Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(15)
“Uh, it’s not about contracts, but rather how well we drive. I don’t think about dollar signs or Noah when I’m out there. I think about the next turn and the finish line, with a possible podium ending.”
Okay, not bad. The team publicist must be helping him after yesterday’s disaster.
“Noah, who do you consider to be your biggest threat this season?”
A cocky smile breaks out across my face. Show time.
“I like to consider myself as my biggest threat. When I race, it’s me versus my instincts. Everything around me disappears. I test myself, seeing how long I can wait before pressing the brake, or how to overtake another person. I don’t think about the other drivers out there more than I have to. That’s where others screw up.”
Camera bulbs flash in front of me and capture my confident smile. Maya shakes her head, apparently not a fan of my response. The idea displeases me. My eyebrows pinch together, and my lips turn down into a frown. Appearances represent everything in this line of work because fans buy into this shit and love it. They even make videos about our bizarre press conferences every race like bromance videos and rival compilations. You name it, there’s a video on it.
A reporter moves on to Liam, asking another pointed question. “Liam, what game plan do you have to clear your name in the media?”
“Why don’t you ask me in a few months? I want to keep my plan to myself, in case it goes wrong.” Liam shrugs.
I nudge him with an elbow. “That tends to happen with him.”
Liam turns toward me and brushes his eyebrow with his middle finger. My head drops back and I laugh. I lift my head, catching Liam shooting Maya a grin that she returns, no longer inattentive. My fists tighten under the table as I stare straight ahead.
Liam can be considered a good-looking guy. A six-foot tall German jock who needs a short beard to hide his baby face. Basically, a glorified tool. Women dig his positive vibes and carefree attitude, along with his preference for multiple repeats. Everything about him screams good parents who gave him sugar, spice, and everything nice. Unlike me who reeks of broodiness and bad memories, driving away from my demons week after week.
We finish up answering questions and I leave the stage. I don’t want to be there for another minute more. I’m mentally done with today.
Nothing tops the buzz of a race day. Everyone deals with their pressure differently, tensions escalating as we approach Prix time. Anticipation of events keeps everyone up and running. Sundays are my favorite day of the week because who needs a church when I have a front-row seat to heaven.
Every racer does quick rounds to appease fans and sponsors, including meet-and-greets, parades, and interviews—the usual crowd-pleasing and ass-kissing. Following that, I do my typical engine checks and attend a pre-race stage event with an end goal of alone time in my Bandini suite.
This sport exhausts the best of us. I love it, but it wears a person down through the years.
The small Bandini suites can’t compare to the motorhomes the team builds during the European leg of the tour. The plain room gets us by, with enough essentials to appease the racers, including a couch and a mini fridge stocked with waters.
Music is my preferred method of easing nerves before races. I have a playlist and everything for each day of racing since I tend to be a creature of habit who prefers solitude. Unlike other drivers, I leave the celebrating for after a race when I actually win. No one likes a guy who parties prematurely and doesn’t even end up on the podium. We leave that for the sucky teams.
Maya’s laugh seeps through the thin walls. Santiago acts differently from other Bandini guys, not minding Maya hanging around with him while he preps for the race. Small quarters don’t allow for much privacy around here. I try my best to not listen, but I find the task difficult with our shared wall, telling myself whatever I overhear isn’t my fault.
Maya’s voice carries into my room. “Remember when you had your first kart race? You almost threw up inside your helmet, your nerves shot after that kid nearly crashed into you.”
I like the sound of Maya’s soft laugh.
“It was intense. Never underestimate an adrenaline rush because they’re no joke. I think it took an hour for my heart to slow down and the nausea to go away. How do you even remember that? You were like six at most.”
“Mom showed me a video of that race. They were reminiscing the day you signed the Bandini contract, including showing me tons of videos of you in your kart. They’re so proud of you.” Maya’s voice sounds sentimental.
My parents never filmed my races, let alone watched them with a wave of nostalgia.
“You know they’re proud of you, too, right? With starting up your own vlog and supporting me.”
Maya sighs. “Yeah, but you’re the success story, and they sacrificed everything for you. The vlog is starting out, and things like that take time. Let’s see what happens because I don’t want to disappoint myself or anyone else. It’s hard to get a decent following.”
“I’ll share something you post to help you gain followers. Plus, you’re around a bunch of famous people—word will get out eventually. Just watch.”
Curiosity pushes me to see what she vlogs about. I pick up my phone and google her, quickly finding and bookmarking her channel for later when I have time to check it out.
I also go ahead and request to follow her on Instagram since she set her account to private. Fuck it, why not. I’m curious, nothing more.