Page 4

So, Kian Walker is nothing like his dad. He’s an uptight, judgmental prick.

I once watched a video of Tyler Heath chugging a beer out of a racing helmet – a sweaty, used racing helmet. It was disgusting, but I loved it. Pure entertainment. I don’t think Kian even knows how to have fun.

And yet he’s got an endless list of exciting brands still dying to work with him, paying him millions of dollars. Plus, he gets invited on all the cool podcasts and sports shows. It’s such an incredible waste for them to have him drone on for hours about the benefits of yoga and going to bed at granny o’clock. Boring bastard!

I haven’t seen him since Anna whisked him out of the interview. Heaven forbid his precious reputation gets tarnished by facing a few home truths from the new guy on the team.

Fuming, I went back to my own room afterwards and paced out the angry energy whilst trying to figure out what the hell his problem is.

A message came through yesterday evening, calling us both to a meeting in the hotel conference room first thing, but I can’t seem to get myself moving this morning. I remember the warning Anna Kash gave me when they called me to tell me they wanted me to step into Elijah Gutaga’s seat this season. Clean up your act. No bad press. Focus on the job.

I’ve probably screwed that up already.

When I open the door to my suite a minute before I’m due downstairs, I come face to face with Kian, who’s pacing the hallway right outside. Speak of the devil.

I’m still half-dressed due to waking up a mere five minutes ago when the alarm I snoozed for the fifth time became unbearable. I’m clutching my sweatshirt and sliding on my Crocs, the keycard between my lips as I look up and see him. This door must be jinxed.

‘Are you taking the piss?’ he asks through gritted teeth.

The thing is, I honestly can’t say if I am or not. Maybe I am walking down the corridor shirtless to piss him off, because it’s the only thrill I can get from him.

However, I do slip the sweatshirt over my head, trying to keep pace with him as we stride to the lift. Because of course Kian Walker can’t be late. I bet the great Tyler Heath was late for whatever he damn well pleased. He probably didn’t care. He was such a big star that he could work off his own schedule.

‘That better?’ I say, now fully dressed and trapped in a lift with him going down thirty floors.

I’m met with a wordless stare; from one of the hottest grumps I’ve ever seen. It’s seven in the morning on our day off – no media to do today, no practice on the track. So why does he feel it necessary to look this good this early in the morning?

‘Were you waiting for me?’ I ask, shooting him a cheeky side eye, incapable of not needling him. Yet still trying to be somewhat friendly.

He huffs out a snort through his nose, but I can’t tell if he’s annoyed with himself or with me, because he was definitely waiting for me.

‘I was … hoping to catch the sunrise yoga class in the roof garden.’

Ofcourse. Of course it’s something lame. Wanker.

‘I’m sure the sun will rise again tomorrow.’ The lift falls silent as he doesn’t dignify that with a response. He still hasn’t realised that his silence only makes me more determined to pepper him with annoying questions and chat. Silence makes me restless.

‘How much trouble do you think we’re in right now?’

It’s probably not the best question to bug him with before we sit down with the principal, but I genuinely want to know what he thinks of our situation.

He ponders for a second and I watch in the mirror as the cogs of his brain twitch into motion.

Now that I really study Kian’s face, I don’t think he looks that much like Tyler, after all. Tyler’s quite tall – over six foot, if I remember his driver profile correctly. Yet, Kian struggles to meet that height, sitting around maybe five-eleven. Tyler’s got almost jet-black hair, whilst Kian’s is a warm-brown, and in certain lights looks almost auburn. They do share the same eyes, though – piercing hazel ones at that. Okay, fine, I stared at so many pictures of Kian in my late teenage years that I could have described them perfectly. But now that I’m seeing them so often in real life, it feels like they change colour every time I see them. Sometimes moss-green, sometimes warm brown, all mixed up with mustard-yellow and golden hues surrounding the pupil.

They’d be a big hit if he ever went out on the pull. Not that I can imagine Kian in a club, prowling the dance floor for a hook-up. Maybe a sophisticated restaurant or a fancy hotel bar? I’ll have to ask him how he gets laid the next time I’m pestering him with annoying questions, but perhaps not when we’re in the tight confines of a lift and he could easily punch me.

