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This is it. The shot I’ve been waiting for. Championship racing, baby!

Whilst I shouldn’t be this excited because it’s come at the expense of a guy with a broken leg, I can’t pretend I’m not itching to get started and prove I’m meant for the big leagues.

Sorry, Elijah Gutaga.

All’s fair in love and war, and if the team principal likes what he sees and thinks I’d be a better fit, then the spot will rightfully be mine. I’m chomping at the bit to show them what I can do with this opportunity.

The second I come off the phone with Anders and my agent, I begin throwing everything I can think of into my kit bags. We leave for Bahrain in less than twenty-four hours and I’m not even close to prepared.

Anders mentioned keeping shtum until the news about Elijah has been officially released, but the excitement buzzing through me has me reaching for my phone to call Johannes.

The phone rings no less than twice before his gorgeous face appears on my screen, his dark skin and velvety brown eyes twinkling as he runs on the treadmill. There’s a sweat towel around his neck and beads have formed on the temple of his shaved head.

‘Hope I’m not interrupting,’ I say in a tone that tells him I really couldn’t care less if I am.

‘You know I’m always at your beck and call, James.’ He dabs away the sweat before reaching down to slow the treadmill and I get a glimpse of his naked chest, all curly brown hair and dark pink nipples. Christ, it just shows how pent up I am if I’m getting a boner over my best friend. We’ve put all of that in the past.

‘Oh, of course, but I’d hate to distract you from the sweat you’ve built up there,’ I say. He just rolls his eyes, but the treadmill comes to a stop, and it takes him a minute to catch his breath.

‘I have an interview in ten and I still need to shower. Make this quick, James.’

‘God, if you’re going to sound that ungrateful to see me, I guess I won’t tell you the big news.’

‘You know I’m already out in Bahrain getting ready for pre-season, baby. I can’t have you messing with my?—’

‘Well, you’re going to be dealing with me a lot, actually.’

He grabs his phone from where he’s set it up on the treadmill and eyes my smirk. His phone pings and he begins to laugh. ‘Let me guess,’ he says, swiping away. ‘Elijah’s injured and you’re filling his spot?’

‘You’re such a dick. You couldn’t just let me enjoy this? Fucking BBC news spoiling my fun, yet again.’

‘They love to do that. At least in this article it’s all positive and they haven’t had to blur the picture to hide your hairy ball sack.’

Okay, that’s not something I want to relive ever again. I always thought that if dirty nudes of me ever leaked they’d be exposing one of the many occasions I’ve let a hot guy blow me in the corner of a dark club, not because a fan decided to pants me in the street. Unfortunately, someone snapped a pic that captured me full frontal before I could cover up.

‘Well, that’s something, I guess. Did they at least use a nice photo?’

‘Podium shot from last year.’ I’ll take that.

I made a decision at the end of last season to delete all news apps from my phone and remove the alerts I used to have for my name on Google. The media outlets don’t have many nice things to say about me and they love to dredge up my past. I was there. I don’t need to be reminded of it.

‘Beautiful, that’s what we like to hear. Although, it would have been nice if they’d used one of my recent Instas though.’

‘I don’t think the BBC wants to use your thirst traps, babe.’ He rolls his eyes and sets me up on the countertop in what looks like a kitchenette. I have no clue where I’ll be staying this time tomorrow, but I hope it’s as gorgeous as wherever Johannes is. It’s his second year in the big leagues. His first was with Haas and then when Ford announced their return to motor racing with Red Bull he was selected right away for their team. It suits him; he’s always been the comeback kid.

‘Their loss. What’re you making?’

He pulls a blender from the cupboard and goes to the fridge before showcasing to me in the most unsexy manner what he’s putting in there. ‘Banana, oat and peanut butter smoothie. Need some protein after that workout. That all you wanted to say? I gotta get in the shower before this interview, James.’

‘I’m beyond jealous. Send me lots of pics.’

‘You don’t get that privilege anymore.’ He gives his ass a little shake in his booty-hugging running shorts as he stretches up to get a tall glass out of the cupboard.

I don’t miss that ass in the way that he and some of our other friends probably think I do. I just miss ass in general right now.

It’s not that I’m in a dry spell, so to say – I get plenty of action – but I’m just a bit bored with my usual club pickings. I’m not sure why my usual scene isn’t hitting the way it used to but for some reason it’s not scratching the itch, so to speak. If I’m being honest, I don’t really know what I want, or how to go about finding it.

Johannes was always a bit different. He’d karted a lot as a kid and a teen and then he broke his hip at nineteen and dropped out of motor racing. His recovery was tough both physically and mentally and he’d almost not come back. I wouldn’t say that I nursed him during that time, but we lived together and when he was medically signed off as fit and well, we started sleeping together. It was a good time. We were best-friends-with-occasional-benefits, but Johannes decided he wanted to find someone to have more with. He wanted exclusivity and a relationship.

The way he said it was like that person couldn’t be me. It makes sense. I’m the hot guy men bang in a club, not the kind they fall in love with.

Which is fine by me.

