God plays cruel jokes on me. Just when I promised to be good, he wants me to fall right into the arms of the devil. Men like Noah are only built for wickedness.
I force my eyes away and try to find something interesting in the room. Oh look, a middle-aged man setting up his microphone. Riveting stuff. The same man glares at me before he grumbles something about hot chicks not being allowed in the press room.
Noah’s deep rumbling laugh sends a shiver up my spine. Since when do laughs sound sexy? My body finds it difficult to ignore him, my eyes wanting to pull back to him like a magnet. I refrain because I don’t want to lead him on. But he makes my body stand to attention, my posture never looking better.
My interest in the reporter appears short-lived once questions come from all different directions. Each journalist reeks of desperation to add their tidbit, enthusiastically raising their hands every time a round of questions wraps up.
One question makes me pause my Instagram scrolling.
“What have you two been doing to prevent another Abu Dhabi situation?”
Ugh, this again? Aren’t there juicier stories to bring up? Noah seems to share my same sentiment, his low groan permeating through the crowd and gaining my attention.
“Are we seriously bringing up a race from two years ago? That’s below you, Harold. Find fresher drama to bring up because your questions bore me.”
Turns out Harold is the same reporter I was staring at earlier. My mouth drops open, shocked Noah Slade knows these reporters by name. He has no shame calling them out.
But Harold refuses to let Noah off easily, especially after a tongue-lashing.
“One would assume the competition is back in full force. How does it feel to be working closely with someone you publicly announced as a rival on the track?” Harold licks his lips at his own line of questioning. Must be proud.
Noah’s jaw ticks, accentuating razor-sharp cheekbones. His icy gaze makes my blood run cold. “Seeing as we’re teammates now, his performance is contingent on my own, and vice versa. I wish Santi the best of luck; this year will be competitive between everyone.”
My brother opens his big mouth, piggybacking off Noah’s last words. “We discussed team strategies and what situations can be prevented. I highly doubt Slade will make that mistake again.”
Santi, so sharp in racing, so unaware of real life. Noah turns his head slowly toward my brother. I rub a palm across my face like it can rid the image of Noah’s death glare and clenched jaw from my memory. Abort, Santi. Uncertain of who will say what next, the media room remains silent as reporters anxiously wait for a reply.
Noah faces the camera crews again. “We all learn from mistakes here. The sport is about growth and personal development on the course. Accidents happen. It’s all about what you do after that matters.”
One point for Noah Slade. He handles the situation like a pro who was well-trained by a publicist. The rest of the press meeting remains mundane after the spur of drama, not as juicy as my brother promised. A blessing in disguise for him since he’s already messed up.
Relief floods through me when an F1 member announces the end of the media conference. He reminds everyone about the gala being hosted tonight in honor of the Bandini racers, plus information about a few other press sessions taking place after practice rounds and qualifiers. Excuses of how to get out of those pop up in my head. Thankfully for Santi, he can do most of them alone, minus Noah and myself.
Noah approaches us outside of the press building. My skin prickles at our closeness, his body hulking over my five-foot-two frame, making me feel smaller than usual.
“I don’t know how your last team worked but let me handle the big-boy questions. You should re-watch the tapes from Abu Dhabi if you think it was a mistake on my end because it sure as fuck wasn’t. That should be your first order of business around here. Well, that and staying the hell out of my way.” His fists clench together and his jaw ticks under pressure.
“I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” my brother says with earnest.
“Clearly. You’re new to the team and we have a system here. One that doesn’t include stupid answers. You should ask around if you’re not sure how things work.”
“There’s no need to be rude to him. He said sorry,” I snap, my eyes meeting Noah’s cold glare. I can only take so much of his attitude when my brother’s already said sorry. Santi acts tough, but issues affect him more than most, his emotions swirling inside of him like a slow-moving tornado.