Page 5

Ireally shouldn’t have been shocked that Harper qualified in fourth place after seeing his performance in pre-season and his record-breaking win last year in the lower category, but I am. I have no clue how he does it when he seems to do zero preparation and treats the whole thing like a joke. How does he collect himself when shit happens? How does he focus? What are his coping strategies? I don’t understand how going out and partying with his competitors helps his race.

And yet both of them qualified ahead of me. Both of them.

What the hell is going on?

With the Prix tomorrow, they won’t be able to go out and get smashed tonight. Not the night before a race. Harper’s not that stupid. Or at least I don’t think he is. He might idolise Tyler Heath, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake that cost my father his place on the team.

Would he?

Tyler always claimed he was fired unfairly because the team bosses didn’t like some of the choices he’d made in his personal life, but Mum told me he’d had to be breathalysed the morning of a race and was found to be over the limit to drive. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a problem with his drinking, and I guess they finally had enough. He was a danger to himself and to others. And he always did whatever he wanted without a thought for who he hurt or how anyone else would suffer. Always.

Being fired for drinking was a humiliation he’d paid a lot of money to keep quiet, and I’m surprised to this day that the story has never leaked. He made Mum sign an NDA as part of the divorce agreement. I’m sure if my sister and I had been old enough he’d have forced us to sign one, too.

Luckily, he doesn’t hold any power over me, and he never will.

In my rookie years, I carefully spun the narrative to be all about how my mum had taught me and my twin to dream big and follow through. How it had been hard work and dedication that got me here. Nothing genetic about it. I owe my success to Mum and to Elise – my dad has nothing to do with it. Gradually, people stopped asking.

And now here I am, throwing it all away and qualifying eighth. Eighth! This isn’t like me. It isn’t like me, at all, but I just can’t seem to get it together. Ever since I heard Harper was joining the team, my head has been a mess.

I’m back at the hotel in a blur of anxiety, showering off the day and desperately trying to get my shit together when my phone starts to ring with a FaceTime from Elise.

These were my favourite parts of the day when I was younger. She’d call me and tell me about her nursing course, when she first started dating her boyfriend, now husband, and about all her exciting friends who loved to do wild things at uni. Now, whenever the phone rings, I dread that she’s calling with bad news about Mum.

It doesn’t stop me answering quickly, though. It’s not too late in the UK and the biggest smile cracks across my face as I open the video call to find my niece taking up most of the screen.

‘Uncle KiKi,’ she cries happily, clapping as my face fills her screen. ‘Uncle KiKi, I did finger painting today.’ Elise flips to the back camera and I’m met with at least ten sheets of paper covered in swirls of different coloured paint. And this is all it takes to restore my happiness.

I breathe out and let Cassie explain her wandering thoughts about a couple of paintings before she gets completely distracted telling me about a bedtime story TV show she’s been allowed to watch.

‘Miss you, Uncle KiKi. Mummy says you’re going to win me something, like Daddy does when we go to the fair.’ My heart beats faster at that. I can’t let her down. Her excited little face… It would break my heart.

‘I’m definitely going to try, sweetheart. A big gold cup. How does that sound?’

She cheers with utter glee and then drops the phone, her voice fading out into the background as she runs off to find her dad to tell him.

Elise picks it up from the floor and for once I’m caught off guard by the paint streaks on her face instead of the tiredness in her eyes.

‘Sorry about that. She’s had too much sugar. Grant took her to the fair today at the park. She’s had a concoction of doughnuts and candy floss for dinner.’

I shake my head because I love that kid too much to care about her throwing me on the floor.

‘It’s fine. You look really well, El.’

‘It’s been a good day. The kids are happy. It’s nice to have Grant at home. Mum held Jesse today and knew who he was. So, my heart is very full.’

I remember what she said to me when she sat me down and told me that the Parkinson’s was now considered advanced; that we should be making every memory possible with Mum, treasuring the good days and just being glad she’s still here on the bad ones. I’m not surprised she looks content.

