The car shimmies and suddenly, the force on my body lets up. The lights on my steering wheel flash. The car slows.

  Garcia flies past me.

  Then Montpier.

  “Pierre,” I shout into my helmet but know there’s nothing he can do.

  The engine just blew. It’s fucking toast.

  The race is lost.

  Fuck.

  The word is on constant repeat as the caution flag goes up.

  As I climb out of my car.

  As the race marshals clear my car.

  As I stalk into the paddock, slam the door behind me to my space, and pace the small area, trying to abate the misplaced energy that’s eating me alive.

  I’m so close. So fucking close I can taste it. To the win. To making the jump to F1 and hanging on this time. To making some fucking money that I can keep instead of having to pour it back into this sport I love and hate. Love because, how can I fucking not? Hate because, I can have all the talent in the goddamn world, but it’s hard to be seen when you have subpar shit—cars, engines, support.

  So many of my friends, the ones I grew up karting against are there, living the dream at the pinnacle of our sport. And I’ve yet to join them permanently.

  I had one chance. One chance that came and went and has forever put an asterisk next to my name.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring the twenty texts lighting up my phone in the corner of the room.

  From my agent.

  From my mum.

  From my friends.

  It’s okay. You did great regardless.

  Great race.

  Too bad about the engine.

  You’ll get them next time.

  I don’t have to read them to know what they’ll say. To know they’re positive and supportive and everything in between.

  It’s the last thing I want when I’m busy beating myself up over what just happened. Over the shit I’m more than certain I’m about to get in the coming minutes.

  There’s a knock on the door. Then it cracks open and Fontina peeks her head in. “Presser time.”

  “How bad is it?” I ask.

  “Which part? The part where you rubbed tires with Bickman and he went into the wall?”

  “We were wheel to wheel. It’s not my fault he has issues with spatial awareness. Hell, I followed protocol. I had the edge. I had the right of way.”

  She lifts her eyebrows and just murmurs, “Hmm.”

  Great. Just what I want to hear.

  “He wasn’t hurt, right? That hasn’t changed?” I ask and she shakes her head. “Good. It’s racing. That’s all it is. You know damn well he would have done the exact same to me if the tables were turned.”

  She rolls her eyes, but her eyes are somber. “Talking points for the presser. It was a great team effort. The ongoing issue with the engine has now been diagnosed and will be fixed. Reiterate that you have never intentionally hit anyone and that you’ll be reviewing the tapes to learn from today and improve.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say and put a team hat on as her last bit registers. “Is that what’s being said? That I purposely put him in the wall?”

  Fucking hell.

  She shrugs. “You don’t exactly hide the fact that there is no love lost between the two of you.”

  “I’d never take that on the track.”

  “I know that. You know that. The public thinks what it will.”

  “Fucking great,” I mutter.

  “Rainbows and unicorns, Riggs. That’s all you have to think, and you’ll smile.”

  “More like heels and lingerie.” I snort.

  “Whatever floats your boat, but I’m not providing that visual for you.”

  “Oh. I wasn’t aware you had visuals of unicorns to provide.”

  “Smart-ass.” She waves her hand. “Let’s go.”

  I groan but make my way to the post-race press conference. It’s the last place I want to be—it’s no one’s when you DNF a race—and hell if it’s not the bane of my existence lately.

  “First chair to the right.” Fontina directs me and then whispers, “Unicorns and rainbows.”

  I take a swig from my water bottle and head to the hot seat. Mundane questions ensue and mostly being asked of my counterparts. Thoughts on their race. Things they hope to accomplish. Then it’s my turn.

  “Riggs, there has been a little talk about your inconsistency and reliability and a lot about your recklessness on the track. Do you care to make a comment on that?” a reporter asks.

  “I’d say they should climb behind the wheel where you’re directed to drive as fast as you can to win a race, all while riding that fine line on not pushing the engine too far or knowing that your opponent’s tire is an inch from yours. Engines blow. Cars connect. Things happen. There’s a reason few make it this far, and it’s not because it’s easy.”

  “So are you saying you’re at fault for the engine blowing today?”

  “I’m saying that we’re a team and we’re all at fault when things go bad and all to be praised when things go great.” I toe the company line when I’m damn well pissed that the same goddamn issue we’ve had with the engine the last four out of six races presented itself yet again this race.

  “There was talk on the radio about a decision with tires,” another reporter jumps in.

  “And?” I prompt, treading lightly. I can’t remember the exchange I had with Pierre. The exchange that is public. All I can hope is that whatever I did say, it’s not about to be used against me or used to put me on the spot.

  “It seemed you were upset by the decision not to box,” the reporter says.

  I give a half chuckle and a shake of my head. Play the game, Riggs. The desired ending is to move past Formula 2 and onto Formula 1. Voicing the smart-ass remark like you’d love to isn’t an option.

  “I can have any opinion I want, but my crew is reading my car for me. They know what’s best and whatever they say is what goes. Teamwork is the only way any success can be had in this sport.” I clear my throat and raise my eyebrows as if to say are we done yet? I’m known for not particularly loving these pressers.

