Page 22 of Pole Position

The first week in Singapore feels different. I can’t quite explain why, but it’s like Kian and I are dancing around each other.

Being back in a hotel, having separate rooms at opposite ends of the corridor, puts space back between us, because now, for us to spend time together, we actually have to make the effort. There’s no more motorhome enclosing us in a bubble; it’s a choice not the default and that gives everything a complicated layer of significance.

The first day, we spend more time apart than together. He’s obviously still resting and recovering so he can be fighting fit for the following weekend, and I’m trying to stop worrying about him. If he wasn’t okay the doctors wouldn’t have allowed him to fly.

The second day, he texts me in the morning and we head to the gym together. He’s quieter than normal, focuses on his workout, and doesn’t make any digs at mine. It’s eerie when he finishes up on the treadmill and leaves me to it.

Days three and four we don’t have a choice but to spend all day together. We’re both in the same photo shoot for Hendersohm merch and some of the pictures require us to pose together. I wouldn’t say it’s strained, but the banter we have feels forced and no real laughter is shared between the two of us.

By the end of day five I’ve had enough and I take matters into my own hands. I miss him. I hate that I do, but that doesn’t stop it. Every night, falling asleep alone in my hotel bed, I think about going over to his hotel room in a nice shirt and asking if he wants to go for dinner. Or if I can spend the night – whatever he wants.

I don’t even care if we have sex, I just miss how his body engulfs mine when we’re sleeping and how I wake up to a tangle of his limbs and mine.

So I do it. I shower and put on a fresh shirt and I go over to his room.

The second I’m outside his door, I feel so nervous that my throat goes dry and I can’t swallow. My lungs don’t seem to want to work, either, and apparently I can no longer make a fist to knock on the door. What the hell’s going on with me?

Forcing myself to do some of the breathing exercises I’ve been working on with my therapist, I stand there in the corridor like a lemon, visualising calm seas, warm winds and sandy beaches in the hope it’ll stop the light-headedness and the panic attack in their tracks.

It’s just Kian. It’s just dinner. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

Before I can back out, I knock, and for a heart-stopping moment I’m met with silence. But then, in a quick second – almost like he’s been standing on the other side of the door for a while – Kian pulls open the door.

He’s fresh from the shower, water droplets cascading down his bare chest and getting tangled in the array of body hair I love to nuzzle. His hair’s a wild, wet mess and even though his skin is still mottled with yellowing bruises from the crash I want to abandon the dinner plans I’ve made and climb him like a tree.

‘Um, hi.’ The words stumble clumsily out of my mouth and I can’t find a way to recall everything I planned to say to him. Dinner. Staying over. Missing him. My brain’s screaming at me to say it but I just open and close my mouth like a fish flopping on a river bank.

‘You going somewhere?’ Kian asks, eying my outfit and the bag I’m clinging to like it’s my lifeline here.

Come on, brain.

‘Um, yeah. Out. Or not. Or we could just go to bed right now.’

No, no, no!This isn’t what I planned. Tell him about the dinner reservation you’ve made. Tell him you miss him.

‘Fuck, you look so hot. Do you answer the door like that to everyone?’ This is not going well.

‘No, but I could see it was you and?—’

‘You wanted to tempt me inside? I see your game, Mr Walker.’ The words don’t come out in the teasing way I intend, making this conversation feel even more awkward.

‘No, but I could hear you pacing outside and I watched you stand there being weird, so I thought it would be best to find out what’s going on before you bolted.’

Bolted? I’m not bolting. Do I look like I’m bolting in my favourite jeans and the shirt that makes my eyes pop? I’m not yet sure that I’m not making a total tit of myself.

My hands are trembling by my sides. Do normal people feel this much stress and anxiety when trying to ask a perfectly decent guy out for dinner?

Why does this feel so difficult? It’s what I want. I want Kian. And I know he wants me because he asked me first. Yet I can’t force the words out. The silence engulfs me and I feel like I’m drowning.

He looks expectantly at me, his eyes pleading with me to ask, and I still can’t. I can’t give him what he wants.

And when I realise that, my heart shatters.

I’m glad I’m leaning against his door frame when he asks, ‘What’s the point of this, Harper? Like what? You show up here and we fall into bed together and pretend it doesn’t mean anything?’

Would that be so bad? I didn’t hear him complaining about our routine in the motorhome. It was nice, weirdly domestic, but I thought he was happy.

I go to reply, but he doesn’t give me the chance.