‘God, El. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for that.’ There’s a heaviness in my heart that I’m missing all these good moments. I should be making the most of them, too.

‘I’ll send you all the photos, don’t worry. She asked about you this evening. Even when you’re not around you’re still in her mind.’

I choke down a big old sob at her words. I’m really missing them all so much today.

‘We didn’t see the qualifiers, but I saw you finished eighth when I checked the news. Just remember, tomorrow’s another day and your race days are always better than your qualifiers.’

She isn’t wrong. For someone who actively refuses to watch most of my races out of fear of seeing me crash, she knows a lot about my stats.

‘We love you so much, Ki. Just wanted to drop in on you before we get the kids to bed. It’s already way past their bedtime.’ I’m grateful she’s made the time; she probably saw today’s result and knew that I needed them right now.

I love my sister so much.

‘Love you all, too. Kiss both of them goodnight for me.’

‘Hope you aren’t forgetting me,’ her husband, Grant, says with a grin, appearing behind her, Jesse fast asleep on his hip as he heads for the stairs.

‘Kiss the big baby for me too.’ I make kissing noises into the camera and then the line cuts off and I’m back to being alone in my hotel.

Again.

* * *

The next morning I’m whispering a mantra under my breath as I head into the garage and suit up.

‘Yesterday is forgotten, today is a new day, I’ve got this.’

I repeat it over and over in my head, trying to get that laser-focus to kick in.

The muscles in the back of my neck don’t feel quite so coiled with anxiety anymore, and my mind’s on the prize. I fell asleep visualizing giving that cup to Cassie. This is my motivation now. The wins aren’t for me; they’re for her and Jesse. Everything I do is for them – not just to give them trophies but to give them a better life. A life I didn’t get.

Don’t get me wrong. Mum always made sure we wanted for nothing, but the gifts she gave us were to plug the parental-sized hole in our life. Dad was physically gone and a lot of the time it seemed like Mum was mentally checked out. That wouldn’t be Cassie and Jesse, they’d constantly know they were loved and treasured.

‘Yesterday is forgotten, today is a new day, I’ve got this.’

I roll my shoulders back as I walk out into the Hendersohm pit, the rush of noise around me so familiar that it’s not even distracting. There’s people in the stands holding up posters with my name on. I’ve got this.

I don’t know where Harper James is and I don’t care. He’s not my problem.

‘Yesterday is forgotten, today is a new day, I’ve got this,’ I whisper to myself.

The crowd cheers when I wave, and I feel the roar well up inside me.

‘Yesterday is forgotten, today is a new day, I’ve got this,’ I say again.

It’s one bad qualifier. It’s not over until the chequered flag. No more catastrophising.

I’m calm and in control as I climb into the cockpit. Cole checks that I’m comfortable and that everything feels good.

‘Yesterday is forgotten, today is a new day, I’ve got this.’

I nod as he steps back, the halo settling around me.

‘All right, Kian. Keep your focus. You’ve got this.’ Cole’s voice has been in my ear for years, and it’s reassuring that he hasn’t lost faith in me either.

‘Thanks, Cole. Let’s do this!’

Yesterday was admittedly a little shaky, but I always seem to perform better when I’m wheel to wheel with every other driver on the track. Even if that includes Harper, who I can’t help but see is waiting to go in fourth.

Starting in eighth isn’t ideal, but the second the race starts I feel myself slipping back into the focus that’s got me where I am today.

Everything feels good around me – the halo is secure, the steering feels smoother, the skid on the track so much better than yesterday. It doesn’t take me long to feel the thrill of driving again.

I start moving up, first P7 and then P6. I feel good, I feel settled, and I’m starting to enjoy myself. That trophy will be Cassie’s, just like I promised.

It takes a couple of laps, but I’m powering in to P5, Harper just ahead of me. He hasn’t managed to move up at all, but he’s maintained his position, so I’ve got to give him that at least. I’m determined to take him. I cannot finish behind this little twat who seems to know how to push every single one of my buttons.

