Page 56 of Cross the Line
‘Hello, Ms Patsy.’ Reid’s drawl is always a little more pronounced when he’s speaking to a fellow southerner. ‘Doin’ all right?’
Patsy beams up at him and pats his arm. ‘Doin’ just fine, sweetheart. You taking care of yourself?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he answers. ‘Best I can.’
After a minute or two of idle chit-chat between them, we’re given the okay to enter the press conference room. By then, my stomach is twisted in knots. Based on this interaction alone, it’s obvious that Patsy would rather have golden boy Reid to look after instead of me. I’ve gotta catch him alone after this to see whether he went to that dinner with Buck, since I didn’t see him at the party afterward. If my time at Argonaut is already up, I need to know.
Reid and I are the first ones on the couch, waiting for the drivers who can get away with being late to join us. Thomas is the next to stroll in. He greets the reporters in attendance warmly before he joins us on stage and says hello in the most hilariously stereotypical British way. Once he’s sitting on Reid’s other side and they strike up a quiet conversation, I scan the small audience.
Patsy stands guard in the back, phone in hand to record the session so she can replay it later and nitpick my every word. But the person I’m looking for is next to Patsy, little pink notebook clutched against her chest and wide brown eyes surveying the room.
Willow doesn’t have her curls tied back in a ribbon like she usually does when she’s dressed in full Argonaut regalia. No, today she’s left them to tumble over her shoulders. All I want to do is twist one around my finger, preferably while she sits on my lap. I wouldn’t even mind if it happened right here on this uncomfortable couch.
Every day it hits me a little harder, sinks in a little more – I’d do anything, anywhere, at any time with her as long as it meant I got to have her near me.
I’m distracted from my fantasies when another figure walks into the room. Zaid. He waves and quietly apologizes for his tardiness before stepping onto the stage. With a nod to the rest of us, he takes a seat next to Thomas. He’s the only one on the couch not wearing a bold colour or pattern. His T-shirt is the Mascort black and silver; the understated palette suits him.
For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to wear it, to race for a top-tier team, to actually be a contender for the championship. Hell, I’d even take being decked out in British racing green like Thomas and the McMorris team, currently fourth in the Constructors’ Championship. Or if Scuderia D’Ambrosi would take me, I’d happily trade my red, white and blue for just red. If Buck’s offer is good enough to convince Reid to come over, maybe we can trade. It’s aggressively wishful thinking.
When Axel walks in, I see the last of the top-tier colours – the navy and neon-yellow of Specter Energy.
The man barely spares us all a glance as he moves to my side of the couch, motioning for me to scoot down with a tilt of his head. There’s plenty of room at the other end, but he’s not about to sit next to Zaid. With the ugly history between the two, the most time they’re willing to spend together is when they’re on the podium, trading off between the first and second steps.
They’ve been passing the Drivers’ Championship back and forth over the past four years as well. Axel won last year after an incredibly close season. This season, Zaid is leading, but not by much. Their point totals are so close that it’s anyone’s guess who will be lifting the trophy this year. But, as always, I’m rooting for Zaid.
Reluctantly, I shift closer to Reid, who follows suit and moves toward Thomas. To his credit, Axel thanks me as he sits down, something he wouldn’t have bothered to do when he was younger and somehow even more of a selfish asshole. Considering we came up through the Formulas together and we’re the same age, I know him better than I care to admit. Reid and Thomas raced alongside us too. The four of us came into F1 in the same season as rookies, but while the rest of us were friendly with one another, Axel kept himself apart.
I can’t fault him for it. There’s no rule that says we have to be anything more than co-workers. He and I aren’t friends. We never have been. And I doubt we ever will be, since his behaviour off the track isn’t exactly what I want to surround myself with. He can shout racial slurs in song lyrics far away from me.
Steven Watters, our interviewer, has been sitting patiently across from the couch, waiting for us to get settled. Now that we’re all here, he turns to the cameras and the audience, introducing us and getting the show on the road.
As expected, most of the questions are directed toward Zaid and Axel on opposite ends, and every eye in the place hungrily bounces between the two. It’s tense, considering they both DNF’d in the last race, thanks to a daring move from Axel gone wrong. They’re lucky they walked away from it unscathed, but if their battle heats up any more, that might not be the case.
‘Dev, coming over to you,’ Steven says several minutes in.
Heart rate accelerating a fraction, I pick up the microphone I haven’t had to touch so far.
‘We’re all aware of your . . .scandalfollowing the Australian Grand Prix. You deactivated your social media accounts after putting out a statement refuting the claims and went quiet for a while, but it seems you’ve made a return.’
Good for him for not beating around the bush, though the stilted way he mentioned myscandalis almost laughable. If the guy wasn’t so stuffy, I’d be facing a slightly more pointed question.
‘I have, yeah.’ I relax into the couch and drape an arm across the back. ‘Life’s boring when you don’t have something to scroll through while sitting on the toilet.’
The audience of reporters and team representatives titters and chuckles as Steven clears his throat, looking a little flustered by my response. ‘Right. Well. What prompted your return?’ he asks, leading me back to the topic at hand.
With a glance at Willow and Patsy, I resolve to get back to the script. Patsy may scare the shit out of me most days, but I’m more concerned about disappointing Willow.
Once the crowd and the snickering drivers next to me settle, I clear my throat. ‘It was time,’ I say easily, though I’m careful to keep from sounding flippant. ‘I like sharing parts of my life with my fans and supporters. Social media has made that easy, and I’ve felt detached without it. Like I’m missing out on an important connection.’
I take a breath and scan the crowd. ‘Look, I know the internet can be a lawless place. There are people waiting around every corner, determined to bully and tear others down. But there are some incredibly supportive people out there too. They’re the ones who fuel me to keep pushing, to keep doing my best. I don’t want to let them down, because I wouldn’t be here chasing my dreams if it weren’t for them in my corner. I want to fight for them. I want to give them my all.’
That group also includes the girl across the room who’s wearing a smile that lights up her entire face and flashing me a thumbs-up. How anyone could see it – seeher– and not want to melt blows my mind. Just the sight makes me want to blurt out to the whole world that she’s the reason I can sit on this couch without wanting to throw up from nerves. The topic of conversation isn’t the most comfortable, but I’m doing it because she told me it’s for the best.
And she’s right. Without her encouragement, I’d still be hiding from the world.
‘So, yeah,’ I force myself to finish before I accidentally confess something I can’t take back. ‘Prepare to be sick of me.’
Another round of muffled laughter spreads around the room, but my attention lies firmly on Willow and the way she lifts a hand to her lips to cover her own laugh.
