Santi comes into the room while I google how people use glasses to eavesdrop. He eyes the empty cup in my hand curiously but doesn’t mention anything about it, choosing to ignore my playful smile.
Santi plops himself on the couch next to me and lets out a sigh, the defeated look on his face pulling at my heartstrings. His fingers fumble with unzipping his race suit while his feet toe off his sneakers. He puts his head in his hands. The room fills with the sound of his deep breaths in and out.
I give him a few moments before I probe. “How did the talk with the chief engineer and Noah go?”
I learn from my mistakes, making sure to keep my voice low enough for Noah to not overhear us.
“Noah’s pissed to say the least. And I get it because I fucked up bad. But I apologized to him the moment we got out of the cars and when we got back here. I hadn’t even seen the footage yet, but I knew it was my fault.”
“He shouldn’t have yelled at you like that in front of everyone, making a scene. It’s wrong and embarrassing for both of you. And not mature when you already said sorry.”
Okay, the volume of my voice has increased a bit. Noah may or may not be listening in on our conversation at this moment, no thanks to me.
“I screwed him out of a good amount of points. It’s going to take time to recover from that loss. I would be angry too if it were me.” His hands pull at his hair while his face stares at the floor.
“You both are teammates trying to figure each other out. The two of you have different styles of racing, and you need to find your groove and work together.” I root for both of them. For the sake of Bandini and the Constructors, they need to put aside this rivalry between them.
“F1 Corp will make us do a post-race conference together to represent Bandini.” He looks up at me finally. His red-rimmed eyes lack their usual shine, and his sadness makes my heart hurt for him.
I take a deep breath, knowing what I have to do. “I’ll join you. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like you can crash again.”
Famous last words.
The press meeting is not the same as watching Santi and Noah crash in real life. On the racetrack, you can’t see or feel the tension between the drivers. Except for the team radio, but not many people listen in unless the videos end up on YouTube.
See, in a press meeting, all the emotions hang around like unwanted female groupies. Reporters salivate at the idea of these two guys sitting on a duo panel. Tension fills the room like a dense cloud, my brother shifting in his seat while Noah’s gaze focuses on the bright lights in front of him. I cringe at the awkwardness between them. The guys have many cameras on them, making it hard to hide anything.
I take back my previous comments about press conferences being yawn-worthy. I’d take snooze fests over train wrecks any day of the week.
Noah’s jaw ticks when the reporter asks Santi a question.
“It shouldn’t have happened today. Our team lost a lot of points because of it.”
The reporter doesn’t let Santi off easily because good answers don’t sell magazine covers.
“Is it true that the team engineer told you to brake the car and pull off of Noah’s tail, but you didn’t listen?”
My brother moves around in his seat. “I don’t want to discuss it. The team already lost today. It’s bad for us. Do we need to harp on the logistics of how I messed up?”
Noah subtly shakes his head before his sharp eyes look straight ahead. He replaced his tight race suit with a sponsor polo shirt, his hair pressing smoothly against his scalp with not a single dark strand out of place yet. I prefer his charming wickedness over this sad state any day of the week. His arms cross against his chest, bringing my attention toward the ridges of muscle etched into them, tan skin gleaming under bright lights.
I check out reporters around the room, searching for any distractions, but my eyes drift back to the press table and roam over Noah again. Ugh. Why does he have to be my brother’s racing rival?
I shift on my feet, my sneakers scuffing against the slick tile. My attention snaps back to my brother, choosing to ignore my attraction toward Noah because I don’t want to accept those feelings. Instead, I list off all the reasons Noah’s bad news in my head.
It’s way too soon.
I barely know him.
He’s my brother’s teammate. Rival even.
He’s a manwhore with more hookups than all the Bachelor seasons combined.
He looks like he’ll screw with my head as well as he’ll screw me in bed.
Working out all of the reasons why Noah Slade is a bad idea is a useful distraction, keeping me away from the drama ensuing in front of me.