Page 20

It’s 5am when I realise Kian and I have been sharing a room, like a couple, since Hungary. The rooms in the motorhome aren’t big enough to hold all the kit and gear for two people, but I’ve been slowly drifting into his space. Not to the extent that a casual observer would notice, but there are signs.

My clothes on the floor by his bed. My phone charger plugged in behind the bed frame. My Deep Heat on the bedside table.

It’s all looking very intimate in here and I can’t lie and say I’m not enjoying it. And here’s something else I never thought I’d say: though the sex is phenomenal, it doesn’t compare to being held by Kian all night.

Kian Walker has turned me into a cuddler. The other guys I’ve let grace my bed in the past never got the pleasure; they were lucky if I let them catch their breath before they were out the door. Even when Johannes and I were sleeping together it was never like this.

I’m not sure what’s different about Kian. There’s proximity, obviously, and sexual chemistry, so maybe he’s just convenient. I’ve always liked low-effort convenience.

But there’s so much that’s just plain wrong about calling Kian purely convenient.

I know that’s not why this is good between us.

Maybe that’s why I feel so on edge right now, because this is starting to feel very cosy and comfortable and … like a relationship. I mean, I’ve never been in one before so I don’t really know, but these days, when I feel bad, I’d rather go home to Kian and cuddle him in bed than go out and get shitfaced and shag a random.

This scares me, but I also really, really want it. Hence why I’m so on edge.

I also really care about whatever it is that sometimes gives him nightmares, which is another new experience for me.

He sometimes mutters in his sleep, often just complete nonsense, but whatever he’s got to say tonight has his tongue moving a mile a minute.

‘It doesn’t go there,’ he grumbles, arms squeezing around my waist, pulling me closer and out of my messy thoughts.

I’m desperate to ask him what, what doesn’t go where? But I don’t know if I should disturb him or not. Instead, I hold him closer, so he knows he’s not alone.

‘No, no, no!’ He chants the words over and over again and as I peer over my shoulder his face twists and contorts with pain. ‘Not yet, no!’

I’m not sure if sleep screaming is a thing, but his words get louder. He’s almost crying out at this point for whatever’s going on in his dream to stop, and I slink out of his arms to roll over.

‘Hey, Kian. Kian, it’s okay.’ I gently shake the side of his arm, but his legs start to thrash at the sheet, almost as if he’s trying to run. ‘Baby, come on, it’s okay.’ The pet name slips out, but I can’t find it in me to care. I just want to stop the pained expression on his face.

I shake him once, twice, three times, and only on the third time do his eyes fly open, his breath coming out in heavy pants. His eyes go wide, startled, before he pushes himself into a sitting position.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, like I’m looking worried because he’s inconvenienced me by being like this. ‘Sorry if I woke you.’

‘You didn’t. Are you okay?’

Instinctively, I reach for him. Normally this is his move, but it looks like he’s the one who needs to be held this time.

‘I don’t know … I don’t know what that was, but … but I was dreaming about my mum dying.’ His voice cracks as he says the final two words and wet eyes shine in the dark as he finally looks at me.

He finally lets me pull him completely against me, my arms wrapped tightly around him as he bawls into my shoulder. Tears drip down my bare skin, our bodies flush together as I hold him for ten, twenty, who cares how many minutes. I’d stay here with him forever if it meant he’d be okay.

When did I start thinking I’d move heaven and earth to see Kian Walker happy?

Daylight begins to drip in around the edges of the blinds in the motorhome. Kian pulls away from me, snuffling into the back of his hand.

‘You’re all wet, sorry.’

His face splits into laughter as he realises what he’s said and the sound envelops both of us, the tears he shed just moments ago forgotten.

I’m sure the healthy thing to do would be for us to talk about his nightmare, but this is all new territory for me, and I don’t know how to navigate it. So I do what I do best and lean into him again, this time capturing his mouth with mine.