The door pings open with this thought and, as though he’s got the hotel mapped out already – which he probably has – Kian leads us down another corridor before veering off into the conference room.

It feels a little big for the occasion, considering there’s only four other people in the room and the tables are laid out for maybe thirty people or more.

Anna’s sitting beside the team principal, Anders. Their assistants both hovering around with tea and coffee, until they leave and there is a moment of heavy silence. Kian and I sit down on the opposite side of the wide table. I notice we weren’t offered tea or coffee, but I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from asking. Even I’m not stupid enough to push them right now.

‘So, what happened?’ Anders asks.

The silence between the pair of us is deafening. Neither of us wants to own up to fucking up the interview yesterday and Anders looks increasingly furious.

‘I’m sorry. We messed up,’ Kian finally says, hands twitching where he’s got them resting atop the table. ‘I think we just need a bit more time to find a dynamic between us that works.’

We?‘I don’t know who you think you’re speaking for, Walker, because it’s definitely not me.’ I glare at him as he rolls his eyes and swings out a hand, as if to say, you see what I’m working with?

I’m left gritting my teeth.

‘Look, it’s still early days and I know the change to the line-up was sudden. We haven’t even raced yet, but we can’t afford to fall apart on day one, so we’ve booked you both some private media training to sort your shit out.’ Anders doesn’t even try to beat about the bush. I’ve always admired that about him, even now when I’m on the receiving end of it.

Kian’s face is a picture. It must be incredibly embarrassing for someone who’s been in the industry for over a decade and in the spotlight most of his life, thanks to his parents, to be told he needs media training. That awful interview and this excruciating meeting are almost worth it for this moment alone.

I almost burst out laughing. Until I remember I’m going to have to sit through hours and hours of tedious presentations about the right and wrong way to answer questions with Mr Uptight himself.

But let’s be honest, I wasn’t the problem in the interview. It was Kian who basically told the world that I’m not good enough to be on this team and that he can’t wait for Elijah to be back.

Kian automatically agrees to the sessions. Like he’s almost happy to be arranging the training with Anna.

Shocker.

Obviously I can’t protest in front of Anders, but I will not be attending that shit.

‘Sure. Sign me up.’ I force a smile and let Anna witter on about sending us an email and putting it in our shared calendar.

Yay. Go team.

We aren’t even out of the room when the notification pings on both of our phones and I groan, loudly, when I see the first session is this evening.

‘Anna works fast,’ Kian says dryly as he strides ahead of me, always seemingly desperate to be out of my presence.

‘Damage control is literally her job.’ I’m blunt, but I really can’t be bothered with this shit right now. I hate that his comments have actually started to get to me. I should probably just ask him why he’s being such a prick, but that would mean having to be around his shitty attitude even more.

I won’t be going to this media training, even if it gets me booted off the team.

I don’t mean that, but it’s how I feel right now. I’m more of an act-now-think-later kind of guy.

‘I’m probably going to head up to the pool,’ he says. He runs his hand through his hair, hesitating, and I can practically hear his teeth grinding, like he’s forcing out an attempt at an olive branch, like he might be about to invite me along.

So, this is what it takes for Kian to be nice? Being bollocked by his handler.

Except the invite doesn’t follow and I’m left looking at him a little expectantly as we climb into the lift. Probably like a child desperate for a party invite. Not my style, at all. Yet I still want him to ask.

I huff and he has the audacity to raise an eyebrow at me in the mirror.

‘Guess I’m gonna head back to bed for a bit,’ I add, not that he was courteous enough to ask if I had any plans.

And then, out of nowhere, a thought occurs to me and I cannot dislodge it. Kian Walker in tiny little Speedos. Why does it still have such appeal when he’s shown himself to be nothing but a dick in real life?

‘What do you swim in?’ Curiosity gets the better of me and I almost need to know the answer for my own piece of mind.

‘Um … the hotel pool?’ He says it like I’m the idiot here. ‘It’s got two. An indoor and an outdoor one.’ He has such a stick up his ass. I’m smiling and shaking my head, but he’s just glaring at me like he can’t quite figure out what he’s said that’s so funny.

