That drags a laugh out of me, and Stella’s shoulders lower from where they’ve been practically jammed up to her ears. “A true family unit.”
She gags dramatically as she grabs her coffee cup, though it’s clearly to hide a smile, and I spot a hint of it as she goes to take a sip.
“Anyway,” she says after lowering the cup again. “Now that I’ve gotten my rules out there, do you have anything you want to add?”
“I think you covered it all.” More than I would have, at least. “Now what do we do?”
I’m more than happy to let her take the lead on all of this, and judging from how she brightens, she’s pleased with it too. But I’m less happy when she pulls out a sheet of paper from her purse with the headline “100 Questions to Ask Your Future Spouse.” Feels a little late for that considering we’re already married, but I guess we skipped a few important steps. Or a hundred.
Stella levels me with a determined stare. “It’s time to get to know each other.”
If I never have to talk about myself again, it’ll be too soon. Unfortunately, it’s media day—the one day during race week when we sit down for interviews with the press and make social media content for our teams—and that’s essentially all I’m expected to do for the next several hours.
Stella’s version ofgetting to know each otherconsisted of meanswering hard-hitting questions likeWhat’s your love language?andHow do you react to stressful situations?for several hours straight. A lot of my answers were along the lines ofAm I supposed to know what that is?and clueless shrugging until she got so fed up that she claimed she had a work call she desperately had to take. Considering it was a Sunday, I was almost certain she made it up to get away from me.
We didn’t see each other on Monday. I had to meet with my assistant, manager, and performance coach, who’d all just arrived in town, in order to start prepping for the week ahead. Stella was busy putting out her own work fires remotely, including talking to her board, which was all made harder by being stuck in Vegas with me. She could have flown back to DC, but I can’t imagine that would have been convenient. So far, I don’t think we’re doing justice to rule two.
Tuesday was more of the same, but we managed to squeeze in a call to update each other, rule one in action. I told her how my assistant nearly cried laughing when I told her the news of our marriage. In return, she shared that her own assistant sent her a list of the best divorce lawyers in Nevada. Are we off to the best start convincing people our relationship is genuine? Not so much.
Despite that, I spent hours picking out a ring for Stella. If no one believes our words, maybe they’ll be persuaded by an oversize diamond on her finger.
“I still can’t believe you’re married.”
Glancing up from the bowl of fruit I’m trying to choke down before heading off to the drivers’ press conference, I find my teammate sitting across from me, slowly shaking his head.
“I thought we were going to be bachelors together forever,” he bemoans, loud enough that I’m sure everyone else in theMcMorris hospitality motorhome can hear. “How could you betray me like this?”
Arlo Wood is a twenty-year-old racing wunderkind, known for his backwards caps, gold chains, and a streaming career that he somehow has time for outside of Formula 1. McMorris signed the Mancunian two years ago, and he’s been hot on my trail in the points ever since. He’s an asshole, but the endearing kind—the little brother I never had. Most of the time, though, I wish he would shut his yapping little mouth.
“Unlike you, I don’t have a reputation as a teen heartthrob to uphold,” I reply, pushing my bowl away and checking my watch. I have ten minutes before I need to walk over to the interview room. Ten minutes until I have to stare down a bunch of reporters who hate me. I wish I could have swapped with Arlo, but we’re forced to take turns, and he did the press conference last race.
Arlo bats his lashes. He has the kind of big brown eyes that remind me of a baby cow, all wide and innocent, even though he’s anything but. “Now you’re just another old married man,” he says woefully before brightening. “Didn’t take you for the kind to get married in Vegas, though. Maybe you’re not as dull as I thought.”
I stifle a smile. “Piss off. I’m perfectly fun.”
“Says the posh arsehole wearing his shirt buttoned all the way up to his chin.”
I look down at my McMorris-branded collared shirt. “What’s so wrong with that?”
Arlo groans. “If you have to ask…”
Before I can retort, McMorris’s reserve driver drops down at our table and slaps hands with Arlo in greeting. As usual, Finley Clarke ignores me and launches into a conversation withArlo about some internet thing that I’m completely oblivious to, leaving me to watch the former F2 teammates get on like a house on fire.
McMorris brought them both in at the same time, though only one got the desired position as a lead driver for the team alongside me. It’s no secret that Finley desperately wants my seat—every reserve driver wants a chance to be part of the main show, not the backup whose role exists to take our place if we’re ever unable to compete.
He’ll have to keep waiting, because I have no plans to leave. And let’s be honest, it’s definitelymyseat he wants so he and Arlo can go back to being teammates. I’m the person standing in the way of his hopes and dreams.
And I’ll keep standing there, because one of McMorris’s biggest sponsors is A.P. Maxwell International, the logo for which is displayed proudly under the team badge on my shirt. I bring in way too much money for them to replace me with someone who would bring in less. But if they could find someone on my monetary level…Well, my seat wouldn’t be safe.
Neither of the boys notices when I stand from the table. A quick wave to my press officer at a table across the room gets her to join me by the door. She briefs me on what will likely be asked in today’s driver press conference—how I’m feeling going into the penultimate race of the season, if I think McMorris can take third in the Constructors’ Championship over D’Ambrosi, and so on. She’s hesitant when she mentions that they’ll probably focus on my impromptu wedding, but I already know it’s coming. Sometimes the off-track drama is way more entertaining than what’s happening on it.
And we’re both proved right when Steven Watters, our interviewer, homes in on me first, even though there are four far more interesting drivers sitting next to me on the couch.
“Thomas, all the paddock can talk about are the photos that came out over the weekend of your wedding right here in Las Vegas,” Steven says, practically salivating since he knows he’s the first to ask me about it. “What made you want to get married right before such an important race? As we all know, McMorris is trailing D’Ambrosi in the points and has a chance to pull ahead in the Constructors’ Championship. Has the wedding been a distraction?”
I try to ignore the camera flashes and the way the reporters in the audience are a little too eager to hear what I have to say.
Well, Steven, I wish I could tell him.I was shit-faced, and a very accomplished woman with a beautiful, filthy mouth seduced me. The last thing I was thinking about was my job.
