Page 9

We smash the Australian Grand Prix out of the park. It’s the second time Hendersohm have had two podium places so far this season and I could not be happier to be back on top of the world in first place.

It’s a strong start to the season, and as I reflect back on some of the reasons for this, I grudgingly acknowledge that Harper has brought out the competitive side in me – and maybe this is giving me an edge on the track. Having to look after his sorry ass the other day had an upside: it finally got him to commit to joining me in the gym. He’s actually making the effort, rather than acting like he’s just here to prove a point to our principal, which is nice.

It starts on the treadmill. He picks the one right next to me and at first we warm up gently. I up my speed to a jog and he’s quick to follow. I increase my speed again, and he matches it; I notch it up again, and he’s there alongside me, upping his speed to catch me and then I’m upping mine. It goes on like that until we’re both working hard, practically sprinting, but I can’t stop myself. I can’t bear to let him win. To win what, I have no idea, but it’s exhilarating. My whole body’s on fire, both with excitement and how hard I’m pushing it. I can’t remember the last time, outside of being in the cockpit, when I felt this alive.

Eventually, he hits the stop button and I experience a moment of intense triumph, before quickly following suit. We pant like dogs as the machines slow us both to recovery walking pace, our gym towels unable to mop up the sweat pouring down our faces quick enough.

It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages. With Harper James, of all people!

‘What do you squat?’ he asks between glugs of a purple-coloured sports drink.

‘One forty. Depends on reps. What about you?’

‘One forty.’ He doesn’t sound sure, though, and I feel like he’s probably going to recklessly try to prove it to me and we’ll have another driver out on injury.

‘Well, I’m doing upper body today now that my cardio’s done,’ I say, ‘so you can save your squatting skills for another time … if we’re doing this together?’ He doesn’t attempt to fight me on this, which is nice for once, and instead follows me to a bicep machine.

Yet we continue to compete, trying to outperform each other on every setup. But the strange thing is that it’s actually a laugh, and I enjoy my routine more than normal. I definitely push myself harder than usual and I have to admit that maybe this new injection of fresh motivation is long overdue in my gym workout.

* * *

Now, unfortunately, it’s time to keep up my end of the bargain. I’m dressed in what Harper has deemed my going-out clothes – a short-sleeved navy blue shirt and denim shorts that feel a little snug. We’re at a bar that he considers appropriate for the celebration and which I would never have come to in a million years if I hadn’t agreed to this deal.

Harper and Johannes charge towards the bar and I find myself wandering in search of a booth that’s a little more out of the way from everyone else. I hate feeling like I’m on show all the time.

They return quickly, two glasses of something dark and stormy in Johannes’s hands and a bottle of beer clutched in Harper’s. Fuck’s sake! I was crystal clear that I just wanted water. Neither says anything as they sidle into the booth around me, matching grins on their faces because they’ve clearly intentionally ignored everything I said.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more uncomfortable in my life. I sneak a peek at my watch. It’s early morning at home. I could be chatting to Elise, giving her some adult conversation before the kids get up and she has to start Mum’s morning routine. The need to be there, even if only virtually, is greater when Grant’s away at a conference.

‘So, Kian, this guy finally dragged you out, huh? How’re you enjoying Oz? S’pose you’ve been coming here for the last decade. Does it ever get boring?’ I know Johannes is just trying to be nice, but I only ever see the inside of the hotel, the track, and whatever venues I get dragged to for interviews.

I wrack my brains for what it was like ten years ago when I was more their age, when life was easier and the pressure wasn’t so great. I was never a big partier, but I did a bit of sightseeing here and there.

‘It’s nice to be in the warm, but I can’t say I’ve seen a lot of it this time round.’

‘I’m telling you,’ Harper starts, the rim of his glass of whatever perched against the bottom of his lip, ‘he doesn’t leave the hotel until qualifiers. He does yoga in his room!’

Rolling my eyes, I almost groan. Not the yoga thing again. I will probably never live this down.

‘Nothing wrong with yoga,’ Johannes says, and my jaw almost drops. I was prepared for the pair to gang up on me. I imagined I’d spend the next hour – the amount of time I agreed I’d stay out for – being teased. ‘The team trainer is quite big on it. He got me into it last year and it helps me loosen up after being cramped into a cockpit for hours at a time. I got that neck strain last season, d’you remember? Yoga’s what fixed it. Well, it’s what’s prevented me getting it again, anyway. I swear by it now.’

