs to move on. And yes, maybe it enthralled me to the point I haven’t looked at another man for the last four weeks.

Never in my life would I have thought I’d finish in P3 at the Monaco Grand Prix and not hit the town hard afterwards with at least one hot gazillionaire. I made it to the casino and didn’t even scout the talent that was there. I know there was more than one blue blood gambling away the family jewels who couldn’t keep his eyes off mine, but I wasn’t interested.

I shiver at the thought.

It was definitely just exhaustion though. The step up from lower-category racing was obvious as we navigated deeper into the season. Plus, Johannes hadn’t been going out at all really, so I’ve lost my usual wingman. That’s the explanation I’ll be using if anyone asks.

Now we’re in Montreal, one of my favourite places in the world, and I feel more like myself again. Settled. Ready to put any thoughts of that night in Miami to the back of my mind permanently.

Until Johannes asks me if I hooked up with anyone in Monaco.

We’re in a café in Montreal, doing some people-watching and catching up – I haven’t seen him much recently, his time has been occupied with someone or something he’s not telling me about – when Jackson and Kian step inside.

They’re laughing and joking, Jackson’s clapping his hands on Kian’s shoulders as he tells him the coffee’s his shout.

Jackson’s dark brown curls are so slick with sweat that they almost look black and Kian’s flushed in the face. They’re in full workout gear, so they’ve clearly been for a run, but for a second my mind drifts to another activity that would leave the pair sweaty and panting. All of a sudden, I’m feeling growly. I put it down to lingering tension with Johannes after he abandoned me for some no-name guy that he refuses to talk about. Even though I’m usually able to shrug these things off. Did I want to shag Kian that night? Yeah, I did. But it’s not like I’ve been obsessing over why he freaked out so much just when we were getting to the good stuff. He’s got a stick up his ass, and though I know he’d have more fun with my dick up there instead, that’s his issue, not mine. I’ve barely given it any thought. I really haven’t.

But as I look at him with Jackson and see how easy and relaxed he seems, I’m actually kind of pissed off. Why does he save the worst of his personality for me? I thought Kian didn’t do this. I thought he didn’t do hook-ups. To my knowledge, he hasn’t shagged anyone all season – male or female. So why’s he suddenly all over Jackson like a rash? He doesn’t even seem to be friends with many people on the circuit, outside of Cole. Yes, he’s friendly with everyone, but there’s a difference between that and friendship.

‘Hello? Earth to Harper.’ Johannes waves his hand in front of my face, wrenching my attention from Jackson’s arm which is casually slung around Kian’s shoulder as they order their drinks.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, my eyes quickly flitting back to the pair to check whether Jackson’s touch stays careless rather than possessive.

‘That’s a little weird, huh?’ Johannes sounds almost as bothered as I am, though I’m probably imagining it because I want everyone to share my frustration with Kian so I don’t feel like a twat.

‘Didn’t know they were so friendly. Looks cosy.’

Johannes looks questioningly at me. I find I can’t meet his gaze.

‘Very. Any chance there could be something going on there?’

I’m not about to out Kian. I know he said he doesn’t care if people know if he’s bi, but it’s not my place to say anything. If he wants Johannes to know he’ll tell him, or tell the world. I also don’t think I could say it in a way that wouldn’t betray my interest.

I watch them, listening to the sounds of the coffee machine, but when they take their drinks, the cups aren’t to-go. And then suddenly they’re walking towards our table.

‘Oh, shit,’ I mumble under my breath. ‘Incoming.’

‘Hey, Harper,’ Jackson says cheerily. Time to fake it till I make it, I really can’t afford to be on the bad side of the principal’s son.

‘Jackson, hey man. How’s it going?’

‘Not too bad, mate. This guy, though –’ he jostles Kian’s shoulder for good measure, just in case I don’t know who he’s talking about ‘– has me run ragged. A 6am swim and then an afternoon run! Does he ever stop?’

‘Well, you know Kian. Dedication is his middle name.’ Everyone laughs though it feels a little artificial.

‘Sorry, not that he needs introducing considering you wrote so many blog posts about his performance last year, but this is my best friend – Johannes Muller.’

‘Sure, sure,’ Jackson says, offering Johannes his hand to shake.

I can tell that Johannes isn’t thrilled – Jackson might have called Johannes’s season last year ‘sub-par’ in his podcast – but he takes the proffered hand anyway. And being the polite guy he is, Johannes asks how Jackson is enjoying Canada, and this launches into a conversation about Jackson’s study abroad year here.

Kian doesn’t contribute, just calmly sips his coffee as though there’s nowhere he’d rather be. I look up at him and try to catch his eye but he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge my presence.

I watch a bead of sweat run down the side of his face, past his ear and over the edge of his jaw. I observe its progress as it clings to his neck and then disappears beneath the neckline of his running vest. I’m well aware of what his chest looks like and I take a moment to imagine tracing the progress of that droplet all the way down his body.

