I know what it means, but he doesn’t want to tell me. Coma. Swelling. Brain shit. His injuries aren’t just a quick jaunt to the medical tent to be looked over and released.

  This is way more serious than that. Fuck, man.

  I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, fighting the urge to ask the fucked-up question that’s on the tip of my tongue. The question that makes me a selfish bastard for simply thinking it, let alone putting a voice to it.

  Pierre saves me and answers it for me. “Not that I’m an expert, but his injuries mean he’s going to be out for some time.”

  “That’s a rough blow for Moretti. Maxim was starting to kick some arse. That and their reserve driver was picked up for his own ride with Centurion last week,” Ricky says. “Who the fuck are they going to get to fill his shoes?”

  Pierre meets my eyes for a beat but doesn’t say a word.

  Do you think it’ll be you?

  He doesn’t have to.

  I’m qualified. More than qualified. I have my Super Licence. I take advantage of the connections I have through my father’s name to get in the cockpit of an F1 car at least once a month. Will they consider me?

  “I think we’re all thinking that,” I say to Ricky and then exit the conversation.

  The last thing I want to hear is their speculation about who it should be. Who it should be is me, damn it.

  But it won’t.

  Deep down, I know it.

  I’ve been through this song and dance too many fucking times. The high of soaring hopes. The jump at the phone ringing. The crushing despair and doubt when someone else is called up.

  No way in hell am I giving up this dream. But each and every time a situation like this happens, I feel like another tiny piece is chipped off my resolve. Another part of me gone toward a wasted dream many think I never should get the chance to achieve.

  I walk out of the garage area and into the paddock. Other F2 drivers are milling about, but there’s an unspoken anticipation in the atmosphere. An anticipation that’s as exciting in nature as it is sick.

  Who’ll get his seat?

  I’m not the only one hoping my phone rings.

  Will the call come down today? Will Moretti treat this like the business it is and prepare a driver to fill Maxim’s shoes for the next race?

  Because that’s the one thing about this fucking sport. It’s a passion, but above all else, the empire’s bottom line is what matters. It’s profoundly rewarding yet fiercely cruel.

  We all know it’s dangerous. That it’s one millisecond, one overcorrection, one tire bump away from utter destruction. From possibly dying.

  And yet we get in the car day after day. We push the limits lap after lap. We give our all for our team, for ourselves, for our fans, but know the machine of F1 will move on faster than shit when we can’t.

  Nothing is ever good enough, ever fast enough . . . we’re never satisfied. And the sport either rewards us with a win or punishes us with a crash.

  The in-between is just as unsatisfying.

  I meet the eyes of a few drivers standing with their crews and words don’t have to be spoken to know what they’re thinking. I hope it’s me. I hope I’m the one who gets the call. I hope I’m the one who finally gets the chance.

  I’m praying for the same fucking thing too.

  We’re wishing the best for our fellow driver who’s clearly hurt while silently hoping this is our chance. That this will be our call-up.

  The difference between Maxim and me? A lucky break? A split-second decision that makes or breaks you?

  We all have the skill. It’s just the timing that has fucked us over in some way or another. The amount of money we have to spend on equipment that might have made the difference at one point or another. The last name that might mean something in this small but elite circle.

  Then again, I have the last name—mine just seems to garner me occasional pity and a wide berth for people to stay away.

  “Riggs?”

  I look over to Elio, my pit crew chief, who’s waving me back into the garage. “Yeah?”

  “Let’s go over that last adjustment we made,” he says, his tattoo-covered forearms bulging against the cuff of his team shirt. His headset hangs loosely around his neck, and a bead of sweat trails down his temple.

  “Yeah. Sure. Okay,” I say distracted, thinking that I need to go grab my phone—just in case—but not wanting to appear more eager than I already am.

  And feeling like a prick for wanting my phone.