It didn’t break our friendship, but I did move out. When I was finally called up, I was glad it was to a different team. We still FaceTime practically every day and we hang out and party whenever we’re in the same city. He may treat me like an annoying, slightly younger brother sometimes, but I know he’s excited we’re around each other more now we’ve both hit the big time.

And now we’ve got a whole season ahead of us. He may not want to trawl the clubs for tail the way we used to, but he’ll still wingman me while I do.

‘I’m good. You know I got bored of seeing that peach,’ I tease. We both laugh, and thankfully that topic of conversation dies. ‘Anyway, thanks for ruining my fun announcement. I’m going to get packed up and I’ll see you tomorrow!’

‘Bye, love. See you then.’ He waves into the camera and I end the call.

It’s been a strange old day. I got up this morning thinking that today would be like every other day as there are still a few more weeks until the lower-category season kicks in, and now I’m packing for a flight to Bahrain for pre-season testing.

I should probably go through my gear. Or do something. What do normal people do when they find out their career’s about to hit the next level? The level they’ve been dreaming about since they were old enough to be sat behind a wheel.

Most people would call their family, I assume, but I don’t have one of those. I’ve already told the only important person in my life so … packing it is.

* * *

Hendersohm sends a car to take me to Gatwick just ten hours later. It’s a sleek black limo with tinted windows and soft Italian leather. This is not something I’ve ever experienced before. This is it. This is the big league, baby!

I don’t even have to walk through the airport, which is absolutely wild to me. My passport is checked as we pull to a stop on the tarmac, and I’m escorted up the stairs to a jet that can only be described as pure luxury.

It’s nothing like the inside of any plane I’ve ever seen. There’s a bloody bar at the back of it for a start, and if the warning I got about being on my best behaviour from both my agent and Anders wasn’t still fresh in my mind I’d be parking myself there for the entirety of the flight. Instead, I guess I’ll have to make do with the plush armchair with a ton of buttons on it. I’m hoping one will make the chair lie flat because I’ve never had my own bed on a flight before, either. Business-class seats, sure, but first-class seats in private jets? I can feel my heart pounding as I imagine the rest of my life as a major player.

There are also no more than fifteen seats in this section of the jet. Half of them are taken up by the team principal and senior members who usually gather behind the pit wall during the races. I think I can put faces to names for most of them, but the only one I actually know is Anna Kash, Hendersohm’s PR rep. We met many a time when I was on the Hendersohm lower-category team. I’m sure she’d say, ‘One too many times’.

She hates me.

‘Anna, my saviour, how the hell are you?’ I offer her a fist to bump, but she just eyes me tiredly from behind her laptop.

‘It’d be great if you could keep it in your pants this year, James. A bit less time partying please, and for God’s sake stop dancing half-naked on tables with your competitors.’

She definitely means Johannes, and I already can’t wait to see him when we get to Bahrain.

‘Noted,’ I reply, before making my way to a seat on the other side of the aisle. Probably shouldn’t push my luck too much with her. I need her to make me look good so I can rack up all the sponsorship deals my agent was buzzing about.

Last year I made more money than I’ve ever had in my life. My bank balance was looking healthy for the first time ever, but I hadn’t had many brands reaching out to do deals. Probably my own fault, but here we are. The money I’ll rake in this year will make my race earnings look like a drop in the ocean. Lie-flat seats on private jets will definitely feature more often.

I hope my parents see the press release.

I hope they feel like shit when they realise I’ve made it, despite everything they did to me. And everything they never did.

The money, the lavish plane, and all the deals that are about to come, well, that’s the beginning of a whole new life for me. These things are the biggest motivators for me to push myself the way I do, but I can’t ignore the thrum of excitement pulsing through me at the thought of meeting Kian Walker properly; of being his teammate.

He’s been in the sport almost fifteen years now. He’s won four championships and is a complete and utter legend in my eyes. There may have been a couple of posters of him on my bedroom walls during my teen years. There were also some of his dad. Tyler Heath was a legend back in the day, just as exciting off the track as he was on it. He was known for the string of women who trailed around the world after him and the mass of kids he’d supposedly fathered. It’s obvious where Kian got both his looks and his talent.

I watched so many of Tyler Heath’s races when I got into karting. I found loads of old recordings of him on YouTube and studied his mad skills. He was so exciting, the way he raced, reckless and exhilarating, always pushing the boundaries. But then he was booted from the sport and never raced again. One scandal too many, and he went from hero to villain. I should probably learn something from that, but the details of why he became untouchable are a closely guarded secret.

I’ve met Kian a couple of times before at events, but I’ve never had an actual conversation with him. He’s always been too busy – and too high and mighty – to talk properly. I’ve never taken it personally; everyone wants a piece of the golden boy of motor sport. That’ll be me soon. People will be knocking on my doors, looking for a piece of me, but I’ll be too busy.

I’d be lying if I said I’m not also excited about getting to know Kian, picking his brain about his years in this sport. I want to know everything he knows. I want to ask him about his dad.

I’m twenty-five and finally hitting the big time, but he was called up to top-category racing when he was eighteen. I probably shouldn’t tell him I know that his first top-tier race took place on his nineteenth birthday. That would be creepy.

