“Who is the biggest baby when sick?”
Two red cards go up. Glad my brother sees his man-child ways because the stomach flu I got the last time taking care of him was nothing short of terrible.
“Who is more stubborn?”
Two opposite colored cards hang in the air.
“Another strike and a prime example of how stubborn you both are.”
“You do know it took you like eight months to figure out you liked my sister, right?” My brother flicks his blue card for emphasis.
Noah smirks at the camera. “Not as bad as you taking ten months to realize you wanted me as a friend rather than an enemy.”
Oh, shit.
“I didn’t need a referee for Liam and Jax’s game. Which by the way, you both are going to lose because you can’t agree on anything.”
“Well, at least we can agree on how we both love you,” my brother says with a telling smile.
My chest tightens at the two of them looking at me. I never in a million years would have imagined them getting along like this, willing to put aside their differences to make me happy.
The two of them lose the game after a total of nine points.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t decide who cares more about me. No, I’m just joking. They couldn’t agree on who deserves a World Championship more, with Noah raising a red card while my brother raised a blue one.
Yup, that happened. Jax and Liam may have won the game, but these two won each other over, a seemingly impossible task. And if that doesn’t deserve a trophy for the Constructors’ Championship, I don’t know what does.
40
Noah
My phone rings on the nightstand. And thank God Maya left the suite ten minutes ago because the curse words flying out of my mouth are nothing short of abhorrent.
I don’t know what pushes me to answer the phone. Whether because of brewing emotions inside of me or because I have a kink for masochistic tendencies. My finger slides across the glass, my head pounding to the beat of my heart.
“Mother. What can I do for you?”
Why hit her with pleasantries when she has the emotional intelligence of floral wallpaper. If you’re trying to make the connection, don’t.
“My son.”
A classic. Nothing like reminding me of who signed my birth certificate to manipulate me.
“I’m busy and about to leave for my qualifier. What do you need?”
“You can work on your delivery a bit, Noah.” Her voice carries like a melody through the phone. A siren who calls to men with wallets and trust funds, luring them in before ripping their hearts out.
I grunt, unable to produce words.
“Well, I’m spending time with Clarissa and Jennifer in Dubai, and we thought about visiting for the Prix. What do you think about getting us some tickets? Preferably in the VIP section with a better view, not that one near the stands.”
Because God forbid, she actually has a view of the finish line. Grandstand VIP sections don’t come with complimentary champagne and Instagram street credit.
Every time my mom asks for tickets, I get them. In the whole scheme of things, I never thought to say no because it was easy to do. Easy to give in to my toxic parents. Simple to not put up a fight, not wanting to make waves like my dad despite how sick it made me feel to be used over and over again.
But like I did with my dad, I want to give her one last chance. Being around Maya has made me a forgiving person.
“I can message my assistant. How are you doing?” I hold the phone to my ear, having no interest in asking about any tickets.
She scoffs. “Is it that man who prattles on the phone forever?”
If she means Steven, who likes to ask her about her day, then yes.
“Yup, the same one I’ve had since I started with Bandini. Can you believe it’s been seven years since I began racing with the team?” Bet you a weekend on my yacht she doesn’t catch my mistake.
“Nope. But with the end of the season means your birthday is coming up. How are you celebrating your twenty-ninth this year?”
I’d say she blacked out for her entire pregnancy except she couldn’t drink. Surprisingly she remembers the month I was born, most likely because my father drops a large sum of money in her bank account as a “thank you for birthing my spawn” gift.
“Actually, I’m turning thirty-one. But numbers blur after so many years.” Insert obligatory eye roll here.
“Exactly. My mistake.” Her laugh sounds similar to nails scratching a chalkboard.
I hate every second of this call, of the battle waging inside of me to not hang up the phone. But I want to show myself why I need to let go. Why I can’t fall back into a damaging relationship with my parents because their love is conditional. And if I learned one thing in therapy, besides the fact that crying makes my face puffy as fuck, is how love doesn’t come with conditions. No ifs, ands, or buts. It should make you a better person—not because you have to be, but because you want to be. I want to be the fucking best for Maya and myself. Need to love myself and all that jazz.