I blink and let the words settle in. It’s a huge admission—huge growth. Six months ago, he was laughing after he nearly killed me. Then he threw my apology for the leaked video rant back in my face, telling the media that if I was a better driver, I wouldn’t have found myself in the barriers at the first sign of a little racing.
To hear him take responsibility for this is unexpected but not unwelcome. I just hate that it’s the result of so much pain.
“I have to make up for what I did.” He pauses, wetting his lips, and for a moment he looks so young and lost that I want to put a hand on his shoulder. But then he lifts his chin and it’s gone; he’s back to being the haughty contender to the throne. “Don’t expect too much, though. Some people are going to hate you forever, even if I tell them not to.”
I blow out a breath and nod, accepting that. That’s a fact of life when you’re in the public eye. But it’s better when you don’t give everyone a valid reason for it.
“Your teammate really fucked you with that one,” Lorenzo finishes, shooting me a pitying look. “It didn’t have to be like this.”
I nearly nod again but freeze when the words register. “I’m sorry, what?”
The pity quickly shifts to confusion. “Did you not know?” He waits for me to shake my head before explaining, “Arlo Wood leaked the video.” He says it like this is common knowledge. “Filmed it too.”
“No, that’s not—” I cut short, letting out a nervous laugh. “That can’t be true.”
Not just that, but it doesn’t makesense. Why would Arlo jeopardize my career like that? We’ve been fine together as teammates for the past two years—not the best of friends and definitely still fierce competitors, but we’ve always worked well enough together. We’ve gotten along. So why would he not only do this to me but take the risk himself? What would he gain?
“Are you sure it wasn’t our reserve driver?” I suggest, because that’s someone with motive. “Finley Clarke?”
Lorenzo shakes his head. “It was Arlo.”
The room is spinning, shifting on its axis as I try to piece it all together. But no matter what I try to force into place, none of it fits.
“You really didn’t know,” Lorenzo murmurs. “I thought it would have gotten back to you by now.”
“Gotten back to me?” I repeat incredulously. “How didyoueven find out?”
His lips twist into a wry smile. “I may not love being the son of a world champion, but people tend to tell me more because of it. They think they’re impressing me, trying to be my friend. Arlo practically bragged about what he did.”
As much as I don’t want to believe that…I do. Arlo loves to show off, loves to impress anyone he can, especially anyone he views as more impressive than him. And with him and Lorenzo coming in from F2 so close together, maybe he thought there was some sort of camaraderie there, something that Lorenzo is telling me never existed.
But speaking of camaraderie, maybe Finley didn’t have his hand directly in this, but he could have had Arlo do this on his behalf. They were teammates before, after all, and with Finley desperate to get into F1, there’s a chance this was a joint effort to push me out. Still, the blame lies at Arlo’s feet.
Whatever it is, and whatever reason he had for doing this to me, the damage is done. If he did it to get me out of McMorris, he may still succeed, even with Lorenzo’s attempt to help.
“Fuck,” I exhale.
Lorenzo tosses me a vaguely sympathetic glance. “I’m sure next season is going to be interesting with you two.”
I scoff a laugh. That’s an understatement. I don’t know how I’m going to look Arlo in the eye after this, let alone resist the urge to throttle him when we’re back at the factory for preseason work.
“I’m almost disappointed I won’t get to witness it.”
The world stops spinning again at the reminder that there is no next season for Lorenzo. He may be up and able to walk, but that doesn’t mean he can jump back into a car like nothing happened. I don’t know enough about his injury or recovery to know if he evencouldrace again. But that isn’t the question I want to ask.
“If you could,” I hedge, “would you want to race again?”
Lorenzo only takes a second to think. “No.”
“No? Really?”
“It’s a fucking cliché,” he says, “but it was never my dream. It was my father’s. He wanted me to carry on the legacy. He…expected it.”
Lorenzo’s behavior makes more sense now in a way I never thought it would. I can’t imagine the pressure of being expected to live up to a four-time world champion’s legacy, to bear the weight of the Castellucci name.
“I’m glad to have that off my shoulders,” Lorenzo finishes, and while I don’t doubt that in the slightest, the way he glances away makes me wonder if it’s the whole truth. “Anyway. Reid will let you know when the interview’s coming out.”
The dismissal is clear. I hesitate for only a beat before pushing myself out of the chair. Lorenzo stays seated, his walker between us, but his eyes follow me up.