But he’s got some impressive little techniques to force me into bad positions behind him so I can’t sneak past. We don’t run a policy at Hendersohm where driver one has priority. I know some teams have a strategy and they work together as a pair, but that’s not how we do things. Elijah and I were always equals on the track, and that worked for us.

But there’s something about the way Harper’s driving that really pisses me off. It’s like he’s teasing me with opportunities and then swinging in to close them off the second I take the bait and go for it. He’s playing with me.

But I’ve got years of experience under my belt. I know this track, I know the car, I know what I’m doing.

‘Cole, what’s the difference?’ I ask.

‘Point six,’ he replies.

So, when I see the opportunity, I open the DRS and gain an advantage, sliding past him with the grace and poise of a ballet dancer.

It’s unbelievably satisfying.

Take that, you arrogant twat. Watch and learn how the big boys do it.

But when I move up into P3, Harper’s right behind me.

I just need to tune him out and focus on my own race, my own schedule, my own routine. He’s a rookie. He’s good, but he’s a rookie. I’m the reigning champion and I’m defending my title. One bad press interview doesn’t change that.

I’m pulling overtaking manoeuvres that feel as natural to me as breathing, until I’m nearly up front where I belong. It’s easy to feel content here, especially when I’ve only been able to see one person up ahead of me for the last half a lap. Whoever it is, I’m close enough to see that their car is bouncing almost out of control. If we weren’t racing, I would think they were listening to ACDC up ahead.

‘Can you confirm I’m in P2, Cole?’ I ask over the headset, just in case I’ve been so in the zone that I’ve missed something.

‘P2 confirmed. Just Yorris out ahead of you.’

So, only one rogue Ferrari guy to fly past and with how bad he looks and how good I feel, I’m confident it won’t be difficult.

The last third of the race sitting up front, almost leading the pack, feels like the heaven I’ve spent the last decade and a half building. My eyes are on the road and with Cole in my ears there’s nothing we can’t do. We’re unstoppable. Not even Yorris will stop me.

‘Three laps to go, Ki. Straight coming up.’ I take the bends, watching mostly for the narrow one, and the second I hit the straight I’m on max power, looking for the sweet spot and then flying past Yorris and whatever issues he’s facing.

‘P1!’ Cole tries not to shout, but there’s an eruption going on behind him in the garage.

I’m three laps from smashing out of the first race of the season, my mind sharp and the car performing, as I pass the line for one of the last times. Two laps, just two laps from victory. So close and yet so far because before I know it there’s a car up my ass locking on to me, and I can feel them being pushed by a car right behind them, too.

‘Give me P2 and P3, Cole.’

I need to know what I’m up against right now so I can plan how to handle these final laps and still keep pole position.

‘Yorris in P2 and James in P3,’ Cole confirms, and for a second I almost lose focus. He can’t be right.

‘Can you confirm P3 again, please?’ There’s no way. It’s one thing for a rookie to shit out a good lap in qualifying, but another for them to be battling for podium in their first race.

‘It’s Harper, mate. Really battling with Yorris. Might be one of those moments for the history books.’

Fuck this.I banish any thought of who’s behind me. I have to focus on my drive right now. My back’s killing me as I push right up against the seat, like that’s going to maximise my speed. I know I can ignore it for two more laps and keep up the pace without flying off the track in a heap of metal.

‘Yesterday is forgotten, today is a new day, I’ve got this.’

The final lap is called into my headset and I’m really bloody pushing now. It’s not like other seasons where it’s felt like I’m fighting with the car by the last couple of laps, but I can still feel every bit of G as I tap the brake ahead of the corner to keep me from ending up too close to the wall. It’s painful in my neck and spine, but exhilarating at the same time.

This is what I live for.

‘How far behind?’ I’m asking as the last turn of the lap approaches.

‘P2 point eight. P3 one point four.’ It’s reassuring enough. I can work with that.

And I absolutely do. I floor it on the last straight and then I’m flying over that line like my life depends on it. Inside my ears, the garage erupts into a chaos of noisy celebration. I can’t wait to be out of this car and celebrating with my team.

