“Smart. Good idea.” She goes to sip her coffee and then makes a sour face. “Shit. I’m empty.” She rises from her seat. “Do you want anything? I’m going to get a refill.”

  “No. I’m good. Thanks though.”

  Elise moves out of the conference room, and I hit play on the video again. She’s right. Riggs’s videos are addictive.

  I watch a skydiving one. A mountain climbing one. But I’m drawn back to replay the advice video.

  I watch him.

  I listen to his words.

  Is this his way of non-apologizing, apologizing? His olive branch extended to me to smooth over what happened?

  The angel and devil war on my shoulder. Wanting to believe the best of him as a person but also knowing how racers are, how guys like him are, more than I’d like to admit.

  Isn’t that what drew me to Brandon all those years ago?

  I glance back at the screen and Riggs frozen in place. Is that why he popped his head in here out of the blue?

  To see if I’d seen his post yet?

  To see if I forgave him?

  I stare at his bright smile and handsome face and know the answer. Yes. I probably already do.

  But there’s no way in hell I’m letting him know that yet.

  Where’s the fun in that?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Riggs

  My eyes burn and hands ache.

  My shoulders are tight, and my neck is stiff.

  Is it from all the extra cardio and neck isometric exercises we’ve been putting in to try and prepare my body for the g-force?

  Or is it simply from hours sitting in this simulator, memorizing every curve of the racetrack I’m going to be starting on this week?

  Regardless, I need to work on not being so tense in my neck and shoulders. Or it’s going to be a long race. I’ll get a headache from the tension. It will affect my reaction time. It will add a few hundredths of a second in a sport where that blink of time matters.

  Omar comes into my periphery as the screen goes black, and the simulated racetrack in front of me disappears.

  “That was impressive. Better than I expected,” he says in his deep baritone.

  “I’m going to take a break and then get back at it for a few more hours.” I extricate myself from the sim. “But I want my helmet and gloves on. A full dress rehearsal so I can replicate the race with the things I can control.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Noted. I’ll let the crew know.”

  “Thanks. I don’t mean to keep them here—”

  “Yes, you do, and we’re all more than okay with it.” He smiles for the first time. “No one at Moretti is going to frown upon dedication.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that without sounding like a kiss-arse, so I don’t. Rather I go through my stretches to unlock my muscles, one by one, with the routine the physio has written for me.

  “Tell me something,” he says.

  “What’s that?” I look up at him from where I’m touching my toes.

  “The sim? Why have you spent so much time on the Suzuka course in there?” he asks, referencing the Japanese track.

  I struggle with what will appease him.

  The truth will scare the shit out of him. Because it’s the track on which my dad died. Because if I can master the one place that terrifies me more than any other, then I know I’m ready.

  Because being there, as morbid as it sounds, allows me to feel a small piece of him with me.

  I didn’t realize anyone was watching what I was racing when I stayed here late and worked on my own.

  “It’s my benchmark course. One of the more technical tracks,” I say. “If I can do well there, then I can adjust and adapt and do well anywhere.”

  He nods but his eyes meet mine and say he knows I’m partially full of shit. “Every driver has their course they have to master. That must be yours.”

  “It is.”

  He lets the topic go and moves toward the door. “Dinner’s ready for you in the cafeteria.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And don’t stay too late. We leave for Barcelona in the morning.”

  “I won’t.”

  I stand and stare at the door he just went through, his question front and center in my mind.

  No one at Moretti has come out asked about my dad or talked about his legacy that floats over my head like a lead balloon. Close enough it’s noticeable but far enough away I sometimes don’t see it because it’s trailing behind me.

  Even Camilla hasn’t. Not even after our hash-it-out session in the conference room.

  But I know everyone knows. I’m pretty sure there have probably been some side discussions about it. I know everyone wonders how I’m going to handle Suzuka if I’m contracted with the team when we get to that part of the circuit.

  And yet no one flat out addresses it.

  Was it something Carlo mandated? Or do the people here have enough decorum to let me prove the person I am rather than attach labels made for another man?

  It’s food for thought as I head upstairs, eat a quick meal before jumping back in the sim.

  But there’s one more thing I have to do before my night is complete and I’m ready to head out.

  Something that’s going to be harder than hell to do, but that I need as a reminder to ground myself in reality.

  To pay my respects for this opportunity.

  “Riggs?” Dee picks up on the first ring, her voice more than surprised.

  “Hi. How are you?” I ask out of courtesy when I already know the truth. She’s exhausted. Frazzled. Owned by worry and fear and everything in between.

  “You know,” she murmurs.

  “I can’t imagine.” The lump in my throat grows to epic proportions. “Any change?”

  “His hands are . . . They’re hoping that the skin will heal and eventually allow him the same mobility so he can flex his hands and . . . you know.” Hold a steering wheel.