‘Where do you see this going? Like, I’m talking long-term. Are we still sneaking around when the season finishes? In a year’s time? What about two? Are you still showing up at my door for a quickie whenever the mood takes you? Are you still pretending there isn’t something more going on between us? Do you see a future for us or is this all just some game to you?’ Kian releases a deep, heavy sigh, like he feels better to have got all of that out in one go. I wonder how long it’s been building up for.

Knowing him, a while.

My head is spinning, every question passing through my brain like a big flashing neon sign making me wince. I don’t even know where to start at this point. All I know is that he’s asking whether I see a future with him and I just … can’t. I’m not sure I see a future with anyone. I don’t even know how to start seeing that. My brain doesn’t seem to have the right setting. I don’t think like that; I never have. I think about today, and I know that tomorrow will take care of itself. I never had any control over what happened to me as a child so I learned that plans and expectations only lead to disappointment and rejection. I started this season in the lower category, wondering if I’d ever get called up, and then on day one of pre-season training I’m catapulted into the top category through someone else’s misfortune. And now I’m here, with a win under my belt, rolling with the punches and making the most of what’s landed in my lap. It’s a dream to be here, and to be getting these results, too. And alongside Kian Walker, the man who’s been my idol for years, the man who’s making me feel things and want things that are new and exciting and … terrifying.

Kian’s still staring at me, knuckles white where he’s gripping his towel for it to stay wrapped around his body. With every silent second that goes by, the look on his face changes from hope and expectation to painful, bitter disappointment. I can’t give him what he wants, and maybe he already knows that.

Maybe it’s why he asked, finally, so he can put an end to this all together.

I wouldn’t blame him. He doesn’t really need this mess in his life. He’s trying to retain a title, maybe even break a record, and he has people in his life who need him. Who love him. He doesn’t need someone who can’t even think about a future without having a panic attack.

I watch anger set into his face and his jaw tense. His eyes harden and I can feel the wall he’s building between us, brick by brick.

I can’t even blame him. Every time I think about the crash, I can’t help but think it might have been my fault. I’ve been such a distraction to his routine. A dangerous distraction. I could have cost him his life. Am I really thinking it could be a good idea for him to be starting a relationship with someone like me?

‘Harper? What’s going on?’

The sound of my name snaps me out of my thoughts and the nervous ball of energy morphs into anxiety. The scramble of pain in my chest and the way my hands begin to tingle tell me it’s time to get out of here. There’s no fight, only flight. I can’t do this.

‘I’m, um, I’m going out. Johannes––’ I quickly fire his name out even though I haven’t spoken to him today. ‘I’m going out with Johannes. I was gonna see if you wanted to come, but you look ready for bed. So, um, see you tomorrow.’

It’s mortifying how quickly I take off along the corridor. I summon a car to take me somewhere dark and dismal. I don’t even stop to check reviews of the place online, I just ask the driver to take me anywhere I can drink and dance, and he obliges.

Once I’m inside it’s not difficult to find someone to try and lose myself in. He smiles when he realises he doesn’t even need to buy me a drink.

He then proceeds to act like I’m easy in every other way too. The first song hasn’t even finished when I feel him playing with the button of my jeans, his other hand dangerously close to cupping my dick.

I shake him off from my crotch area and his hands roam across my chest, playing with my nipples through the thin fabric of my shirt. Normally they are so receptive, pebbling at any kind of attention, but I’m just not feeling it.

I give him one more song so he can’t accuse me of being a prick-tease, but when the song ends and I try to push him away, he fists my shirt and pulls me closer like it’s part of a game we’re playing.

‘Sorry, I need to go piss,’ I say way too quickly, but his grip is tight and I feel my chest struggling to expand against the tight fabric. Any normal person would just knee him in the nuts and run, but I can’t. Someone will pull out a phone, get it on camera, and it’ll be headline news tomorrow.

So I squirm and wriggle, hoping to slowly slip out of his grasp, and when the music changes, I manage to slip out from under his arms and dart towards the back of the bar. I trap myself in the bathroom, slumping down against the wall to try and centre myself again. I used to do this all the time – go to bars and pick up guys – but it doesn’t feel right anymore.

I don’t even know why I’m here. Nobody in here is Kian, and apparently he’s all I want now. No one compares to him; no one looks at me like he does, like I could hang the moon and stars and still have time to race in every Grand Prix of the year. He thinks too much of me and I know it. He thinks far better of me than I deserve, but it was nice for a while to be with someone who cares so much.

There’s such a familiarity to Kian now that I love?—

Love?

What does love have to do with being compatible in the bedroom? When did that ever matter?

My brain starts spiralling down a path that I’ve never wanted it to wander before.

