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Thomas

Two months later, November

Las Vegas, Nevada

It’s not easy being the most hated man in motorsport.

Some days, I wonder if I’m exaggerating. I know I’m not the most hated, but I’m definitely in the top five for a lot of people—people who are currently here or will be arriving soon for next weekend’s Las Vegas Grand Prix. But then there are days like this one when I have the privilege of experiencing firsthand that I’m definitely not exaggerating.

“Fuck you,” the red-faced man in front of me spits, skin almost the same shade as the Scuderia D’Ambrosi kit he’s wearing, Lorenzo Castellucci’s number emblazoned on the front. “ You did this to him. You ruined his life.”

Considering I literally wasn’t involved in the crash that reportedly left Castellucci paralyzed, the man’s facts are a little off. There’s no telling him that it was all down to his favorite driver’s recklessness, though. I’m public enemy number one, all because of something I said.

I take a breath to settle my nerves and glance over his shoulder, searching for escape routes from this unfortunate conversation, but he’s standing between me and the place I need to be—a party bus idling at the curb ten meters away. I didn’t think I’d have to face down an angry Castellucci fan before joining a stag do, but this is just my luck these days.

As the other guests climb aboard, I’m trapped on the sidewalk outside my hotel as the man continues his ranting. I can’t walk away if I don’t want another scathing article hitting the press tomorrow morning, but maybe I should just let him think the worst of me. It’s not like Formula 1 is a stranger to scandal, from spying and cheating to shady deals and dirty money changing hands. The sport has a history steeped in it, and we drivers are no different. I can’t think of a single one of us, past or present, who hasn’t had something blow up in our faces.

Take Dev Anderson and his antibiotic-resistant STD for example, which was a rumor started by his ex–social media manager when she quit in a blaze of fury. It took months and a complete image overhaul to fix his reputation and convince sponsors he wasn’t a liability—and that he didn’t actually have an STD. There are still some “family-friendly” brands refusing to work with him, all because of the lies that were spread. It was a nightmare situation, and he’s still climbing out of the ashes.

But I’d take Dev’s fake STD any day over people knowing I wished death upon a fellow driver.

The worst part is that I actually did it. There were no made-up rumors by vengeful ex-employees or edited sound clips to make me look bad. I said what I said, even if I immediately wanted to take the words back. They were blurted in a moment of anger after nearly being killed on-track by the man I was complaining about.

Besides, I’ve been wrapped up in this world long enough to know that someone is always listening. And in this case, someone in our garage recorded every single furious word that tumbled from my lips. I don’t know who was responsible for it being shot and uploaded to social media, but within the hour, it was all over the internet.

It got some attention at the time, and I got my fair share of hate, but it wasn’t until the crash in Singapore two months ago that I officially became the most hated man in F1.

I understand why, and I can’t fault anyone for it. I may not believe in the whole woo-woo be careful what you speak into existence bullshit, but I know some people do, and they blame me and my outburst for the accident happening. I’m the scapegoat who’s getting hourly death threats.

I need to give Dev a call and ask him how he fixed the mess he was in. Maybe I can hire the same social media manager he did, the one who shifted public opinion back in his favor. Last I heard, she’s working for Reid Coleman, Scuderia D’Ambrosi’s number one driver these days, but I’d say I need her in my corner more than Reid does. Although, considering D’Ambrosi was— is —Lorenzo’s team, I don’t think they’d take kindly to me poaching her.

The people I have in place are doing their best to make me look a little less like a complete twat, so I can only wait until the next scandal is unveiled and the heat moves off me. For my sake, hopefully someone will show up with a secret baby in the next few weeks. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

“I understand your concerns,” I interrupt as diplomatically as I can, desperate to get on the bus. “And I will certainly be more cognizant of my words and actions in the future.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head before the raging begins again, starting with me being a fucking pretentious Brit and ending with a stiff finger repeatedly poking into my chest. All I can do is sigh.

As much as I’d like to run, I doubt there’s a safe space for me to go in all of Las Vegas, aside from the McMorris F1 Team motorhome with their top-notch security. I’ve had to tolerate this in every grand prix location since Singapore—five races of pure torture. Unfortunately, it’ll be a few days before I can escape to the protection of my team and the paddock, which means I have to grin and bear this.

I shouldn’t even be out tonight. I’m not the Maxwell-Brown sibling who’s supposed to be here. It should be Andrew, my older brother and the groom’s childhood best friend, but his wife is weeks away from giving birth to their first child. There was no way he’d risk missing it, even for this, so I was volunteered as the next best thing, a stand-in to represent our family at tomorrow’s wedding since my race schedule happens to align. I wasn’t expecting a stag do invitation to go along with it, but Andrew made it clear I wasn’t to say no.

I get a much-needed distraction from being screamed at when my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from my best mate. Still alive? Joshua’s message reads, and it takes everything in me not to snort as I type back, Currently being accosted, actually . To that he replies, As long as it doesn’t end up in the news, you’ll be fine .

At least someone cares.

“Are you even listening to me?” the Castellucci fan roars, and I glance up to see he’s somehow turned a darker shade of crimson.

To save him from the forthcoming stroke and me from having my mental health destroyed more than it already is, I flash a tight smile and take a large step to the side. “I’m terribly sorry, but there’s somewhere I need to be. Take care, yeah?”

There’s only a brief moment of silence before he’s yelling at my retreating back, but I’m not about to turn around to suffer more of his abuse. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow, and then I’m bounding up the steps of the bus, taking a moment once I’m inside to let my eyes adjust to the low light and flashing strobes. Once they do, I freeze.

My brain does its best to compute what I’m seeing. If this is a stag do…why are there so many women here? Jesus Christ, why is the bride here?

The answer hits a second later. This isn’t just a stag do—it’s a combination stag and hen do.

“Sit down, mate!” someone calls over the booming music, and I look down at a man who’s glassy-eyed and grinning, a drink clutched in his hand. “Party’s starting!”

Looks like it already started. I briefly consider stepping off the bus, weighing whether I would be better off here or on the streets, but the closing doors decide for me.

Just as the bus lurches away from the curb, I squeeze in beside a few other tuxedoed men. I thought it was odd when Ron, the groom, asked us to wear them tonight, and it appears the bride has requested that the women wear white dresses. With the wardrobe choice, any one of us could be the happy couple, although they’ve accessorized with silk sashes and crowns to differentiate themselves.

I dare to glance around to see if anyone else is as thrown by this turn of events as I am, but everyone seems to be having the time of their lives. Well, no, that’s not quite true—there’s one woman near the back who looks like she’d rather be run over by the bus than be on it. But even while miserable, she’s stunning.

I’m forced to look away from her when a glass of champagne is shoved into my hand and I’m met with chants to chug it down. I do as I’m told, mostly to get the noise to stop, but also because I have a feeling I’m going to need the alcohol to get through tonight.

Guess I’m along for the ride.