Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(33)
It felt nice. To be the three of us hanging out with their parents, the Prix on the backburner while they got to know me. Parents who actually seemed curious to ask me questions and learn about the man outside of a Bandini car.
“Son, a second of your time?” The tick in my dad’s jaw tells me everything words won’t.
“I’ll see you all later at the event.” I throw the statement over my shoulder as I follow my dad toward the suites.
“You ignored my calls. I fly all the way out here for you and this is how you treat me? I expect better from my son.”
Right, we both know why he comes out to these events.
I bite back a snarky comment. “I’ve been busy qualifying and getting ready for tomorrow. It’s good that you found me between events.” Lies. But I’ve learned from the biggest fraud of them all.
“Yeah. We need to come up with a plan for tomorrow.”
We enter my private room. My dad settles into one of the couches, a dark cloud against the white walls of the room as he sucks the energy from me. He grabs one of the red pillows and props himself up against it.
“How are you going to go about winning the race?” He jumps into it.
I haven’t seen him in almost a year, and he doesn’t even ask how I am, unsurprising, but still grating on my nerves.
“By racing the best I can?” I meet with strategists and engineers for hours each week to prepare for a Prix. Don’t need his shitty two cents.
“It’s Santiago’s home race. That means it’s a big one for him. You should have seen his parade today. Thousands showed up.”
“That’s awesome for him. A home Prix is usually the best for those racers. I can’t wait for the Austin one, to go back to the States and eat Southern food.” My mouth waters at the idea of barbecue food.
“Well, you obviously need to wipe the floor with him tomorrow. There’s nothing worse than losing in your hometown,” my dad sneers.
I struggle to hide my irritation. Racing fuels a passion of mine while easing the edginess inside of me. Yeah, it’s a job, but it’s much more because I enjoy it and compete against the best. My dad sucks the fun and excitement out of anything, making everything a rivalry. No wonder he had no friends back in his day.
“Sure, Dad. I’ll try my best.”
“You better. I’m here and the press will eat that shit up. They love a good father-son moment.” He treats me like a shiny accessory.
“I need to get going. It’s a busy night before the race tomorrow.” I throw him a wave before taking off.
Race day in Barcelona. The crowds bounce around in the stands, charged up with excitement. Machines buzz, drills hum, and computers beep in the pit. Sophie’s dad tests out the team radio in my ear to ensure we have an open line of communication.
I zip up my racing suit and put on my flame-retardant headgear. I look down at my helmet, savoring the moment of representing Bandini’s brand and appeasing my fans. This life is all I know, and it brings me comfort to put on my helmet. Honey, I’m home.
Crew members push my car toward my grid location. Liam has pole position, while I’m second, and Santiago’s third.
Before a race, I spend hours studying the track, making sure I’ve memorized all of the turns. A total of sixty-six laps made up of sixteen turns stand between me and the Spanish Grand Prix’s podium.
The race kicks off with a bang. An American team driver crashes his car into the barrier on the first turn, taking down two other drivers with him. What a shitshow as metal flies around and cars run into one another.
Liam holds first place for the first few laps. We play a game between the two of us, me trying to pull up to his side and him being aggressive on the turns. Sweat trickles down my neck as my skin warms from the heat of the engine. I take a couple sips of my drink to stay hydrated because nothing is worse than getting woozy as I drive around at top speeds.
I narrowly avoid clipping Liam’s tire at one of the sharper turns. He pulls away from the curve, flashing me a glove-clad middle finger. His rattled state makes me chuckle. The car continues hauling ass down the racetrack as I hit a main straight. An opportunity for overtaking presents itself when Liam lets down his defenses for a split second. I pass him at one of the turns. My foot presses on the accelerator, allowing my car to pick up speed and race down the straights, leaving Liam in my rearview mirror. Too bad, so sad.
Fans wave their Spanish flags and big face cutouts of Santiago in the air. They blur past me as I continue down the track.
Negative thoughts fill my head about the crap my dad said yesterday. I don’t want to be a teammate who steps on others, trying to one-up them every time, acting like my father. No one likes a piece of shit. The type who takes everything, not caring how it affects the other person. Santi’s had a rough go starting out this season. His rashness fucks me up, but he wants to win as much as anyone else.
Losing in Austin would suck. How disappointing—all those fans showing up, hoping you represent them well but falling short.
Fuck me, I hate thinking while racing.
After a pit stop, I make my way back up the race ranks from fourth to first again. I hold onto my first-place spot for another twenty-six laps.
“Noah, Santiago’s gaining speed behind you. He’s in second now. For the love of God, don’t crash into each other at a turn.” My radio relays the team principal’s message.