There’s a saltiness to his lips as I swipe my tongue across the seam of them, pleading with him to let me in. It’s a lazy kiss, and we slide back into a horizontal position, sharing one pillow, our bodies hot from the duvet we’ve slipped back under. Yet I don’t care. I can’t find it in me to care that this might not lead to sex. I’m content to just lie here with him and explore each other’s mouths until I know every inch of his and mine becomes his second home.

It’s enough.

And it feels like it’s enough for him, too.

Like I’m enough.

I’ve been working on this in therapy, and I try to slow down and just exist in the feeling of being enough. It’s strange and unsettling. And also wonderful.

When my jaw begins to ache and my lips feel beyond chapped, only then do I pull away.

For a couple of beats, Kian just stares at me, his gaze soft as he pushes a couple of floppy curls off my forehead.

In a swift moment, it’s as though he shakes himself before springing out of bed. I should probably follow suit – busy day and all – but I’m not excited to leave this room, or this bed. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and try to get my brain in gear.

Kian lifts the blinds and full-on daylight floods the room.

‘Argh!’ I hiss as I shield my eyes like a vampire.

‘I think we may have become actual hermits over the last couple of days and we have a podcast to go record and some short-form videos to capture in the team lounge. And, uh, I was thinking?—’

‘Wouldn’t recommend doing that too hard. Your tiny brain might explode.’ I giggle. Fucking giggle! Like a teenage girl trying too hard with her first crush.

He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care as he pulls me into his chest, hands finding the sides of my stomach as he tickles me like a wild animal. My laughs turn to screams and I’m scrambling to get out of his grip when there’s a knock at our door.

We both shoot apart, even though it’s not like whoever it is can let themselves in. They haven’t caught us, but we know this can’t happen in the open.

‘Coming,’ I shout and I’m out of Kian’s bedroom like a bullet from a gun. I slide across the lock, finding Anna on the other side.

‘You’re both late! Where’s Kian? I’m surprised he’s not already in the team room.’ Because Kian’s always so damn punctual and I’m clearly corrupting him.

‘We were just about to leave.’ Anna scans my naked chest and boxer-clad ass and gives me her best don’t-bullshit-me smile.

‘I was just about to leave, I promise,’ Kian says, appearing behind me fully dressed, his minty breath floating past me as he barges his way out of the motorhome.

‘I never doubted you for a second,’ Anna chuckles. ‘You have two minutes to be dressed and out, Harper.’

Kian shrugs from behind her, holding back a snigger, and I’m sad that our blissful bubble of sex and pizza has been broken.

I’m sad we have to let the outside world in and for the next few days leading into the Italian Grand Prix we have to be Harper James and Kian Walker, teammates, Hendersohm’s top racing drivers. Not us.

The days go so fast, though. They whizz by in a blur of soundbites, photoshoots and management finally being happy with what we’re putting out for them. There’s no more speculation about the rift dividing the Hendersohm team. Anders’s face is constantly split in two because of how much good press we’ve been given. Even Jackson is easier to be around when he sits in on every team meeting and video session, now that I know he isn’t a threat with Kian.

It’s not just that, though. The pit is more energetic, too, now there isn’t as much animosity between the two of us. The technicians aren’t walking on eggshells around us when we’re practising in the simulator. Everyone’s laughing and joking with each other, including me and Kian.

Yet we still keep our distance. Kian doesn’t come within a two-foot radius of me, almost as if he can’t touch me without giving our secret away. I can’t think too deeply about why that might be, because if I do I know my brain will think it’s because he’s embarrassed or ashamed to be with me.

Nope.

Can’t think like that.

I think quickly back to my last therapy session, in which we spoke about the reasons why my parents left, and how it wasn’t about me or anything I might have done. They left because of who they are – or were – and their own issues. It’s not like I’ve never heard this before, but it’s hard to undo a lifetime of internalised trauma and the behaviour that results from it. I’m trying, though, and working through it with a therapist keeps it top of my mind. I try to apply that rationale to Kian right now.