‘I meant clothing-wise,’ I add, looking him straight in the eye and returning his challenging eyebrow raise for good measure.

‘Oh.’ That stops him in his tracks. He has to be well aware at this point that I’m gay. If not, he truly must live under the world’s biggest rock. Maybe I’ve succeeded in making him uncomfortable.

His cheeks tinge the slightest shade of pink and his hands grip the rail at the back of the lift. I should just laugh it off at this point, because I actually don’t want him to think I’m some perve who’s going to be watching him change in the locker room or whatever, but his reaction is interesting.

It doesn’t look like he’s actually angry that I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t need to be. Very interesting indeed.

It takes twelve floors before he finally collects himself and says, ‘Normal swimming trunks,’ like it’s no big deal. But I watched him before he said anything and it looked like he really turned that answer over in his head.

I don’t say anything more. Of course, he gave the most boring answer in the world, but it’s his reaction that’s provided me with something to think about.

Like, maybe he’s not as straight as I thought he was.

‘Disappointing,’ I mutter, but my heart’s not in the teasing anymore. Kian really does suck all the joy out of everything.

When the lift gets to our floor, he’s out of there so fast that I’m left blinking in the glare of the lights, while he’s disappearing down the corridor and into his suite.

I do love that we’re getting along so well.

I make good on my words and climb back into bed, as it’s still not even 9am. Except going to sleep with the image of Kian in just Speedos is not a good idea.

Because I end up dreaming of him in a deserted pool, the teeny-tiny Speedos abandoned on the side, the two of us getting hot and heavy in the glow of a thousand stars.

Until Anders walks into the dream and ruins everything.

It’s almost eleven when I shoot awake, sweat beading on my forehead and a raging hard-on in my boxers. I groan, brilliant, another issue caused by Kian.

Can I really blame this one on him? Or is this my punishment for messing with him? I think about him blushing in the lift, which does nothing to help my current situation. I think about him gripping the rail and I’m wishing to be lost in my dream again.

I grab my phone to check for notifications. I need a distraction. Nothing interesting comes up except a text from Johannes saying we’re staying at the same hotel and do I want to get dinner this evening. Of course I do.

In the bathroom, I fire back a text agreeing to meet him in the hotel restaurant, before hopping in the shower to deal with my next Kian problem.

It’s not even a satisfying release when, with only a couple of tugs and a vision of Kian gripping that bar in the lift, I cover the tiles and shower floor with cum. Hey, a guy can dream.

My agent rings as I’m stepping out of the shower and I fill the rest of the afternoon looking through the brand portfolios who are interested in working with me, the pile so much bigger after seeing my performance during pre-season. There’s so many I’m almost late for dinner with Johannes.

* * *

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I say as I finally arrive at the table where Johannes has been waiting. ‘It’s been an unexpectedly busy day. But I’m here now; you have my full attention.’

Except he doesn’t, because my phone starts to ring. I don’t even need to look at the screen to know it’s Kian calling me because I haven’t shown up for our media training. Surely, if he knows me as well as he says he does, he can’t actually have expected me to show up.

‘You sure you don’t need to get that?’ Johannes asks, but I just shake my head. ‘Nils had dinner here last night and apparently the steak and blue-cheese salad is really good.’

‘Well, if your new bestie thinks it’s good I suppose I’ll give it a try,’ I tease, though I am envious that Johannes has been lucky enough to get a great teammate, someone who actually seems pleased to spend time with him.

‘He’s nice. Leave him alone. Just because your idol doesn’t like you, no need to be bitter.’

We both order the recommended salad and slump into the booths with glasses of iced lemon water. ‘I can’t believe we’re being sensible,’ I groan.

‘I’m doing a shoot tomorrow where I need to be behind the wheel of a car, can’t be hungover, man. Plus, aren’t you on the Sky Sports breakfast thing tomorrow? You realise they’ll want you in the green room first thing right?’

I do. Thankfully, my agents got me an assistant who keeps my diary nice and tidy and easy for me to decipher where I need to be and when. I could still do with a drink or two after this morning.