  I keep myself occupied. Elio and I talk about the tweaks and what he aims to accomplish with them. I go over finances with my team manager because fuck if F2 isn’t like that weird dichotomy of looking like you have it all while knowing you’re single-handedly paying for it out of your own fucking pocket.

  To the world, it looks like you’re eating caviar when to those in my shoes, we’re lucky if we get fucking sardines.

  Is Moretti going to pull a reserve driver from another F1 team? Or will they temporarily promote a driver from F2 to fill Maxim’s seat until he returns?

  Seconds drag into minutes. Minutes slide into hours. None of us drivers want to leave—just in case.

  But we do. One by one. Little by little. The track empties out as rumors begin to settle in around me.

  Haskell rushed out of here with his phone to his ear. Did he get the call?

  Diego has shut himself in his driver’s room and is on the phone with someone.

  My phone rings. I scramble and have it picked up before the second ring only to deflate. “Yeah? What’s up, Fontina?”

  “Don’t sound so thrilled to hear from me.” She chuckles sarcastically.

  “Sorry. It’s just . . . what did you need?”

  “That video you did yesterday has gone viral. You keep this shit up, and I’m going to get fired, and you’re going to be driving and doing your own social media for the team.”

  “Of course, it went viral. It’s me, isn’t it?” I joke, but I had no fucking clue.

  I make a video. I post a video. I’m too fucking busy to sit there and watch the likes or views tick up one by one.

  I’d much rather live life than watch it pass by on a screen.

  And yet, I still post. I still contribute.

  “You’re such an asshole.” She sighs.

  “Thank you. That’s not anything new, now, is it?” I open my mouth to ask her if she’s heard anything but then snap it shut. If she had, she would have told me. She knows how badly I want this. Every driver in my shoes does.

  “I mean, how did your comment to Flanders become a meme?”

  “Comment?” I made a lot of comments. Some I’m not sure if I voiced or not.

  “Yeah, the whole, if you’re trying to make a name for yourself, do it using someone else’s back.” She pauses. “You did know that, right?”

  I chuckle. “No. I didn’t. I told you I’m not on social media much. But sure. Awesome. I’m all for anything that can keep that prick in his place.”

  “I second that sentiment, but maybe next time we can work on it together so I can at least take some credit for it with the boss.”

  “You want to film me getting out of the shower and my towel accidentally falling off? Be my guest.”

  “Ew. Gross.” She overreacts as expected.

  “Clearly it’s not so gross if millions have seen it, right?” I laugh. The video that I’m assuming went viral was more than just a hint at my body. It was a transition—me with a towel around my waist, the towel dropping, and when I picked it back up, I had my fire suit on and a megawatt grin. If girls can do Get Ready With Me segments, why can’t guys?

  Obviously, it did the trick.

  “Millions. Ha. If you haven’t seen it, how do you know how many views there are, huh?”

  “I don’t. Just a guess and by your reaction, it’s a correct one.”

  “If your ego gets any bigger, we’re going to need to upsize your helmet.”

  “Just a warning. Don’t check my DMs. It’s like the crazies unleashed themselves this week.”

  “He doesn’t watch the videos, but he checks his direct messages. I’m beginning to think you’re lying, Riggs.”

  “I like to keep you guessing. But seriously, don’t check them.”

  “Ugh. Worse than normal?”

  “You don’t want to know.” I’m all for pics being sent in—what guy wouldn’t be? But I draw the line at seeing things put in places that shouldn’t be there.

  There’s something to be said for leaving something a bit of a mystery.

  “Noted. So very noted.” She laughs. “If they knew you, they wouldn’t be sending anything,” she teases.

  “It’s not my personality they’re after, Fontina.”

  “Ew. Gross again. Are you trying to make me throw up my lunch?”

  “You’re so easy to rile up.”

  “And you’re so easy to distract.” Her voice falls softer. “I hope it helped.”

  I scrub a hand over my jaw and give a half laugh, grateful for the call. “It has. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  She sighs in exasperation. “Go home, Riggs.”