‘Oh, God. You’ll be doing downward dog together before you know it and then I’ll be forced to join in.’

I snort. I very much doubt that. But it does bring home to me that Harper’s in his first top-category season. He’s never had all these trainers and specialists and professionals trying to micromanage every aspect of his fitness before. He’s also still got the invincibility of youth that makes you sneer at the advice of older people. He hasn’t had any major injuries yet and he hasn’t felt his body let him down. His energy is infectious, though, and I find myself hoping, that for his sake, his arrogant confidence doesn’t lead him to make a reckless decision now that he comes to regret in the future.

God, when did I start caring about Harper James’s future?

Luckily, Johannes just laughs off Harper’s suggestion and I sink into the booth a little. The time blinks in the corner of the TV screen that’s showing a rugby game. Just fifty more minutes and I’m out of here.

We talk some more about today’s results and about flying to Azerbaijan for the next race. Apparently, it’s one of Johannes’s favourite circuits. Never heard that one before. I didn’t think anyone was a big fan of it. I don’t mind it myself, but it’s too split in half for me to really enjoy it. One side is wide and open, full of beautiful straights where you can push your speed to the max. The other is tight and twisty, full of punishing turns that make you pay for every fractional mistake tenfold. It takes a lot of concentration to flip between these two states. I guess that’s part of the challenge, but it’s not where I feel at my best.

‘Let’s dance,’ Harper quickly suggests, as the motor racing conversation dies down.

I’m quick to shake my head, and before I know it Johannes is hopping out of the booth and pulling Harper onto the dance floor, screaming something about it being their song.

As Harper grinds – yes, full-on grinds – against Johannes, I wish I’d never agreed to come. The hour isn’t up yet, but I promised Anders I’d do my part – make an effort, compromise, be a good teammate. Well I’m here, aren’t I? Though I can’t currently see how this is making me a better teammate because there’s a fiery pit of something I don’t want to name brewing in my gut. It’s vicious and attacks my stress levels more than the guilt does.

Johannes’s hands are roving up and down Harper’s body. When they land on his hips, the T-shirt he’s wearing rides up, leaving a delicious smattering of blonde hair on display leading down into his stupidly tight denim shorts.

It’s not like I am or ever have been blind to Harper James. I refuse to accept that he’s quite the sensation the fans claim he is. I mean, he is hot – that’s undeniable – but it’s more than that. He’s beautiful in the most classic sense of the word. His features are like something one of the great sculptors of the past would carve – godlike, perfect, clean. And then there’s his ass. It’s lean, firm, shapely and would tempt anyone to sin. Of course I’ve noticed. But then there’s also his sharp, sarcastic tongue…

He throws his head back onto Johannes’s shoulder. His eyes closed, a couple of slick curls cling to his damp forehead as he writhes and twists on the dance floor. Fuck. I absolutely do not want this image of Harper James to become engraved inside my brain.

And yet, I can’t look away. There’s an uncomfortable stirring in my shorts that makes sitting in this sticky booth that little more uncomfortable. I didn’t want to come here and now I can’t leave – trapped between the terms of our deal and the compulsion to keep on watching him.

This is so wrong. So, so wrong. I desperately want to leave, but I also really, really want to go up there and slide in between the pair. I want to be the one Harper is writhing against. I want to forget about all the crap in the world, all the pressure, all my responsibilities, and all the ways I am failing my sister, and just lose myself in Harper. That’s what I want.

I’m supposed to be here to build a relationship with my teammate. To become friends with him so we can work together.

But the burning desire inside of me is not for friendship. It’s just for him. His body held against mine. His ass in my hands. My lips on his?—

I should leave, but if I walk outside now everyone’s going to get a good look at the tent I’m pitching and it’ll probably end up on the front page of some Australian tabloid. Or someone’s Instagram.

And then everyone would know. And even worse than everyone knowing is if he knows, if Harper sees the way I’m looking at him.

I feel a sudden panic rising inside me and my breath hitches. And then it happens.

Fuck.

It happens in a kind of feverish slow motion and I cannot look away. His eyes open and our gazes meet. It’s electric, instant fireworks. It’s almost like he can hear every single one of my dirty thoughts because he looks me up and down in an assessing way, and then grins like a Cheshire cat.

Too late. It’s too late. He knows.