I stew on it for a few days, and then, in a rare free moment before the qualifiers, we both find each other alone in the motorhome one day. Kian’s wearing just the base layer that goes under his suit and I’m in nothing but a Hendersohm team hoodie and my boxers.

‘Hey.’ I smile as he turns his head to find me pressed up behind him. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Blimey, you really are a horn-dog.’ My dick is nestled again his ass, pushing against the valley between his cheeks, and I pull him as tightly as possible against me.

‘What were you thinking about the other day?’ I ask. It’s taken me several attempts to voice this, and now that I find myself able to, I have to keep going.

‘Huh?’

‘When Anna basically shattered our door with persistent knocking.’

‘Oh.’ The hot and heavy mood I was trying to initiate disappears and he pulls away from my grip.

I brace myself for whatever’s coming.

‘Ki?’ He comes to a stop at his name, though he’s managed to put some serious distance between the pair of us.

He remains silent, contemplation scrunching up the little nub of skin between his brows. Uncertainty radiates from him and I begin to wish I’d never brought it up. So much for open and honest dialogue!

‘I was, uh, thinking about if you wanted to get dinner.’

Wait, what? I thought he was going to say something about keeping us a secret from the team.

‘Instead of breakfast?’

‘No, like, uh, you know … I was wondering if you wanted to go out. For, you know, dinner.’ His jumble of words washes over me like a tsunami and I’m glad I’m white-knuckle gripping the edge of the island to stop me falling to the floor. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s not this.

Why does this feel worse than him telling me he doesn’t want anyone to know about us?

‘Like a date?’ I ask, fearing the worst.

He doesn’t speak; just nods shyly.

‘Oh.’ There’s a ringing starting in my ears and I feel the moment the air whooshes out of the hard to open motorhome windows.

It’s clearly not the one-word answer Kian was looking for. In some ways it’s worse than a straight-up no because it seems to express incredulity that he’s even asking.

Disappointment etches into his face and I raise my eyes to meet a very sad version of Kian. I’ve seen him cry over nightmares, fume at a loss, and downright lose his shit in frustration at my antics but this is a new low.

If devastation needed to be captured in a photo, I’d take out my camera right now and provide an endless catalogue of the look.

‘Kian…’ I start.

‘No, it’s fine, honestly. A stupid suggestion. Ignore me. Clearly the cabin fever is getting to me.’ He busies himself at the sink, rinsing out a glass that was already clean. I’m presented with his back, but I don’t need to see his face to read his emotions.

‘Motorhome fever,’ I correct, forcing out an awkward laugh in the hope of breaking the tension.

He doesn’t reply. While I’m still trying to think of something to say to diffuse the situation, he grabs his jacket and trainers, tugging them on as he heads out of the door, kit bag of everything he needs for today thrown over his shoulder.

The door slams behind him and everything falls apart.

* * *

It quite literally falls apart when Kian qualifies in Q10 that day, and I know it’s one hundred per cent my fault.

And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I find myself shut out of Kian’s bedroom. Relegated to the cold room that used to be mine.

Unable to charge my phone or soothe the aching pain in my chest.

It doesn’t make for a good night’s sleep and when I wake up the next morning with a plan for how to approach Kian and talk about it, he’s already long gone.

We don’t speak as we get ready to race. He’s locked into whatever’s playing in his earbuds – it’s probably one of his guided meditations – but his whole body looks tense as he tries to shake himself free of his mood.

During our walk to the garage, he didn’t stop to sign stuff or take selfies with every fan like usually does. He’s like a ghost as people yell his name. There are people literally holding up cardboard cutouts of him, begging for them to be signed, and his focus is entirely on getting into the garage and shutting out everything and everyone.

As I climb into my cockpit, I have to shut off all thoughts of Kian. I cannot afford to worry about him. I didn’t work my ass off to qualify third only to mess it up on the Sunday because I have feelings.

