Unlike my preference for one-and-done situations, Liam actually keeps girls around for longer than one time. I can’t fault him when women willingly agree. But his F1 seasons include one or two girls on rotation who eventually get their hearts broken, spilling their story to the gossip rags. A yearly cycle. But now he needs to keep himself locked up like a good boy after pissing off Peter McCoy.
I occasionally watch the trashy gossip videos of us on YouTube, shameful to admit they entertain me. McCoy can’t be happy with Liam. Recent videos have focused on Liam’s lack of foresight, calling him out for fucking around during an important year. Sleeping with your boss’s niece tends to stir up lots of emotions.
Maya hangs out in the corner of the press room, trying to blend into the wall. Fat chance that’s possible. She looks beautiful in ripped jeans and a T-shirt that clings to her chest. Her wavy hair is up in a ponytail that bobs while she leisurely scrolls through her phone.
It annoys me how she only tunes in to Santi’s answers, staring up from her phone every now and then to watch him. It’s like Liam and I don’t exist. If she doesn’t care then she shouldn’t come, plenty of reporters would kill for a spot in here. Why does she find her brother fascinating? It blows my mind how she looks at him like he hangs the moon for her, her eyes all proud and shit when he talks.
Is this usual sibling stuff? I glance over at Santi while he speaks, curious to see what gains her interest.
“Santiago, how do you feel about your new contract with your rival’s team? Any stress that comes with driving against one of the greats?”
I school my features like a well-trained PR puppet. Inside my irritation grows, an eye roll barely contained. When will these guys let go of the contract deal? They lack original questions, the same type asked each conference, forgoing the hype of the first race of the season.
“Uh, it’s not about contracts, but rather how well we drive. I don’t think about dollar signs or Noah when I’m out there. I think about the next turn and the finish line, with a possible podium ending.”
Okay, not bad. The team publicist must be helping him after yesterday’s disaster.
“Noah, who do you consider to be your biggest threat this season?”
A cocky smile breaks out across my face. Show time.
“I like to consider myself as my biggest threat. When I race, it’s me versus my instincts. Everything around me disappears. I test myself, seeing how long I can wait before pressing the brake, or how to overtake another person. I don’t think about the other drivers out there more than I have to. That’s where others screw up.”
Camera bulbs flash in front of me and capture my confident smile. Maya shakes her head, apparently not a fan of my response. The idea displeases me. My eyebrows pinch together, and my lips turn down into a frown. Appearances represent everything in this line of work because fans buy into this shit and love it. They even make videos about our bizarre press conferences every race like bromance videos and rival compilations. You name it, there’s a video on it.
A reporter moves on to Liam, asking another pointed question. “Liam, what game plan do you have to clear your name in the media?”
“Why don’t you ask me in a few months? I want to keep my plan to myself, in case it goes wrong.” Liam shrugs.
I nudge him with an elbow. “That tends to happen with him.”
Liam turns toward me and brushes his eyebrow with his middle finger. My head drops back and I laugh. I lift my head, catching Liam shooting Maya a grin that she returns, no longer inattentive. My fists tighten under the table as I stare straight ahead.
Liam can be considered a good-looking guy. A six-foot tall German jock who needs a short beard to hide his baby face. Basically, a glorified tool. Women dig his positive vibes and carefree attitude, along with his preference for multiple repeats. Everything about him screams good parents who gave him sugar, spice, and everything nice. Unlike me who reeks of broodiness and bad memories, driving away from my demons week after week.
We finish up answering questions and I leave the stage. I don’t want to be there for another minute more. I’m mentally done with today.
Nothing tops the buzz of a race day. Everyone deals with their pressure differently, tensions escalating as we approach Prix time. Anticipation of events keeps everyone up and running. Sundays are my favorite day of the week because who needs a church when I have a front-row seat to heaven.
Every racer does quick rounds to appease fans and sponsors, including meet-and-greets, parades, and interviews—the usual crowd-pleasing and ass-kissing. Following that, I do my typical engine checks and attend a pre-race stage event with an end goal of alone time in my Bandini suite.