What more can I ask for? Well, maybe the removal of my newly acquired purity ring, but fuckers can’t be choosers.
I school my features when a reporter asks about my upcoming contract agreement. “I love the team at McCoy, and they’ve been great with me over the past few years. The company knows what they’re doing, so I’m holding out to see what happens. Call me an optimist.”
“How is your relationship with McCoy after everything that occurred in the media this winter break?”
“Things couldn’t be better, and the team is ready to win this season. McCoy is my priority and my race car is the only woman in my life.”
Noah holds back a laugh next to me. His blue eyes and dark, wavy hair shine from the bright lights. The asshole knows things with McCoy are rocky, ever since Claudia threw a heel at my head when I pulled the plug on our brief sex-capade. Thank fuck for fast reflexes. Sadly for her, her tantrum didn’t have the desired effect of rough makeup sex because vindictive women don’t do it for me.
The rest of the conference feels mundane once reporters move on to someone else.
Noah pulls me aside once the F1 Corp member announces the end of the conference. He tugs me in for a hug and a smack on the back before letting go. “You need to figure out something to fix this relationship thing. You’re going to end up getting screwed out of a contract if McCoy can’t trust you to not screw up again. Other teams are probably wondering what you’ll do next. You’ve created a media shitstorm that reporters can rave about.”
“And what exactly do you suggest I do? I can’t help how Claudia keeps spreading rumors about whatever we did.” I find the process of defending myself exhausting.
He smirks at me. “Keep your dick out of any girls for a while. Think you can handle that?”
“Or I can do what you do, hook up one time and call it a night? I don’t hear you complaining about needy women and missed calls.”
Noah chuckles. “It’s worked out for me over the years. You messed up by getting together with women multiple times because that no-strings-attached lifestyle is bullshit. They always expect more time and attention. The thing with Claudia lasted way too long, and now she’s obsessed with either getting you back or driving you crazy.”
“Hey, to be fair, I didn’t think hooking up for a week was too long. It was only supposed to be a winter break thing. I warn the ladies before. The moment they start hinting at labels or long-term situations, I cut it off. Claudia didn’t get the memo because she’s never told no. Life hack: spoiled rich girls come with a private jet worth of baggage.”
He offers a weak smile. “Figure something out. But until then, keep to yourself, at least with the McCoy team. I tell you not to fuck around where you work. I actually want to compete against you, preferably while you’re on a comparable team. It would be no fun racing with guys who don’t know my every move like you do.”
“Shucks, you’re making me blush.” I press a palm to my cheek.
“Asshole. You’ll keep me sane now that I have an idiot for a teammate. Santiago joining Bandini is further proof of how there’ll always be someone faster and younger than us vying for our positions. So pull your shit together.”
“No need to harp on it. Let’s grab lunch because I’m starving.” I make my way toward the exit of the press building. This topic has overstayed its welcome.
“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”
Fans tune in for Saturdays and Sundays, watching our qualifiers and races. But guess what? They miss all the fun behind the scenes, like how I get to meet with Chris and Jax for an exhilarating pre-race debriefing inside McCoy’s headquarters.
“All right, boys. It’s time for our post-race check-in. Before we begin, any comments on the new cars now that you’ve raced a few times?” Chris’s Russian accent carries words with a guttural sound. He gives off mobster vibes, with black gelled hair, thick brows, and a stocky frame.
“This one rides smoother than my most recent fuck.” Jax smiles, his hazel eyes gleaming.
Leave it to Jax to break up our shitty routine. His hair looks wild today, curls unkempt. He traded in his usual black attire for the team propaganda. Black tattoos peek out from the collar of his white McCoy shirt, trailing from his neck to his knuckles, the design intricately woven.
“Thank you for details no one wants to hear. And you, Liam?” Chris’s brown eyes land on me.
“I think I need less understeering because the balance feels off. With those changes, it’ll be perfect.”