Because I know what’s at the end of it: a future with Kian. We could race together as teammates and come home to each other at night. We could spend the downtime between seasons together. We could cook meals together, eat at a proper dining table, go on runs together, wake up together every morning and fall asleep every night … together.

When I finally allow myself to picture it, it’s thrilling. The future looks so bright, so promising, like something that could bring me so much joy.

But that’s the problem, because now I want it. And wanting things like this, things that rely on other people, is dangerous.

And I’ve thrown it all away.

Maybe I’m the problem. I didn’t need therapy to tell me that.

I know I push people away before they can reject me – I know that’s what I did tonight with Kian. Not just with Kian, but to Kian.

How much have I hurt him by playing down what we have? I saw his face; I know what he wants from me. It hurts me so much to be rejected that I avoid any situation in which it could happen, so why would it not also hurt Kian?

Asking us to be exclusive. Trying to take me on a date. Asking if he sees a future for us. He wants to build us into something more and all I’ve done is treat him like I don’t care, like he doesn’t matter.

Dropping to the floor of the dingy toilet, I pull out my phone and select the only contact I have on speed dial. Hoping he picks up.

‘Harper?’ Johannes says groggily, as if I’ve woken him.

I check the time and see it’s not that late, but we do have a free practice tomorrow so it makes sense that he’s already asleep. I shouldn’t have come out. Anders is going to be so pissed off at me.

‘Hey, Harper, you there? Did you butt-dial me?’

I’m trying to summon the words, but they come out as nothing but a gasp of his name.

‘Harp, you okay? What’s going on?’

‘It’s all too much…’ I feel breathless as I say the words. It’s overwhelming, this feeling… My airways are shutting down…

‘Hey, hey, Harp, I think you might be having a panic attack,’ Johannes says softly over the phone. ‘Take some nice deep breaths and focus only on your breathing. Come on, follow me, breathe in, two, three, and hold it for one, two, three. Breathe out for one, two, three, and hold it there, two, three.’

I try to breathe, I try to follow the rhythm that Johannes is setting, but the air gets trapped in my claggy throat and it goes nowhere when I try to choke it down. It’s like I’m only using the top ten per cent of my lungs and I can’t get deeper.

‘Not. Working,’ I pant out as my chest grows tighter. This is so humiliating. I’m in a grotty bar-bathroom, losing it because a guy told me he likes me.

Likes me. Properly likes me. Wants-to-talk-about-a future-together likes me. And apparently that’s too much for me. ‘He’s a fucking idiot, Johannes!’ I growl, my throat dry as my heart rate quickens. ‘Imagine liking me. Why? Why would anyone do that?’

‘Harper, I don’t understand what you’re talking about,’ Johannes replies, I can hear every bit of how patient he’s trying to be right now. It’s because I’ve kept him in the dark. I haven’t breathed a single word about Kian to Johannes. I’ve barely seen Johannes, to be honest.

‘He asked me –’ I pant between words, taking in any air possible whilst feeling as thought my lungs won’t re-inflate ‘–he asked me … if I see … a future … with him. Jo, I don’t … know how … to see … a future with anyone.’

There’s a sharp pang in my heart. It might be the realisation that this might not be as true as I’ve always believed it to be. But in the moment it feels so sharp and heart-wrenching that I gasp.

‘Harper, man, you need to get it together. Tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you and we can talk about this. It’ll be okay.’

‘It won’t, because, because…’ There are a million reasons flying around my head – so many that I can’t put them into words for Johannes. How do I tell him that nothing will ever be okay in this situation, because I will always want Kian but he will quickly realise that he can do better, that I’m holding him back, that there are more exciting things in the world than Harper James. And he will leave, in the end. People always leave. It’s a given. So I can’t tell Kian I want more with him, too, because wanting more will only destroy me.

‘Because what? Harper, you’re scaring me, bud. I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone. Why didn’t you say something?’

‘Because it was private. It was meant to be just sex.’

‘You normally tell me about every sexual conquest.’ He’s right; he’s so right. Maybe I’ve kept this from him because in my subconscious it’s already more. Because it’s Kian. It was never not going to mean more and I should have been smart enough to spot that.

‘He wouldn’t want that. It’s not the same.’

‘What’s not the same?’

Shit. Now he’s probably going to hate me even more. ‘Him. He’s not the same. Things are different and it’s messing up my head. I can’t do this, Jo. I need to do something. I need to rid myself of him.’

‘Don’t do anything?—’

I hang up before he can finish that sentence. He can tell me not to do anything stupid all he wants, but we both know I’m going to do it anyway.

I need to do this for Kian. To save him from all the hurt and pain I’ll eventually cause him, or that he’ll cause me.