  I can’t imagine loving a man who willingly puts himself in danger. And letting him race again, letting him do what he loves, despite already dancing way too close with death.

  Isn’t that what Mum did with Dad?

  Isn’t that what she does for me?

  Christ. I run a hand through my hair and draw in a deep breath. “I’m sure it will work. And he’s still in good spirits?”

  “He is.”

  “The kids?”

  “They’re better now that they got to see him, and he doesn’t look as scary as he did with all of the tubes and bandages.”

  “That’s good.” I pause. “He still doesn’t want to talk to anyone?”

  “No. I’m sorry. But he knows you’ve been calling and checking in. He just . . . he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. It’s ridiculous but it’s not a battle I’m willing to fight right now. It’s pride mixed with preserving his image so other teams don’t look at him as weak. Nonsense in my book, but it’s how he feels.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you,” she says, sensing the conversation ending.

  “For?”

  “For the flowers. For the texts. For not forgetting about him while you’re getting your chance.”

  I pause for a beat and look at the sim laid out before me. At my dream all around me. “Yeah, it kind of fucks with your head.” His accident. His injury. The magnitude of all of this. The demons I’ll have to face when I get on the track.

  “I’m sure it does,” she says softly. “But get in the car and have one hell of a race. Maxim would want that for you. Only the best for his Riggs.”

  “Thanks, Dee.”

  And when I end the call, I’m one step closer to being ready.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Camilla

  “Jesus. He really does have a hard-on for Riggs, doesn’t he?” I ask as I hold my badge up to the turnstile screen and am granted access to the paddock.

  I scroll through the article written by Harlan Flanders. It’s normal to question a racer’s ability—especially when he’s new—but there’s clear spite in the article. Obvious dislike. And a tinge of bitterness.

  “He does,” Elise says as she walks beside me. Normally she doesn’t travel with the team, but I cleared it so she could this time around. It’s important to see what she’s promoting. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s pissed about something Riggs did and is getting back at him through the press.”

  “Great. Just what we need.” But this ridiculously one-sided, subjective article is the welcome distraction I need.

  It gives me an excuse to have my head down and attention diverted to my phone as I walk into a paddock for the first time in six years.

  I don’t look up. I don’t take in the garages to the left of the wide alley or the custom-built hospitality centers each team has shipped here to the right.

  Instead, I focus on my phone.

  On scrolling with my thumb.

  On pretending I’m not taking a huge, monumental step forward that my therapist would give a standing ovation to.

  Once I’m inside our “offices” here, I’ll feel better. Safer. In a place Brandon wouldn’t dare step foot inside.

  “Camilla?” Elise asks.

  “What? I’m sorry. I was . . . reading.” I look up from my phone.

  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” I look where Elise is looking and take in the paddock.

  Everything is bigger and more extravagant than I remember. Than the pictures do it justice. The hospitality offices are three stories and wide with detailed exteriors. Decks on top with Ping-Pong tables, a catered restaurant on one floor, offices on another. And of course, a place for the media to have their time with the team.

  “It is,” I tell her. It most definitely is.

  I stand there slack-jawed and overwhelmed.

  But more than anything, the fear I expected to feel—the hand trembling, skittish glances over my shoulder, paranoia type of fear—isn’t there.

  There’s an undercurrent of excitement. Of anticipation. Of being back here.

  It’s completely unexpected and one hundred percent welcome.

  I’m under no illusion that the fear won’t return at any time. That seeing the back of a blond head and broad shoulders ten feet ahead of me in the crowd, won’t incite a panic attack at some point.

  But I’ll take this as a win right now.

  A win I can’t wait to experience again.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Riggs

  It’s a technical course.

  My pulse rushing in my ears is the only thing I can hear as I stare at the light tree in front of me from my starting grid of P10.

  Sharp turns. Tight corners.

  My hands grip the wheel as my dad’s voice—or what I imagine it still sounds like after having memorized almost every interview I could get my hands on over the years—runs endless loops through my head.

  Long stretches where DRS can be enabled.

  My stomach churns with a mixture of excitement and nerves. Both welcome. Both charged.

  There is no room for mental errors. None.

  Motors rev all around me. Racers I’ve looked up to for years. Racers I’ve competed against on the lower circuits. Friends. Enemies. All are now competitors.

  One lapse of concentration can put you in the wall.

  I love this sport and simultaneously hate it. Each time behind the wheel—in every level I’ve competed in—is a struggle between doing what I love and fearing it.

  Between honoring my dad and the possibility of ending up like him.

  Of taking every turn and forgiving myself for wanting to let up as I imagine him hurtling across the track and then hating myself for the same fucking reason.

  “Radio check, Riggs.”

  “Check.”

  You’ve got this, Spence. My dad’s voice.

  Drive fast. Be safe. Cross the finish line for me. My mum’s words from our phone call earlier.

  Light. Light. Light. Light. Light.