And for the most part, the race is brilliant. It’s my favourite kind of battle, with a few of us upfront tussling for pole position, but Kian’s nowhere in sight.

I’ve asked Ash for updates on Kian’s position a few times and been told a mixture of P5, 6 and 7. He’s struggling to make up the ground after qualifying so far back.

Then, on the lead up to the seventh-from-last lap, a brief glimpse of a yellow flag catches my eye. Since the weather conditions are perfect, it means something’s happened. An accident, most likely.

‘Ash,’ I grunt out, trying my best to give the circuit nothing but my laser focus. ‘What’s going on?’

The line goes silent for a second and an anxious, gnawing pit opens in my stomach.

‘Ash, I swear to God, tell me what’s going on. I’m a bit blind here, man. You’re meant to be my eyes on the side.’

Nothing.

Radio fucking silence.

‘Someone’s come off the track. Just slow down a little when you’re taking the eighth bend. I’m not sure what the issue is but they skidded off like there was oil or something. Keep an eye out for stripes if this changes next lap, okay?’

‘Who?’ I can still see the pair of McLaren Swedes in front of me blocking my way into first or second and my brain is stressfully imagining my best friend in a heap of metal on the side of the track. ‘Is it Johannes? Ash, please! I need to know.’

I’m not beyond begging, but I really don’t want to when I’m trying so hard to remember to steer right now. The bends are vicious on this track and I’m almost glad Ash stays quiet until I finish a tricky set and head back down the narrow straight to finish this lap. The yellow flag is still showing in the distance and I slow down, almost reluctantly.

‘It’s not Johannes,’ Ash finally confirms and I heave out a sigh of relief, my grip on the steering wheel releasing a little.

I slow a little more as I come closer to where Ash indicated the accident happened, driving carefully and conservatively in case there’s oil spilled on the track and I end up flying off, too. Except, in slowing down, I catch sight of the car that careered into the barriers ending up on its side.

It’s not Johannes, but I’m all too familiar with the colour and design.

‘No!’ I yell. ‘Please don’t tell me that’s Kian? Please?’

Now I really am begging. If I thought the stress of it being Johannes was bad, it’s nothing compared to the spine-crushing dread that washes over me at the thought of it being Kian.

‘They’re working on it now, Harper. Just focus on the track, buddy. There’s nothing you can do right now.’

Like hell there is! I can pull off and get out and help. I’ll drag him from the car myself if it means being sure that he’s okay.

‘Is he okay? Just tell me he’s okay, for fuck’s sake!’ The words come out frantically, desperately. My foot’s on the pedal and my eyes are on the track, but my mind is on nothing but Kian.

I see an opening between the pair occupying the top two positions – they must be distracted, too. One swift movement and I could be top of the podium… And suddenly I’m pushing, acting on muscle memory and pure instinct, I feel as though I’m going faster than I ever have before as I focus on the gap that’s appeared, and even as I zoom into second I can’t feel anything other than a shit-ton of fear.

‘They’re getting him out now,’ Ash confirms.

‘Is he okay, though?’ I feel like I might spontaneously combust if I don’t hear how he is in the next five seconds.

‘He’s talking, that’s all we know right now.’ Well, that’s something. More than something because it means he’s alive. ‘Yellow flag’s still up, but they’ve confirmed there’s no spill of any kind on the track.’

‘So why did he come off, then?’

‘That’ll be a question for later. Focus now, Harper. You were point eight behind first on that last lap. You could take this all if you really try right now.’

I’ve never had a problem separating what’s happening on and off the track before. I’ve never had an issue with my focus. But now, when my mind is flooded with images of Kian hanging out of the side of his car, lifeless, covered in blood, gasping his last words, I throw it all away.