  “That’s not exactly what you said on the radio though,” he presses on.

  “It was in the heat of the moment. Adrenaline was running high. It happens. My crew knows I respect them and their opinions. At the end of the day, that’s all that matters,” I say.

  “And Bickman?” a voice calls out from the back.

  “I’m glad he’s okay. No one ever wants to crash or be the reason someone else crashes. Just like things are said on the radio that you regret, things happen on the track that you do too. We touched tires. It could have just as easily been me in the wall and you asking him why he put me in the catch fence. Sometimes it just happens.” I smile and rise from my seat, pretty much done with this.

  “Riggs is short on time today,” Fontina says, taking my lead.

  “One more question, Riggs,” a voice shouts out that I know all too well. Harlan Flanders. Fuck. “Do you think your last night’s late-night antics contributed to today’s results?”

  What the fuck is he talking about?

  I stop in my tracks and level a glare at the reporter. “You mean the sponsorship dinner the team had two nights ago?”

  “No. I’m talking about the club, the booze, and the dancing on the stage.”

  I chuckle. The fucking prick. Trying to paint a picture to the public, to F1 teams, to my own goddamn team, that I don’t take this seriously.

  Trying to sabotage me with rumors.

  “Unless the club was in my bedroom, I assure you I wasn’t there. But hypothetically if I were there, how would that correlate to a blown engine today?”

  “You tell me,” he challenges in a way reporters often don’t. But then again, this one will, considering I unknowingly stole his girl a few months back. Well, not so much stole—perhaps, borrowed is a better term. I’m not one to keep anyone around long—and long means for a night or two.

  If I had known I was playing with fire, I never would have slept with her.

  And how was I to know they were together? I took her at her word that she was single.

  She pursued.

  I reacted.

  We had fun. The fun ended. I moved on.

  Apparently, he hasn’t, because it’s the same shit, different presser.

  I chuckle and the smirk on my face is pure fuck you back at him. “Did you have a real question, Flanders?”

  “You pushed the car too hard,” he says. “You take too many risks.”

  And your girlfriend gives great blow jobs. Especially how she does that little twist of her hand and flick of her tongue.

  I raise my eyebrows in response as several people in the room shift uncomfortably, clearly sensing there’s more going on here than just a simple question and answer exchange.

  And how can they not think differently when the fucker’s been on my arse for the past few pressers with bullshit like this?

  “I’d think that not having a clear head and being focused on things other than racing might do that to you,” he continues.

  My smile returns and it’s fucking arctic. “I take my job and those who have invested time and money in me very seriously. The only opinions that matter to me are the owners, my team, and the fans. Yours is irrelevant. If you’re trying to make a name for yourself, do it on someone else’s back.”

  I stand from my seat next to my fellow drivers, stare into the darkness at wherever the fucker is sitting, and grin. Then I walk out of the room, only catching a glimpse of Fontina giving me the look. The one every racer knows that means their PR minder will have to do some clean-up for them.

  “What?” I ask as we walk down the hall, her short legs struggling to keep up with mine.

  “If you have to ask me, what, then you already know,” she says.

  “The guy’s a prat. He has it out for me. You know it. I know it. And I’m pretty sure the whole goddamn fan base knows by how he keeps coming after me.”

  “It appears that way, but the press is still our friend,” she says and pats me on the shoulder.

  Fuck, do I know it. They can make or break you. And while I’ve fucked up plenty during my tenure, I know who butters my bread.

  The team. The press. The fans. Social media.

  “He was pushing for a reaction. I didn’t give one. You should be impressed by my restraint.”

  “That depends if you’re going to say anything other than no comment to the reporters milling around outside of the turnstiles when you head to the parking lot.”

  “Depends on who’s still around,” I tease.

  “This is the only time I’m going to say I’m hoping it’s lingerie and heels so you’re preoccupied.”

  “No complaints there.”

  Fontina rolls her eyes and overreacts to my playful shove. She may be my media handler here with StarOne Racing over the past few years, but she’s also like a little sister. Snarky. No bullshit. And will snap back at me if needed.

  “I have an idea,” I murmur.

  “I don’t like when you have ideas,” she jokes. “Mostly because they’re crazy or daredevilish or are bound to get me in trouble.”

  Or make me more well-known when it goes viral as some of my others have done.

  No press is bad press.

  “Nothing crazy. Maybe just time for another video.”

  “You mean another look inside Spencer Riggs’s addiction to chasing the adrenaline high?”

  “Exactly.” I flash a grin that wins most women over and has them undoing their bras without asking.

  It doesn’t work on her.

  I may have tried way back when.

  I’m glad it didn’t.

  “Great. I didn’t hear that.” She covers both of her ears.

  “What? You helped with the last one.”

  “You mean the video of me frantically trying to talk you out of skydiving? That wasn’t me trying to help you go viral. That was me trying to help you stay alive.”