  I jump off the line and into the fray of all the other cars vying for a good start.

  Be careful of the first turn. Accident probability is high.

  I can hear his voice even now that I’m battling off the line for position and use it as a means to calm me if that’s possible. Adrenaline surges through my veins like never before.

  You got this, son. You’ll settle in. Get the first lap under your belt and you’ll settle in.

  And I do.

  It takes longer than one lap though. In fact, it feels like I’m holding my breath through the first four. Because four laps are farther than I’ve ever gotten in an F1 race before. Now it’s only more firsts from here on out. And at ten laps in, when I overtake my first car, another charge is added to my confidence.

  “Well done, Riggs,” Hank says in my ear.

  I push more now. Drive a little harder. With more certainty.

  I fight hard but clean. Perhaps more timid than usual, but this is the big leagues and crossing the start/finish line after sixty-six laps is more important than anything to me. Proving I can handle the car and place in the middle to top of the pack is the goal the team has set.

  Proving that a Riggs can once again sit in the seat of an F1 car and not kill himself is what I need.

  I fight the ghosts of my past at the same time I fight the competition around me. Lap after lap. Turn after turn. Battle after battle for the next position.

  Endurance is the key. You drive to survive. You drive with the hope that when you unfold yourself from the car when the race is finished, you’ll be in a position better than you started in.

  Preferably one in the points.

  It’s over in a heartbeat.

  The checkered flag waves.

  “That’s P7. P7, Riggs,” Hank says in the steady voice he’s directed me with all day. “Excellent job for your first race. Goal accomplished. You finished in the points.”

  You finished in the points.

  That is what Carlo Moretti asked of me today. To finish in the points in my first ever F1 race with Moretti.

  Or as he said, in my first ever F1 race, because to him, this is my first.

  And I did it.

  For the first time in two hours my heart dislodges from my throat and lands back in my chest where it belongs.

  But that doesn’t mean my head doesn’t stop spinning or lips don’t stop smiling.

  Holy shit.

  Holy fucking shit.

  “Well done, guys. Thank you for all the hard work,” I say to the crew listening over the radio as I pull down pit lane and up to my garage. “Great job. Really great job.”

  What a goddamn rush that was.

  Every single second of it.

  Every kilometer of every lap.

  I cut the engine and climb out of the car with the help of my crew. Hooting and hollering meets me, and I look up to above the pits to the box where all my friends are hanging over the edge cheering me on, traveling all this way to support me even with the knowledge that I won’t be able to spend much time with them due to my whirlwind schedule.

  I give them a mock salute then a fist pump before drawing in a deep, fortifying breath.

  I finished in the points.

  Am I fucking dreaming?

  Is this for real?

  But before I can do or think anything else, an FIA official meets me at my car. He directs me to the scale in a neutral garage area. They note my weight, which will be added to my car’s, to make sure our combined total meets the minimum weight requirement.

  “Riggs.” I head toward the calls of my name when the official FIA business is done and walk into the Moretti garage. My crew greets me with a raucous round of applause. I may have overshot my pit marker by a few centimeters when I came in to box and scared the shit out of them, but they’re still here. Still excited that I earned points for the team.

  I’m welcomed with pats on the back and praise, but when I make it through the crowd, I come face-to-face with Mr. Moretti himself. Carlo is leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets and a look of satisfaction on his face.

  “Congratulations on your first race in Moretti red,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “You did us proud.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity, sir.” I nod. “I’ll only get better.”

  He smiles. “I know you will.”

  I turn to go . . . I have no idea where I’m supposed to be next so I’m more than grateful when I hear, “Excuse me,” cutting through the noise. Anya fights her way through the throng. “Congrats. Great first race. That only means more people want to talk to you than the norm.”

  “Sure. Fine.” Adrenaline still races through my veins. I could talk to the whole world right now and I wouldn’t be tired.

  “You say that now.” She chuckles. “The job is only three quarters of the way done. We have a presser. Photos. Then the team debriefing.”

  I nod, already having been briefed on what to expect. “Sounds good. I . . .” I meet Camilla’s eyes from across the chaos of the garage. She’s standing there in her typical baggy jeans and oversized Moretti polo shirt. The expression on her face is unreadable.

  “Oh,” Anya says when she sees who I’m staring at. She glances at Camilla again before looking back toward me and makes an indiscriminate sound of disapproval. “Just a thought. It’s probably not the best idea to piss off the boss’s daughter.”

  “I know.”

  Why would she be mad . . . oh. She must have seen it.

  That’s the only reason she has to be pissed at me. That I can think of at least.

  And truth be told I completely forgot I’d scheduled the social media post. I did it days ago without thought. The last meeting we had, she’d told the team what she was hoping to implement after this race. I simply was trying to preempt it and give her a taste of what they were asking for.

  But I may have gotten so caught up in race week and all that comes with it—that I forgot about the post.