I have to shift in my seat to hide what this little daydream is doing to me, and when I look up again at Kian’s face, I catch the briefest flicker of an expression that tells me he’s just as aware of me as I am of him.

Gotcha.

I can’t help but smirk.

And then Kian’s interrupting to make his excuses. Of course he is. ‘While this has been lovely,’ he says, ‘I need to get back to FaceTime my sister.’

He takes their empty cups back to the counter and then they’re off. Together.

‘See you guys later,’ Jackson tosses over his shoulder as he exits the café.

‘Well that was awkward,’ I say once Jackson and Kian are out of earshot.

‘All good, mate, all good,’ Johannes replies, but his right eye twitches, and if I know anything about him it’s a sure sign that he’s lying.

‘He’s just some stupid sportscaster. Don’t let him get to you.’

Johannes dismisses me with a wave of his hand, quickly changing the topic to a restaurant he thinks we should visit whilst we are here. He talks a good game about how he’s gonna whip my ass next weekend and I join in the mutual ribbing because it takes my mind off what Jackson and Kian might be doing back at the hotel.

He said he was going to FaceTime his sister, but that could have just been a cover. They could be shagging right now, sweaty clothes on the floor, a tangle of limbs on Kian’s bed.

Okay, so maybe Johannes isn’t doing a good job of taking my mind off the other pair.

‘You’re so spacey today.’ I blink and Johannes is standing up and starting to check his phone, our empty drinks cleared from the table.

‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘Think I might need an early night. I’m knackered. Why don’t they do Montreal and Miami back-to-back? Why make us go to Europe for Monaco and Spain only to drag us right back over here?’

Obviously I’m not going to say I’m stewing over my teammate shagging someone who’s not me.

‘Kian’s really is rubbing off on you if you’re going to bed early. You gonna give up drinking, too?’

I nudge his shoulder as we leave the coffee shop.

‘Dickhead. It’s you that’s turned into a boring old fart. Can’t believe you didn’t even join me at the casino in Monaco.’ Johannes had been somewhat MIA in Monaco; I couldn’t even get a hold of him for a couple days.

I want to pry, but I know he’ll talk to me if there is something bad going on.

‘Been there, done that – last year, while your sorry ass was still down in lower tier.’

We continue in that vein until we get back to the hotel. The fans outside the hotel are noisy and the crowd has almost tripled in size since we left this morning.

I’m glad there’s some security and they’ve lined the path with rope barriers to keep the hoards back, but it doesn’t stop them flinging things at us to get our attention. One woman going as far as throwing her bra at me.

I peel it off my shoulder and laugh. ‘Sorry, love. This does nothing for me. You’re barking up the wrong tree.’

She takes it well, since I make the effort to return her underwear.

‘Worth a try,’ she replies with a saucy look, and I can respect that.

God loves a trier.

Soon, Johannes and I are laughing along with the fans, and they seem happy that we stop to sign shirts and programmes instead.

Jo and I part ways at the lift, making plans for tomorrow.

Except I don’t see him again until qualifying. He looks tired when I catch a glimpse of him and his tech team on the track getting him into the cockpit.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned. Radio silence from Johannes isn’t the norm, at all. He always has his phone in his hand, quick to jump on a plan for the day if he isn’t busy.

Seems like he’s been incredibly busy.

I don’t let it throw me off though – I never let these things get to me on the track – and I manage to smash out some fast times.

This plays to my advantage in the Hendersohm team meeting because Anders is hyped up about today. There are bonus points available in Montreal because there’s a sprint race the day before the main event. Hendersohm is currently in a too-close-to-call battle right now to be top of the Constructors’ Championship against the Swedes in the McLaren team. We need every possible point to give us the edge. Anders lays on the pressure, and I lap it up like it’s gonna turn me into a diamond. Kian looks serious – no change there – and doesn’t glance at me once.

I’ve already qualified in P4, but I love the sprint races – it’s where I get to really show off what I can do – and it also gives me a chance to secure a higher position on the grid for tomorrow.

I can see why it’s the favourite track for so many drivers. Whilst there’s a lot of stop-start in some of the corners, the low downforce of sector three allows for us to be quick and flowing. And then there’s the millimetre precision necessary to avoid splatting my brains out on the Wall of Champions. You have to hit the previous apex just right, but when you do, it feels like pure magic.

After the meeting I run through checks with Ash and my tech team, and then I get into the cockpit. A flash of nerves gets my adrenaline pumping. I’m almost more nervous than an actual race day. This is just a snapshot of a race. Twenty-two laps instead of the seventy we’ll perform in tomorrow.

Then Ash comes into my ears. ‘You’ve got this one, Harper. We’ll monitor the car, just push when I tell you. Eyes on the prize.’