He beckons me with a single finger. He’s also bloody delusional. The only place I’m going is back to the hotel. Not a chance in hell he’ll get me out on that dance floor.

I shake my head and he pouts, full on model pout, but before I know it he’s focused back on dancing with Johannes.

The spell is broken.

The moment is over.

He doesn’t know anything, and, quite frankly, he doesn’t care.

That’s the thing with Harper, I’m learning. I’m pretty sure everyone is disposable in his life. No one ever spends more than one night in his bed. He’s all hook-ups and fuck-buddies. No one means anything to him, and no one gets close. He and Johannes are obviously friends, but I don’t know whether they were ever together or not. Either way, I don’t think they’re sleeping together now. I don’t get that vibe.

It’s kind of sweet in the most messed-up sense of the word sweet. Harper seems to either dislike or distrust most other people in his life, but Johannes just seems to be his person. The only one he’ll let close.

If I ignore the green pit of something I refuse to call jealousy, I can see how they’d be cute together. I’m not super familiar with Johannes’s stats as he didn’t make much of an impact on the track last year, but this season is different. His antics outside of the track seemed to have calmed down and he’s coming on leaps and bounds to be a true competitor this year. Especially since he’s part of the new Ford-Red Bull team. I only hope Harper will learn from his friend and find a way to focus on his driving. This moment in time is perhaps not the best example of that, but amidst the pressure of competition it’s important to blow off steam. Looking at them now, it’s clear that what they have in common is how they choose to do that. It’s only 9pm and neither of them is smashed, so it’s pretty tame in comparison with what it could be.

I try to take that onboard and feel as relaxed as they look, but I’m wound up like a tightly coiled spring. This is not my idea of blowing off steam. If anything, I’m reaching boiling point.

Shit.

Why did I agree to this?

I look at the snacks that have been delivered to the table and consider scoffing the lot, just to give myself something to do. I have a strict diet, though, since every gram of weight is carefully controlled so that the car and I together hit the exact perfect mass for peak performance. I push the bowl away and instead focus on rolling the bottle of beer, which is getting slightly warm now, between my palms and picking at the label. Anything to avoid looking at the pair of them on the dance floor.

I must look bored, because when the upbeat song drifts into something slower, Harper appears suddenly back at the booth.

‘What do I have to do to get you up on the dance floor?’

He leans across the table, on his elbows, invading my space. His face is too close to me for comfort and I can smell him – which is definitely not helping.

It’s almost like he’s taunting me. Perhaps he thinks that if he gets close enough, he’ll get his way.

Maybe that’s how it is with him. That’s probably how he bags all the bloody men. But why is he using this technique on me? There’s no way he has any clue that I’m bisexual; no clue that I could be interested. Not that I am. I’m not interested in him.

‘I’m all good here, mate. Go back and enjoy… Johannes. You’ll have a better time without me.’ I absolutely hate the way that comes out. I should have just left it after saying I’m all good. Now he’s eyeing me like the cat that’s got the cream. He doesn’t know, I tell myself. He doesn’t know. This is just feeding his already massive bloody ego.

‘Oh. Ohhhh.’ He’s grinning now, his massive bloody ego inflated even further. ‘Green isn’t your colour, handsome.’

I make a show of looking down at my navy shirt and frowning in confusion. ‘Are you colour blind?’

‘Arise, oh green-eyed monster, and join?—’

‘Screw you.’

‘Ha! I knew it!’

God, I hate how smug he looks.

‘I knew you were enjoying the show. Thanks for confirming that one at least.’

‘Congratulations, Sherlock. I’m bisexual. Alert the media. What do you want, a medal?’

Why am I so bothered that he knows? It’s not a secret. I’ve just never officially announced it to the public. But if anyone asks, I don’t try to hide it.

It’s the way it makes him smirk that pisses me off, like he thinks I’ve been checking him out. Which I haven’t – apart from just now, of course.

‘Wow, racing is really queer this year.’

I don’t ask what that means. I’m obviously aware of me, him and Johannes, but I wasn’t in the know about anyone else. Didn’t even have an inkling. There was one good way that he’d probably know who else wasn’t on the straight side, but I couldn’t bring myself to think about it. Not too hard anyway. I’m sure tonight, when I can’t sleep, I’ll probably be turning the idea, over and over, of Harper sleeping with other drivers.

‘Does anyone really care anymore?’