  “I’m working on it,” I say as I grab my backpack, sling it over one shoulder, and decide to call it a day. If I haven’t gotten the call yet, it’s not coming.

  Another opportunity gone. Another chance being passed up.

  But why does this one already hurt so much more?

  Because I deserve it more than anyone else here. Sure, they’re thinking the same thing, but I’ve been here longer than most. I’m the only one left of that promising crop of drivers who all entered together that hasn’t gotten their shot. I’ve won the Eurocup, F4 and F3 championships and gained the points to maintain my Super Licence.

  It’s. My. Time.

  No doubt Ari will be in my ear soon. My agent is notorious for calling me with a debrief over all the reasons I’ve been passed up this time—too flashy, not flashy enough, or I come off like I’m not serious because I have too much fun.

  The one I hate the most? I take too many risks, that I’m dangerous like my dad was, and they don’t want my blood on their hands.

  My favorite is Riggs is too selfish.

  Well hell, fucking yes, I am. That’s a requirement to be a successful, long-running F1 driver. They should want me to be. They should want my sole focus to be the end game and not worrying about hurting people’s feelings.

  There’s a lot of senseless money spent in this sport, and no one is satisfied with finishing off the podium.

  I’ve heard them all. Every single excuse as to why I haven’t been pulled up.

  No doubt another one’s coming tonight. That’s why it’s best to head home now, to grab whatever my drink of choice will be, and to wallow in solitude.

  Or with a woman.

  I’ll decide which one as the night progresses.

  But I’ll allow myself one night.

  One reprieve of pity.

  One night where I hate being Ethan Riggs’s son.

  One moment where I hate fucking everybody before getting back to the grind and to the grid, tomorrow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Riggs

  The walk off the premises is a long one.

  Down the paddock where everyone is glancing at each other, but no one is talking.

  Through the turnstile, with its security guards and those milling just outside of it, waiting for a quick picture or interaction with a driver.

  Then out to the almost empty car park.

  Just my luck, that’s when my mobile buzzes in my hand.

  At least there won’t be any witnesses to the bad news being delivered.

  “Ari Fornierj. What reasons were you given this time?” I ask by way of greeting, the sarcasm dripping from my tone.

  “Spencer.”

  My feet falter at the gravity to his tone. At the use of my first name when no one ever calls me by it. It’s Maxim. Has to be. Christ, it’s not good, is it? I glance around at the car park and then stop altogether. “What is it?”

  “It’s you.”

  “What do you mean it’s me?” I ask.

  “They called. It’s your turn, Riggs. It’s finally your fucking turn.”

  “Ari . . .” Fuck. Emotion swells in my throat and tears burn in the backs of my eyes as I try to find words. “You better not be fucking with me.”

  “Not on something like this. Never.” He pauses and clears his throat, the moment clearly getting to his calloused heart too. “This is real. Believe it. Your time has finally come.”

  “Maxim?” I try to process this. The thrill that rides shotgun next to the guilt that I’m getting a chance because my friend is hurt. The sudden rush of adrenaline that everything as I know it is about to change.

  “His injuries aren’t grave, but he’s going to need some recovery time. By all preliminary reports, he’ll be fine.”

  “Good. That’s good.” I will myself into believing it to ease my guilt that his crash is my fortune.

  “But Moretti has to fill his shoes in the meantime. Luckily, there’s time before the next race, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t already thinking about it. They’ve strung together a few good outings and don’t want to lose momentum.”

  I know Moretti has had a rough go of it lately. Maxim was their number one. That means their number two, Andrew Erikkson, will shift to one, and I’ll come in as the number two driver.

  But they’ve had two good races after a dismal past few years.

  It’s the perfect place for me to step in and try to make a name for myself—the motorsports icon, which has been mediocre as of late. I couldn’t ask for better timing.

  There will be expectations but not of miracles. While we use the same tracks in F2, we race on different weekends, so my familiarity with the courses is also a plus.