I can see how Kian and Cole have become so symbiotic, as Ash’s words perk me up and reassure me that I’ve got this.

And I do. It’s lights out and I’m burning rubber.

I’m out of the gate at full throttle, holding my own in P4, going round the excruciatingly stop-start bends, but the second I hit sector three I’m flying. Feeling weightless, like I’m literally darting through the air.

Everything about the race feels perfect. There’s a moment – a very small moment – when I’m completely out in front. It’s like I’m the sole car on the track for about five seconds, and then fucking Kian pulls a move and zooms past me.

It’s such an incredible manoeuvre and I’m still so high from the feeling that I’m not even mad about it. When I cross the line for the final time, I’ve been shunted down to P3 but Kian holds P1. I hold on to the memory of being out in front. This is only my first year in Championship racing; my time will come.

Kian looks absolutely overjoyed. He doesn’t always win these things, despite being one of the best drivers in the world. He’s much happier grinding out laps, reeling people in, biding his time and pouncing when the conditions are just right. He’s got stamina and endurance, but today it’s like he’s told the world fuck you, I do have speed. There’s still so much I have left to offer.

Maybe the retirement rumours are bullshit, after all.

The pure joy radiating off Kian is infectious, and I find myself gravitating towards him.

I clap his shoulders, so happy for him, and I’m not sure if he even realises it’s me, but he’s pulling me closer.

We’re hugging, his arms around my waist, mine around his shoulders, and dancing up and down like a pair of loons, pure mindless exhilaration. Everyone’s celebrating and the noise is deafening. I feel my heart deep inside my chest, booming and thundering – this is where I belong!

It’s pure excitement to be taking away eight and six extra points from this sprint. Would I have liked to have been taking away seven, instead of six, of course, but Yorris was a sneaky bastard catching my tyre causing me to have to slow for less than half a second.

It didn’t matter though, because the whole of the Hendersohm garage is alive and Kian’s touching me, hands gripping the back of my shirt, as Cole and Ash join the hug, followed by the techs, until we’re trapped in the middle of a massive group hug.

The victory’s made sweeter by the fact that the Swedes struggled to get going, the younger brother finishing in P8, whilst the older one ended up in P6. It gives us a twenty-four-point lead over McLaren. Anders is even more excited than we are, if that’s possible, as we head towards the main European phase of the Grand Prix.

Kian pulls away to look at me. Excitement creases the outer corners of his eyes and he’s properly smiling at me. Like, a true, toothy smile that you can’t contain. The moment’s brief and his smile slips, almost as if he catches himself and realises who he’s stuck with, but it has me fizzing on the inside. I’ve never seen him like this. It’s … mesmerising.

Something erupts inside of me, something I’ve only ever felt about a perfect lap or a podium finish. Butterflies. Fluttering in my stomach right now, causing it to churn. Kian Walker’s given me bloody butterflies.

The group breaks apart and someone pops champagne. Obviously no one can drink it because we’ve still got the main race tomorrow and there’s work to be done tonight, but it adds to the mood in the garage as it’s sprayed all over everyone. It’s everything I dreamed it would be when I was down in the lower leagues, trying to get noticed, trying to get my shot at the bigtime.

For once, I’m happy to kick back chatting with Ash about my lap times from yesterday, watching the rest of the team party.

Kian’s in his element, soaking up the praise and talking ecstatically with Jackson and Cole about what’s turned out to be a record-breaking sprint time today. He looks almost blissed out – all his muscles are relaxed, his eyes a little hazy, and he’s not shoving earbuds in his ears and rushing back to the hotel to be alone. It makes me wonder what he’s like in the off-season. When he allows himself to just be. Does he smile like that all the time? I’d like to see that.

The news gets even better the next day when we romp home, having maintained our starting positions of P1 and P3, but there’s no euphoric hugging today. Kian gets called to do media with the Swedes, Dorris and Johannes, leaving me feeling miffed that I’m not being called up with the big names after how well I’ve performed so far this season. I know I’m not a contender for the Drivers’ Championship, but still.

Next season, I tell myself. Next season they’ll be knocking down my door to get to me.

I’m more offended when Kian doesn’t come over to congratulate me once all the cameras disappear. He’s back to his tactic of complete avoidance. Back at the hotel, I try to talk to him on the walk between the lift and our rooms, but he looks through me like I’m not even there, and then disappears inside, leaving me alone in the corridor.

Well, he can try to ignore me all he wants, but it’s not going to work for long.

For the European leg of the tour, Hendersohm have sorted us a state-of-the-art luxury motorhome. That’s right. Motorhome, singular.

To share.

All around Europe for twelve weeks.

There’ll be no escape – for either of us – and I can’t wait. Sooner, rather than later, we’re going to have to talk about what happened.