Collided: Dirty Air (Book 2)(50)
Another reporter speaks. “Liam, there’s talk that you may switch over to Kulikov’s racing team at the end of the season. Would you like to share more about that?”
“No comment.” My response garners some hushed whispers.
The reporters process my response. I have no idea where they get their information from, but their sleuthing skills suck.
“Can you tell us more about your relationship with Miss Mitchell? Are you looking to join Bandini next year?” The same slimy reporter from earlier speaks up.
Where the fuck did that come from?
“My friendship with Sophie Mitchell is of no one’s concern. Not everything in life revolves around contracts and signing deals.” I smirk at the reporter, hoping he shuts up.
He slyly grins. “As of an hour ago, a source reported you’re sleeping with Miss Mitchell to climb the career ladder.”
My fingers clench in front of me. “Seeing as you mentioned Claudia a moment ago, I’d double-check with your sources about their reliability. Whoever I decide to sleep with, whether it’s Miss Mitchell or not, is no one’s business. I’d rather commit career suicide than sleep with someone to get ahead in this sport. I’d advise you to find better stories that don’t involve the latest scoop inside my bedroom.”
The reporter settles back into his seat, his shoulders held high.
The press conference wraps up in record time. My mood darkens despite a Prix win, tainted by tactless questions and untrue stories.
My day goes from bad to worse when I get a call from my agent about Peter wanting to meet with us. I grace them with my lovely presence, my foul attitude from earlier following me around like a dark cloud.
McCoy’s motorhome palace greets me, the cold gray aesthetic no longer filling me with a sense of pride. I step into a conference room to find an agitated Peter and my agent seated.
“When I said to stay away from women, I didn’t expect you to befriend James Mitchell’s daughter. How stupid can you be?” Peter’s meaty fists bang on the table.
The notion has me shaking in my sneakers.
Not.
Unnecessary politics need to stop. I show up to drive, place on podiums, and schmooze with sponsors. My contract doesn’t include discussing my bedfellow schedule.
“You should’ve been more specific. You told me to respect your niece and I did that. Sophie and I are friends. It’s not my problem if reporters twist our friendship to fit their agenda.” I flick a piece of invisible dust off my jeans.
“For the love of God, I appreciate your skills as a racer, but you need to control your private life. I hate hearing reporters talk about you like that and I don’t enjoy having McCoy associated with Bandini.” Peter comes off genuine for the first time all season. He reminds me of the old him, of the guy who took me under his wing when I was lost.
“I think what Peter means to say is how hanging around someone from Bandini may not be the best choice, especially the team principal’s daughter. What if this blows up again? Let’s say you have your fun with her and then leave her behind. She can’t go away because she’s always around.” Rick assesses me.
My agent’s words make my blood run hot. He should be on my side rather than sucking Peter’s cock and appeasing him.
“No, it won’t. You two are acting like I’m fucking around behind her back. You’ll have to trust me. If you believe I can drive a million-dollar car and win, then you can count on me to not mess up.”
Despite my confidence, I know they’re right to question me. That’s the thing about trust. Once you break it, the journey to get it back tends to be long and tedious. I want to put in the work for my team.
Peter wraps up the meeting with a warning glance and a grumbled apology about losing his temper. Look at that. Billionaires: they’re just like us.
Rick stays behind per my request. Clearly, I need to give him direction about what I want.
“I need you to find out what McCoy’s plan is for me next season. Ask if they want to keep me or not. If yes, then find out the cost and an estimated timeframe of how long it’ll take Peter to get over his dislike for me. My patience is thinning because his attitude changes more than my car shifts gears. If McCoy doesn’t plan on offering, I want to see a report about bids from other teams.”
“And if McCoy doesn’t agree to any terms?” He taps away at his phone.
“Then do your job. It’s what you take a chunk of my signing bonus for, isn’t it?”
Rick triggers my angry side, with him continuously giving me a hard time about my relationship with Sophie and my image with McCoy. I don’t pay him as much as I do to bitch and moan about me. He earns his million dollars by putting up with my shit and finding solutions. He likes money, and I like racing. It’s a win-win situation when he motivates himself.
His dark eyes remain on mine. “I’ll get right on it. But you know McCoy is your best bet. I’ve been working Peter down, trying to keep your payout worth you staying with the team. These deals take time so give me a few more weeks.”
Everyone and their goddamn mother know McCoy rules F1 with Bandini. But I won’t compromise myself and limit opportunities for a sick race car and a best friend for a teammate. At least not unless there is a promise that Peter will relax and let me do what I do best.
“Be careful with Miss Mitchell. As much fun as she probably is, you need to think about your career. This is the very thing you’ve been working toward since you were a kid. If you keep pissing Peter off, I don’t know if I can help you. I can’t save you from every mistake.”