‘Thank you, Cole,’ I murmur into the headset, beyond glad that one of my favourite team members is with me for the fifth year in a row.

‘You’re always welcome, superstar. Anders is crying. First race and he’s got both Hendersohm drivers on the podium.’ There’s still so much shouting going on in the background at his end that I have to check I heard him correctly.

‘Harper stayed in P3?’

‘Indeed he did. Everyone’s the best kind of shocked right now.’

It’s carnage in the garage. My back aches as much from the backslaps and hugs I’ve been pulled into than it does from the two hours I’ve spent enduring G-force speeds in my car. Champagne corks fly around the room, the popping sound only causing people to scream our team name more and more. I get handed a magnum with Hendersohm branding on it and I take a swig before handing it on to Ash. Seconds later he has Harper on his knees in front of him and he’s pouring the frothy bubbles down the rookie’s throat.

The Netflix videographer is floating around, so that’s going to make for some interesting footage.

Not my problem, I quickly remind myself.

I need to focus on what I’m doing and Harper James can take care of himself. If Anders is happy to take a chance on him, then that’s his decision.

Yet the frustration still threatens to ruin my joy. That Harper James can just waltz in here, treat all the careful training, scheduling, and clear instructions from the team principal like a joke, and still get on the podium.

Speaking of podiums, as Harper nudges past me to step onto the third-place box, he shoulder bumps me hard enough that I stumble slightly. In full view of all the fans, the press, everyone.

That’s rookie sportsmanship for you. He’s such a sore loser.

It takes grace, dedication and commitment to be a winner. He’s not mastered that yet as he proves what an arrogant little twat he truly is.

When I step up onto the podium and take the medal for first, I can feel the waves of annoyance coming off him. Yorris, on the other side of me, seems oblivious to the tension.

And then, when it’s time to shake hands with each other for the inevitable press photos, I turn to Yorris first and we congratulate each other. I don’t know him very well, but we’ve shared a podium many times before and we know the drill. Shake, eye contact, then look out at the press for the photo op. When I turn to Harper, though, and go to shake hands with him and do the same, he pretends not to see me – or to understand the established order of how this is done – and he reaches around me to shake hands with Yorris and congratulate him.

I’m left holding out my hand and looking like a total turkey in front of the thousands of fans and the global media. Cameras click and flash and I know this will be front-page news in the sports press.

Even when he finishes with Yorris, Harper acts like I don’t exist and turns to step off the podium.

‘You’re such a sore loser,’ I say under my breath and he turns to give me a look that would put me six feet under if such a thing were possible.

I can’t help laughing at his petulance, but I admit that it’s easy to be the bigger person here since I’m the one that got the win. But when I turn my head, I see Anders watching and I feel chagrined.

Anders is like a father to me. He’s certainly been more of a father to me than mine ever was. He has nurtured my career, and the way he supported me when Mum was diagnosed with Parkinson’s – and the way he continues to support me – will put me forever in his debt.

Now I feel bad for embarrassing him in this way. It matters how the team appears in public. It matters what our reputation is. It matters to the sponsors, to the team owners, and to the team’s bottom line. It’s not too much to ask that we keep private hostilities from spilling over. We’re afforded approximately thirty minutes of uproar to enjoy the celebrations, shake hands with VIPs, sponsors, and autograph-hunters before Anders waves me over to him. He’s already got Harper welded to his side with an arm around his shoulders that appears jovial but is probably like an iron band.

I already know this is not going to be good.

When Anders has us both in his grasp, amidst the deafening noise of the team’s celebrations, he says in a low voice so that only Harper and I can hear, ‘Great performance on the track, boys. An excellent start to the season. But listen carefully to what I’m about to say. No more dick swinging, no more petty infighting, no more bullshit. From now on, you put on a united front. This is your final warning. Fix it or fake it, I don’t care which, but if the press, sponsors and VIPs don’t come away with the impression that you boys are best buds, then you’ll both be looking for a new team. Are we clear?’

I feel a weight drop into the pit of my stomach. My throat feels tacky and I can’t swallow. I cannot lose my place on this team. Not that way. It would crush me.