The ringing in my pocket begins again and I flash Johannes the screen. ‘My handler. Apparently, he can’t get enough of me.’ Johannes just chuckles and I reject the call again, only for it to start going off straight away.

Jesus, Kian. Get the message.

My phone bleeps for the fourth time and Kian’s name fills my screen yet again.

‘Blimey, he’s obsessed with you,’ Johannes says.

‘Tell me about it. All because I didn’t meet him for that media training.’ I lock my phone and place it face down on the table. He’s not about to ruin my evening with his sour mood.

‘Wait, are you supposed to be there right now?’

I nod.

‘Jesus, Harper. I know dinner with me is the most important thing in your life, babe, but you’re in the big league now. You need to make more effort for the team, especially if this was training ordered by your principal. You’re gonna be in so much trouble tomorrow.’

He’s probably right, but I’m not ready to deal with the fallout just yet. That’s tomorrow’s problem.

Rolling my eyes, I shake off his comments. ‘Christ, when did you get so sensible?’

‘When I realised I’m replaceable. There are so many junior drivers coming up the ranks with insane skills and if I step out of line they won’t hesitate to cut me. It’s all money for them, Harps. If we aren’t making it, or we’re losing them sponsors and bringing them bad press, it’s over.’

His words hit me like the iced water I’ve been drinking so far this evening, cold and choking. Johannes used to be the life of the party; he used to be me. Just a year older than me, he was in his rookie Championship season this time last year. He’s learnt all the lessons and I should probably be listening to him. Yet I miss the guy who was nothing but fun when we were in lower categories, who’d sneak out when we were just eighteen or nineteen to a bar in every city to get trollied and pick up hot guys.

‘I get what you’re saying, but I don’t need media training,’ I protest. ‘It was Kian who sat there basically saying I don’t compare to his friend, like boo-fucking-hoo. Cry me a river. And then he got all huffy because the interviewer mentioned that I beat his dad’s record and compared my talent to Tyler Heath’s instead of Kian’s.’

‘I saw the clip. It went pretty viral, Harps. I’m just saying, you need to play the game a bit. Once I did, I feel like they backed off. I win points and they don’t say shit when I go out too much as long as I don’t get papped doing something stupid. Nobody cares what you do in your spare time when you’re in the lower categories. It’s different now.’

Deep down, I know he’s right, but it’s too late regardless. I’ve missed the session and I’m sure Kian’s already blabbed to management that I didn’t show. He probably sat there like a good little boy and took his punishment.

‘I’ll reschedule. Don’t stress about it. Kian would still be annoyed at me even if I’d have shown up.’ There’d been little puffs of smoke leaving his ears as we sat in Anders’s makeshift office like naughty schoolboys. I know he blames me and resents me for putting him there, even if it was actually his fault.

‘Are you even trying with him?’

‘He’s not trying with me.’

‘Can you hear yourself right now, Harp? You sound like a child.’

I stick my tongue out at him just to prove his point, before slumping back into the small booth.

‘Can we talk about something else? I’m bored of talking about Kian bloody Walker. Let’s just enjoy the evening and toast these boring old glasses of water to our first Championship race together?’

He clinks his glass against mine and the world settles back into place. This is what I thought it would be like when Jo and I were karting babies and top-class racing was just one big dream. Now look at us. We’ve made it.

Johannes walks me back to my room and just like that our blissful bubble pops at the sight of a very furious Kian skulking outside my room.

He eyes Johannes wearily. ‘Johannes.’ He nods.

‘Kian,’ Johannes claps me on the shoulder, pushing me towards my new teammate. ‘He’s all yours.’

‘Traitor,’ I mutter under my breath as Johannes returns to the lift, heading to his own floor.

‘What the fuck, Harper?’

‘What the fuck Harper what?’

I know why he’s here, but I’m relaxed now and I can’t resist.

‘Do you not take anything seriously?’ It’s a wonder he has any teeth left at the rate he grinds them to try and keep his temper in check. Kian spots the smirk on my face and I know that’s what sets him off.

‘I can’t tell whether you think you’re too good for them to fire you, or if you’re actually just completely stupid.’