  I hold my hands out to my sides. “I lived.” She rolls her eyes. “Besides, is jumping out of a plane with a parachute strapped to my back any more dangerous than me going two hundred miles per hour?”

  She gives me a dubious look. “You do know that at some point your contract is going to be revised to forbidding all death-defying feats unless it’s you behind the wheel of their car.”

  I flash her a grin. “Great. Guess that means I better get them all in before that happens.”

  She rolls her eyes and groans. “You’re annoying.”

  “Perfect. That’s what I was going for.” She’s so easy to rile up.

  “Try to not get yourself killed, okay?”

  “Isn’t that the goal every day?” I shrug as she just shakes her head.

  “I’ll see you later, Riggs. Stay out of trouble, will you?”

  “You know that’s something I can’t promise.” I give her a mock salute and then head to my trailer but falter when I turn.

  Sometimes it takes me a second to process the view before me.

  The track and its stadium.

  The people—fans, track workers, reporters—still milling about the grandstand.

  The crews diligently working in the garages and paddock, disassembling all that they’d contributed to create this little city that only lasts a week at a time.

  It takes me back to being a kid. To sitting on my dad’s shoulders. To getting to be a part of something so big but being so naïve. I had no clue how big it was.

  And now I’m here. Really fucking here.

  Well almost here.

  Where so many would love to be. So close to my dream itself. So near to the next level I can all but taste it.

  I can handle the Harlan Flanders of the world so long as I get to the top.

  The years in karting. The endless hours of training. Putting my life on hold to chase down this formidable dream. The heartache and heartbreak with each and every step forward and then two steps back. The begging, borrowing, and stealing to find a means to be here. To live up to the name I wear with pride. To be part of this whole entity.

  Spencer Riggs. Formula 1 driver. One of only twenty drivers in the world who have that distinction.

  That’s my dream. To feel the growl of the engine behind me, sense the heat of the ground below me, and hear the roar of a sold-out crowd on a Sunday afternoon as I cross the finish line.

  I’ll make it there.

  I have to.

  I’ll make you proud, Dad.

  It’s been a long damn road—a grind—but I’m not stopping until I can make you proud.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Camilla

  Yes. I’m just praying for a great season, Dr. Bergman.

  I didn’t mean to hear the conversation. The one between my mom and my dad’s doctor.

  He’s fighting as hard as he can, but the stress gets the better of him lately.

  She was just standing there on the side of their house when I walked up to their front door, cell to her ear, voice hushed as she talked.

  He has his good days and his bad days. As long as the good outweigh the bad, then that’s all I can ask for. I do think a win would do him wonders.

  The worry wavering in her voice breaks my heart.

  Any kind of success would help his state of mind. The bouts of depression and anxiety are coming more frequently. I just . . . I think a successful season might help all around.

  Hearing her words, her concern, her love for him . . . solidified my decision for me right then and there.

  It’s what I’ve been fighting. Coming back and facing the demons that remain. That are dredged up when I swear they’ve been dead and buried.

  But this is for my dad. To help him however I can in this fight, even if it’s simply to help reduce stress levels. This is for my mom, so that she can have my dad here longer and her job as a caretaker remains easier for now.

  If this is the only way my parents will let me take care of them—will let me help—then it’s an opportunity I’m taking.

  It’s not as if what he’s offering wasn’t once my dream. It was all I wanted to do.

  But being all I wanted to do back then looks a little—okay, a lot—different now. It’s leaving a job I love. For ego’s sake, I’d love to say I’m irreplaceable. But I’m not. I’ve built a great team around me who could easily step in and do just as good of a job. That doesn’t mean the transition would be effortless though. How do you write down everything that’s in your head for someone else when you don’t even realize it’s in your head?

  Then there’s the complexity of picking up my life and moving across Europe to the UK. Sure, I could leave my own place behind and keep it for when I go back home—but there are plants to be given away, friends I need to say goodbye to, delivery services I need to cancel. All the little day-to-day things you don’t think about need to be thought about and taken care of.

  Not to mention packing my belongings.

  Being financially fortunate affords me the opportunity to leave my furnishings behind, but I still need to pack up clothes, personal belongings, and the like.

  It’s an absolute upheaval of my carefully curated world and my sanity. I’m not too thrilled about either . . . but how can I not agree?

  It’s my dad. The man who has given me the chance to have anything and everything. How can I say no?

  Sometimes loving someone means sacrificing yourself for their benefit.

  This is one of those times.

  With a resigned nod that I’m about to throw my life in a blender and hit the start button, I enter my parents’ house without letting my mom know I’m here.

  It’s extravagant by most standards—big rooms, lots of light, white furniture and natural wood. It looks like it belongs in a house on the beaches of Malibu in my mom’s native country of the United States instead of an English countryside—my dad’s adopted land after Italy. Everything about it is a reflection of my parents.

  Elegant but warm and welcoming. Spacious but homey.

  There’s no question where my dad will be. His love for cooking has been a constant in my life and a major source of stress relief for him. The scent of garlic and basil tells me I’m more than right.