I’m not just blowing smoke up his ass. In my experience, the best driver-engineer relationships are built not only on trust, but on mutual respect and understanding. Yes, there will be the inevitable arguments. In a lot of ways, it’s like a marriage, with each one nagging the other and both sides rarely on the same page. But at the end of the day, we have to kiss and make up—figuratively speaking of course—in order to sort out problems with the car quickly and efficiently.
And, more importantly, safely.
Sucks for Grady that Marcel didn’t feel that way. But Marcel is old news. There’s a new sheriff in town, and things are going to be different with me around. Not because I want to snag that bonus money if—when, I mentally correct myself—Grady stands on the podium. Because that’s the only way I do business.
“So what do you say?” I ask, polishing off the dregs of my coffee.
“Sounds good.”
His face relaxes, and he smiles at me over the rim of his hot chocolate, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. It has the dual, conflicting effect of reminding me how fucking gorgeous—and how damn young—he is. My brain clings desperately onto the latter, but my stubborn, traitorous dick can’t seem to let go of the first.
My cell phone chimes in my pocket, blessedly interrupting thoughts of my damn dick. I pull it out and frown at the message that flashes across the screen. Then I stand, chucking my empty coffee cup into the nearest garbage can. “They’re looking for us back at the garage.”
He sighs and stands, taking his hot chocolate with him. “Guess it’s time to face the music. I hope Jacques isn’t too pissed at me for walking out of the presser.”
“Don’t worry about Jacques. I’ll handle him. After all, it was my honor you were protecting.”
I attempt a self-deprecating laugh, but it comes out more like a cross between a cough and a gurgle. Any minute, Grady’s probably going to drop his drink, wrap his arms around my waist, and Heimlich me.
Which, come to think of it, doesn’t sound all that bad.
Instead, all he does is bestow another one of his megawatt grins on me. “Thanks.”
I force my gaze away from him, pretending to be suddenly fascinated with a string hanging from the cuff of my shirt sleeve. “Anyway, it’s not Jacques who’s looking for us. It’s the engineering team. Something about a solution for the core bouncing problem you’ve been dealing with.”
“Then let’s go. We’ve got a car to fix and race to qualify for.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder, and heat radiates down my arm to my fingertips, making them tingle with anticipation. Anticipation for what I don’t know. Because the only thing that’s going to happen between us is me keeping his ass safe on the track.
CHAPTER4
Grady
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
I rip my helmet off and slam it against the garage wall. The balaclava goes next, but it’s a lot less dramatic throwing a Nomex mask. It flutters to the floor like a wounded bird, which pretty much sums up how I feel right now.
Practices were going so well. I qualified tenth—my best position yet. And all I’ve got to show for it is a big, fat DNF.
I’m about to retreat to my driver’s room for a shower when callous-roughened fingers clench around my bicep, stopping me.
“Hey.” Ben’s voice is low as he presses my helmet into my hands. “You forgot this.”
An embarrassed blush creeps up my cheeks. Temper tantrums aren’t my style. I’m usually better at keeping my anger in check and a smile pasted on my face. Hell, when the other drivers aren’t calling me Rook or Rookie, it’s Mr. Sunshine. Or, in the case of Gabe, who insists on busting my balls in his native French, mon petit rayon de soleil, which, according to Google translate, means my little ray of sunshine.
“Sorry,” I half whisper, half groan. “I don’t know what got into me.”
I do. It’s frustration with my shit performance. Again. And fear that Jacques is losing patience with me and I’ll be without a ride, replaced by our reserve driver. And worry about what my father is going to say in the inevitable phone call I’ll get before I even have a chance to debrief with the team.
But I’m not admitting any of that to my new wingman.
“It happens to everyone.” He shrugs like that shitshow is an everyday occurrence. Which it might be on some other teams.
“Not to me.” I stare down at the tips of my fire-resistant racing boots.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
He flings an arm around my shoulders and steers me out of the garage and down the stairs toward Recharge Garage. Thanks to the team’s less-than-stellar showing in last year’s Constructors’ Championship, our garage is at the far end of pit lane, near the pit exit. But because the powers that be don’t want the drivers to go from garage to motorhome after races without running the gauntlet of VIPs and media in the paddock, the rest of our setup is closer to the pit entrance.