‘It’s media training, Kian. Chill out.’

He snorts and shakes his head.

‘I don’t know why I’m bothering. I hope you do keep fucking up, James, because then Anders’ll drop you and I’ll get a decent teammate who’s actually in with a chance of winning.’

And with that he walks off, head held high. What a prick. Where does he get off underestimating me?’

I almost wish Johannes had stayed so he could have seen what I was working with.

* * *

My first qualifier comes around quicker than I could ever expect and even though I’m the new kid on the track, the crowds are howling for me as we make our way into the Hendersohm garage. Fans throw T-shirts at us and I’m surprised when Kian stops to sign every single one of them and shake hands with each kid looking for anything they can get from their idol. He’s always so focused on the work. No time for anyone or anything. Or maybe it’s just no time for me.

The atmosphere inside the garage is something else, though, abuzz with technicians, analysts, designers, agents, and the big boss himself, Anders. Everyone’s gearing up for the start of the season. I’m just glad to be coming in on a season where the cars only had to have tweaks from last year because it was so bloody good, so I don’t have to work out the kinks in a completely new, rebuilt car that’s still being reworked by the technicians.

Anders talked a big game during pre-season about there being no number one at Hendersohm because it’s not how his team rolls, but everyone knows the top seat belongs to Kian. Does he even realise that the whole team revolves around him and what he wants? He’s the bright flame to their busy, fluttering moths. I guess we’ll see what happens this weekend.

Will they hold me back if I’m closing in on Kian? How many technicians will be on my car making sure my tyre changes are just as quick as Kian’s?

It’s going to be interesting, to say the least.

And it turns out to be even more interesting than I could ever have anticipated.

The guy I’ve watched and worshipped for years crumbles.

He struggles to get going, and can’t keep up the pace on some of the more brutal corners of the Bahrain track, and overall, it’s a less-than-stellar performance.

I actually finish ahead of him, setting a lap time that delights both me and the wider Hendersohm team. Ash, my race engineer and the guy who will live in my ear for the season, is screaming about how good it is for a rookie.

Kian’s still out there trying until the last minute, but it’s not enough. I hear Cole tell Ash that Kian’s only made P8, whilst I’m in P4. It’s a switch-up in positions that I don’t think anyone was expecting, least of all Kian. I can only imagine what’s going through Kian’s mind when he hears that he’s eighth to my fourth.

Who’s the number one driver now, Kian? Who’s the one at risk of getting dropped? Media training, my ass. There’s been no fallout from me missing the session yet, and if they had any concerns about me being worth it, well, looks like I am…

All the air leaves the garage when Kian enters. He’s silent at first, and then I’ve never seen anger like it. He slams his helmet down so hard it practically bounces off the table and onto the floor, and I’m surprised the visor doesn’t shatter with the sound it makes. He has every right to be frustrated. Finishing eighth when he should have been top three is not good during the qualifiers. Even I’m not quite sure what happened out there today.

No one says a word, and you could cut the tension with a knife, Kian’s fury drowning out the crowds in the stadium behind us. I find myself fascinated by the interplay of emotions on Kian’s face, and I’m unable to look away.

Then he releases a breath and it’s like watching a balloon deflate. The experience for me is cinematic, and seems to happen in a kind of terrible, slow motion. The fight and anguish drains from his face and body until he becomes the serene and unflappable Kian Walker again, and he quickly begins apologising to everyone.

I can’t put my finger on the word I’m searching for to describe him right now. He’s like four seasons in one day, a force of nature that contains both chaos and calm in one bright, beautiful shell. Anna pulls him to the side, and before I know it, he’s out of there. No media for him right now and it’s probably for the best if he’s already dented a helmet. They cost thousands to construct and then meld perfectly to the skull so that they can protect us from whatever the track throws at us.

I’m left to face the team on my own. Everything feels weird, and I’m strangely disappointed. I should be excited – P4 in my first qualifier – but the press only wants to talk about Kian’s disappointing performance, so my achievement is entirely overshadowed.

Because of course everything has to be about Kian Walker.

Kian bloody Walker.