To be fired, like my father was, for something so stupid … I don’t think I’d ever get over that.

‘Of course. I apologise for the unprofessionalism. I know I’m not great with change, and I don’t think I’ve handled the upheaval very well. But that doesn’t justify how I’ve been acting…’

Even to my ears, the words seem desperate, and maybe they are. Maybe I’m a thirty-three-year-old facing the end of his career who’s desperate not to become the person he despises most in the world, but I will only be going out on my own terms. I’ve worked my entire life to shrug off the comparisons between us, and I will not fall at the final hurdle.

Harper’s head spins round so quickly to face me, it almost gives me whiplash. He’s eyeing me like he’s not quite sure what to make of this version of Kian Walker. I’m just hoping he’s not about to argue with me about this. After all, it’s mostly his fault.

‘I think maybe you two just need to get to know each other a bit more. You don’t have to love each other – hell, you’re still each other’s competition – but you need to get yourselves under control. This is a spectator sport, and everyone’s watching. How you talk about each other and to each other in public matters. It’s also a team sport, so act like a bloody team. Is that understood?’

I nod, rapidly, but Harper is still dead quiet.

‘Sure,’ he finally agrees, and again I’m reminded of a petulant child. In that, I’ll need to be the grown-up here.

I’m trying to think of an activity that we can do together, something we have in common that we can use to settle this situation between us.

‘The gym maybe?’ I suggest.

‘Huh?’ Harper replies, clearly not following my chain of thought.

‘We could start working out together and post some clips on social media. It’ll be good for our driving and we can try to get to know each other a little bit more.’ Harper’s still acting like a sulky teenager being reprimanded by a teacher he clearly doesn’t respect. All I can do is take the high ground. He might not grasp what’s at stake, but I do. Maybe I just have more to lose. ‘That’s my bad, man. I should have welcomed you properly to this team.’

Maybe I have been unwelcoming, bordering on unfriendly. He’s not to know that comparing me to father dearest would put my back up, but I’m also not above being the bigger man. He just always seems to know exactly what to say and do to push my buttons. Just when I think I’ve got my shit together, he makes a comment that leaves me floundering in the deep end.

Anders smiles at both of us, and my suggestion is clearly a hit, yet Harper is still taking his sweet time agreeing. For a second, I almost think he won’t, that he’d rather throw away the biggest opportunity he’s ever had for the sake of his own pride.

‘Sure,’ is all he offers to this conversation again. It’ll have to do.

‘Brilliant. I knew you two wouldn’t let me down. The sponsors are incredibly excited for this pairing and what you’ll accomplish this season. Let’s not waste this momentum.’

Anders has always cared so deeply about the team, and I know better than anyone that the team is bigger than any individual driver. Motor racing is a multi-billion-dollar industry, and managing a team means being ruthless when it comes to making money. Anders may love Hendersohm, but he’s not in this for shits and giggles. If he can’t get his drivers under control, the owners might just decide to fire him. If sponsors are turned off by our bickering and start looking elsewhere … well, suffice it to say that this cannot be a loss-making venture. So, I understand his need to keep everyone happy.

Harper disappears back into the celebration, whilst I slink off back to the hotel. I don’t have the heart to join in with everyone else. All I need right now is to catch up with the family and sleep. When did winning start to feel so exhausting?

I turn my phone back on and I’m barraged with texts, mainly from friends and family back home. But there are also several from Elijah congratulating me on my first win of the season.

Sadly, Harper’s antics on the podium have gone viral. No wonder Anders was so pissed off. Some of the reporters are even claiming that the supposed rift between Harper and me is my fault. Apparently, despite today’s performance, my best days are behind me and I’m standing in the way of a new generation of superstar drivers. The same people who called me the golden boy of Championship racingfor more years than I can remember are as good as calling me grandad. Where do they get this bullshit from? I mean, did they not watch me today?

It’s almost enough to make me truly consider retiring this season. Giving the press what they want.

But I’m not a quitter. And I won’t let one arrogant rookie throw me off my game.