  “Holy shit.” It’s all I can think to say as I try to align my thoughts and remember what circuit is next for them.

  “What a lucky fucker you are to have moved to Wellingshire. Moretti’s headquarters is right there.”

  “It’s all that manifesting that you said was bullshit.”

  He barks out a chuckle. “I never said it was bullshit. Just more like . . . new age-fandangle shit that is for wanna-be-hippies.”

  I laugh, the tension leaving my body with each passing second. “Well, whatever it is, it worked, right? I got the fucking call.” I fist-pump the air when what I want to do is shout it from the rooftops.

  “You did, Riggs. God, you did.”

  Reality hits. The chaos that’s about to ensue for me over the coming days. Chaos I’ve witnessed firsthand so I’ll be prepared for the whirlwind to come.

  “So what’s next? Where do I go? When do I need to be wherever I need to be?” The adrenaline starts to ebb. My hands tremble and my voice wavers.

  “I’ve requested the specifics. I’m sure they’ll get you some time behind the wheel either here at Silverstone or have you head out early to the next race. It’s going to be crazy—seat molding, suit fittings, pressers, photos, meetings with the race engineers on telemetry data.”

  “I know. I’m . . .” At a loss for words.

  “Get home. I’d say pack, but I’m not sure if you need to pack yet. So maybe go home and clear your head and manifest or some shit like that.”

  “You’re a regular comedian,” I say as I slide behind the wheel of my car.

  “Always. They’re sending over a contract. Once I look it over and make any necessary changes, I’ll get it to you. For now, all I know is it’s a temporary spot. Race to race, but if it’s determined that Maxim is out for an extended period of time, there’s room for revision and adjustments.”

  “I’ll take whatever.”

  “It’s more money. A lot more. More perks. Top-of-the-line travel accommodations—”

  “None of that matters, Ari.” The more is the opportunity. “This is the chance I’ve been waiting for. It’s everything.”

  “It is.”

  “That’s all that matters.” Holy shit. This is really real. “Talk to you in a bit.”

  “Sounds good.” I’m just about to end the call when he says, “Hey, Riggs?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Congrats, man. You deserve this more than anyone.”

  The call ends. I sit in my car, hands gripping my steering wheel, head against the headrest, and emotions rioting through me faster than I can process them.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. The rush of my pulse the only thing I can hear. The thumping of my heart making my body feel like it’s jumping with each beat.

  This is it, Riggs. This is the chance you’ve worked toward your whole life.

  My shout reverberates around the closed confines of my car. I belt it out until it falls hoarse and morphs into a disbelieving laugh.

  Holy shit.

  Holy fucking shit.

  My cheeks hurt from smiling and my head dizzies with excitement.

  This is happening. This is really happening.

  Did you hear that, Dad? I did it. I finally made it.

  I wipe away the tear as quickly as it falls.

  My thoughts race with the things I need to do. With the things that are probably going to happen next. With the possibilities that are finally at my fingertips. With how I’m the only person who can make the most of it.

  But there’s one thing I need to do more than anything.

  “Mum,” I say when she answers the phone.

  “I knew it. I knew it. I knew it!” she shouts, the phone making all kinds of fuzzy static noises from what I can assume is her jumping around. “Oh God. You’re not saying anything. Please tell me I’m right.”

  I laugh and it feels like a pressure valve releasing steam as I do. “You’re right.” I almost whisper the words, the gravity of it all hitting me. “All of it finally paid off.”

  Memories flash through my mind like a slide show.

  Kart races where I was the kid who showed up with a kart built by scrap parts, a mum who taught herself how to work on them so she could help her son—so she could be the dad he needed because he didn’t have one, and a race suit she sewed herself so I could look like everyone else.

  Sure, I was Ethan Riggs’s son, but Ethan Riggs’s money had been eaten up by a shitty agent demanding more than his fifteen percent, greedy lawyers taking their cut, and the penalties on income taxes that were never paid.