None of the teams come across as particularly homophobic. If they are they’ve kept it in their garage.

‘I have one of the best gaydars going, and even I didn’t realise you were bi. Don’t you realise that you present straight, or do you do it intentionally? Every third comment on the Instagram page when they post anything about me or Johannes is regarding our sexuality.’

Now that I didn’t know. I didn’t want to seek it out either, there was no desire for me to read the gross words I’m sure some shitty fans might be throwing around.

‘Well, maybe it’s just because I don’t get papped falling out of clubs with obvious hook-ups, or with my dick out in the street,’ I say.

I know this is only half the story, but Harper really doesn’t help himself.

‘So, it’s my fault? I deserve to be trolled by ignorant fuckwits? I deserve to get death threats because I’m not doing yoga alone in my room at 3am?’

‘That’s not what I’m saying. I?—’

‘What are you saying? Because right now, all you’re doing is ruining the vibe. I invited you to relax and enjoy yourself, not to sit here in judgement like some dried-up old prune.’

‘Yeah, that’s right, blame me. It’s always my fault, isn’t it. When will you learn to take responsibility for your own actions? Some of us take our careers seriously.’ I’m so worked up now that I can’t stop myself. ‘I knew coming here was a mistake. I don’t know what they were thinking when they put you on the team. You’re nothing compared to Elijah. You’re a bloody child.’

I see the impact of my words on his face and I instantly regret what I’ve said, but it’s too late now. It’s far, far too late.

‘Whatever you say, Grandpa. No wonder all anyone can talk about is when you’re going to retire. At least your dad went out with a bang. I’ve stepped in puddles with more personality than you.’

I know I probably deserve that, but he has a way of cutting to the bone that plays on all my insecurities. For a second, I’m speechless.

All I want now is to be out of here.

‘Well, this has been fun,’ I say sarcastically as I stand up. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

Our temporary truce is over, and I turn and walk away.

I definitely hear him mutter something that sounds like boring bastard under his breath, but I don’t stop. I am so done with this shit. And I’m so, so done with Harper fucking James.

I contemplate calling an Uber to take me back to the hotel, but decide to walk instead. It’s still a balmy night in Melbourne, and I need to walk off the mood I’m in.

Harper’s been nothing but trouble since the moment he took Elijah’s place. I’ve tried, I really have, but there’s something about him that just riles me up. All thoughts of the benefit of fresh blood and competitive spirit have drained away and I’m left feeling … empty. Alone. And just really, really tired.

I dread being at odds with him again, and I know he will make no attempt to hide his contempt in front of Anders, the media, or anyone who’ll listen. This was supposed to be a brilliant season – my best to date, even – and now it’s turning into a constant battleground with no winners.

I tell myself I don’t care what Harper thinks. I can’t care, because I can’t afford to. I’m not the life of the party. I never was. It’s got nothing to do with being old in the sport, despite what Harper might have to say on the matter. If you look at the average age of drivers now, I’m only slightly above the line. There are guys five, six, and seven years older than me who’re still competitive in top tier racing. I started young, that’s all. Alonso’s over forty. I could have another decade ahead of me, if I wanted. If there weren’t so many youngsters coming up from the lower ranks -right now, I’d be right around average. It’s just the current cohort that’s pushing me into the upper age bracket.

But that’s got nothing to do with why I don’t fit in with Harper and Johannes. I’ve never been into that scene, even when I was a teenager or in my early twenties. I never understood the fascination. I wanted to race and win. That’s all I ever wanted. To race, to win, and then to go to sleep. Is that too much to ask?

Probably.

Definitely, according to Harper. Maybe this is what he needs in order to be at his best, but it certainly isn’t what I need. Maybe…

No. Surely not.

A thought occurs to me. Have I underestimated Harper? Is this all part of an elaborate plan to throw me off my game? Is he actually … strategic? Is he actually some zen, chess grandmaster who’s actually ten steps ahead of me?

Now you’re really losing it, Walker.

He’s just an overexcited rookie who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.

Don’t think about his ass.

I can feel myself spiralling into a vortex of overthinking. None of this is helping me.

I take some deep breaths and try to control my thoughts. I look at my watch. There’s still time to call Elise, and nothing works better to ground me and remind me of my goals and priorities than my sister and her kids. A trophy for Cassie. Defending my title on the track. Making my family proud.

Fuck Harper James.