My chance to be on top, to bring home those twenty-five points, to be remembered as a legend of the sport … it all goes out the window as I struggle to make the most of the opportunity to overtake just one more car and win. I’m so close, so fucking close, but I can’t do it. I see a gap open up but I wait a split second too long to go for it and miss the window. I hear Ash grunt in my ear, and I know I”m messing this up. My big chance, the opportunity of a lifetime, it’s draining away… I’ve worked hard, but it also took Elijah’s unlucky leg break to put me in this seat, in this car, on this track and I might not get another chance like it. I might not be good enough…

Then it hits me. Kian wouldn’t lose his shit like this. Kian wouldn’t want me to fall apart because of his crash. He wouldn’t want it to distract me from capitalising on the situation and getting a P1. So I channel the great Kian Walker and take some deep breaths. I wait it out, staying less than half a second behind the leader for a lap until we blast into the straight.

And then it happens. It’s one of the Swedes in P1, and he screws himself over by trying a bit too hard to block my path. He overcompensates on the bend and, like a predator in the jungle, I can smell his fear. He’s thinking about what’s behind him instead of what’s in front of him. I know I won’t get another chance, so I hit the gas. My chance has come and I’m fucking taking it.

* * *

The win is a blur. My first podium top in the Championship and it’s nothing but a hazy fog in my mind. I probably won’t even remember it – I already have no memory of being sprayed with champagne or of any of the interviews. I have no idea what I said – I hope it wasn’t totally stupid.

Because all I can think about is Kian.

‘Where is he?’ I demand, the minute I find Ash.

‘They’ve taken him to the local hospital for X-rays and to be certain about his concussion status.’

‘Is he okay? What the hell, man! I was blind out there.’ I know, in the back of my mind, that it’s not Ash’s fault and he has orders he has to follow in the garage, but I’m desperate.

‘We never report accidents unless there’s risk to your car. You know this,’ he says calmly. It’s impressive, actually, how well he’s handling my reaction.

‘It’s Kian! Not some random. I deserved to know.’ I’m raising my voice now, and everyone’s staring. My paranoia is screaming at me that they’re all figuring it out, that they all know what’s been going on, that we’ve been rumbled and it’s all my fault – it’s always my fault – but I don’t care right now.

‘Can someone take me to the hospital?’

‘You need to finish up here first, son,’ says Anders. But he can fuck off with that ‘son’ business. He’s never once said it to me before and he doesn’t get to now just because I’m clearly having some kind of freak-out.

‘I don’t care. I just want to see him.’

‘I’ll go with him,’ Cole says, stepping in. He and Kian have been close for years, so I’m surprised he isn’t as ready to go as I am. ‘I’ll get us a car right now.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Anders finally relents. ‘We’ll have Anna give a statement to explain why you disappeared. She can give it a good team spin – how you wanted to be at the hospital to make sure Kian was okay.’

I couldn’t give a crap how he spins this or how it makes the team look, I just need to see Kian. I need to see that he’s okay with my own eyes.

In the back of the car, with the driver partition locked, Cole spills to me everything he knows. He tells me that Kian was breathing and alert when they got him out. Initial track-side assessments showed no signs of any broken bones or a concussion. That last one is always important, and means the helmet and the halo did their jobs.

My breathing’s rapid and I will my heart rate to slow down. He’s as okay as he could be after a crash, but I won’t believe it until I see him for myself.

‘He looked worse than he was – lots of blood, but they said it looked to be just cuts and bruises. But you know protocol means he needs to be properly assessed and they need to check for any internal bleeding.’ I’ve known this for years – every driver does – but hearing Cole say it out loud is reassuring, and it gives me time to collect my thoughts.

‘I have to say, I’m surprised,’ he says, when we’ve been sitting in silence for a minute or two.

‘Surprised how?’ I ask.

‘That you’re so concerned. I know you and Kian have put your differences aside during the European leg but I didn’t know you were … close. I didn’t know you were actually friends or whatever.’

Or whatever, indeed.