I sink into the plush chair, kicking off my trainers and scrunching my feet into the leather as I slide it into the recline. It’s a seven-hour flight and I can’t wait to get comfy. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I’m finally getting everything I’ve ever wanted. A silly smile spreads across my face.

The whole plane is abuzz, small groups of important people talking and making calls until the sound of footsteps on the stairs echoes and everyone falls silent as Kian Walker joins us.

Christ. Up close he’s even hotter than in his pictures.

My big mouth, with no bloody filter, seizes control of my brain before I can think twice, and I find myself saying, ‘All right, Walker? How’s it going, mate?’

The grimace on his face is enough to shut me up, but then he side-eyes all the official people watching and quickly offers me a tight smile.

‘Harper. Welcome to the team.’

That’s all I get, though. He nudges his backpack further up onto his shoulders and makes a beeline for the chair furthest away from mine.

Everyone goes back to their own tasks until the captain tells us to buckle up and the doors are latched closed. We’re taxiing to the runway before I can really, truly grasp how much Kian Walker has just blown me off. Not in the good way, either.

Outside of his stats, I don’t actually know a huge amount about him. He’s a notoriously private person who doesn’t put much of himself online or open up to the media about his life. I know he’s got two famous parents – Tyler Heath, of course, and his mum is Chastity Walker. She was a global superstar back in the day with a string of pop hits that still get played on the radio and remixed. Tyler Heath really did have it all, but then everything came crashing down when he cheated on his pregnant wife … and got the other woman pregnant at the same time.

Chastity disappeared from the limelight, heartbroken and humiliated for a couple of years. Tyler got fired from his team – for undisclosed reasons – and never got picked up by anyone else. The dark cloud of suspicion that hung over him cast a shadow on his incredible career and he never resurfaced in the sport.

But now, here I am, on the same team and plane as their son. He’s got all his dad’s racing prowess and his mum’s work ethic and creativity. How often do you get the chance to meet your hero? More than that – to be his teammate?

As the jet begins to level out in the sky, and before I can stop myself, I unbuckle my seatbelt and head towards Kian. He chose a spot on its own at the back and I make my way over, perching on a low table by the side of his seat.

His eyes are closed and he’s lying back in his seat, but that doesn’t stop me. I’ve never been great with self-control, and it doesn’t occur to me to exercise any in this moment.

‘Hey, Kian.’

No reply.

I wave my hand in front of his face, like an idiot, as though that will get his attention. Obviously, he can’t see me.

‘Kian?’

Nothing.

I place my hand on his knee and shake it. His eyes quickly fly open.

‘What the hell?’ he growls, pulling earbuds out of his ears. I hadn’t spotted those under the mass of hair that could desperately do with a good cut.

‘Sorry, man. Just thought I’d come over and see how you’re doing … get to know my new teammate.’

He shakes his head like I’m something he can’t quite believe, but I’m not quite sure what I’ve done to cause this reaction. There are plenty of other drivers I’ve pissed off over the years who would be justified in reacting this way – or worse. I’ve slept with the odd brother or hurled a drink at a person or two on a bad night out. But Kian Walker? What have I ever done to him? Nothing. Not even a drunken mistake. I wouldn’t need any fingers to count the number of night outs I’ve seen him on. I don’t think he even showed up to the Hendersohm Christmas party last year.

‘You’re all good. I think I know enough about you,’ he replies.

I know enough about you. That’s what he says? Like, I’m glad he at least knows who I am because it would be beyond embarrassing otherwise, but the way he says it makes me think everything he knows is bad. I know I have a reputation in the media, but I’m also a bloody good driver.

‘Right. Okay. Well, this has been enlightening.’ I stand up and practically jog back to my seat.

Plopping myself down in the chair, I struggle to get comfortable. Not something I thought I’d have to do on a private jet, but a weird energy is eating away at me.

I toss and turn, even reclining the chair flat and pulling a fluffy blanket over me, but it doesn’t work. Eventually I get out my phone and connect to the plane’s Wi-Fi, then send a text to Johannes.

I think Kian Walker hates me.

Thankfully three dots on the other side of the screen appear quickly.

You aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, James. Plus, he’s quite uptight and you’re probably winding him up, if I know you.

I frown at the screen.

All I did was say hi and try to get to know him, but he just said, and I quote, ‘I know enough about you’.

Kian’s words are still playing on loop in my mind. What the hell did he mean by that? And how could he know enough about me? There’s no such thing as enough in my book.

Oh. Well, he’s not the most sociable guy with the rest of the drivers, but he and Elijah are close. Maybe he’s just tired or doesn’t fly well or something.

I contemplate his words. Maybe he’s right, or maybe Kian’s bummed that he’s lost his friend and now he’s stuck with me.

Maybe.

I peer through the gaps in the seats at the great Kian Walker. He’s got his eyes closed and he’s curled up on his side, but still he somehow doesn’t look truly comfortable, either.

He’s definitely something. Something I can’t quite make sense of, yet.

The plane soars on over continental Europe and my last thought as I fall asleep is how can I convince Kian Walker that he doesn’t know nearly enough about me?