Thanks for the love, Dad.
“Yup, sounds like me. Talk to you later. Bye.” I don’t wait for his reply before I hang up.
My dad can’t help being an asshole, but the public likes him, so he saves all his pent-up issues for me. He gets his way no matter what. His solutions to problems include money, threats, and throwing his weight around. Me moving across the Atlantic Ocean hasn’t put enough distance between us. Even with an insane time change between Europe and America, he finds a way to contact me.
Whatever races he graces with his presence end up being a shitshow. Fans call me F1 royalty, an American Prince because of my dad, the amazing Nicholas Slade. Who is still called one of the greatest racers in F1 history. Lucky me to have him breathing down my neck about everything I do wrong or where I can improve. Yes, he kick-started my career. I appreciate every investment he’s made to help me along the way, but I race cars every weekend, proving to him and everyone else that I’ll be a legend too. The driving world has changed a lot since he raced twenty years ago. Cars I drive today shit on whatever hunk of metal he drove, making the sport into what fans love today. A sport with drama, high speeds, and intense risks.
My phone pings from a new message.
Dad （12/24 10:29 a.m.）： Booked my flight to Barcelona.
Merry fucking Christmas to you too, Dad.
3
Maya
Three months have passed since Santiago signed his new deal with Bandini Racing. I am living with him while he gets ready for the new season, making sure to keep myself busy by starting my vlog. I want to share all my travels while I follow Santi around the world. My computer is jam-packed with research on different things to do in each city while he preps for races. Pride surges through me at my foresight to plan.
I inhale the exotic smell of Melbourne, Australia. All right, the scent lacks the exoticness I had hoped for. A mix of car exhaust and airport fuel wafts through the air since the Outback is a far reach away. Best I’ll get for now. But it seems foreign enough, and I relish in my first experience of visiting a different continent.
Professionals call Santi’s first Prix a “flyaway race.” I made sure to catch up on all the F1 terms because I don’t want fans to think of me as ill-prepared.
I say “G’day mate!” to one of the flight attendants as I exit the plane. A poorly executed slip of the tongue. She doesn’t look amused in the slightest at my poor attempt to crack a joke, so I delete the saying off my phone once I step inside the airport.
I keep a translated list of popular phrases from each country we visit to prevent making myself look like a fool, at least not more than usual. Note to self: double-check what phrases sound stupid.
I stretch my sore legs after a twenty-hour flight from Madrid, my muscles thanking me for the special attention. Santi grabs my luggage off the carousel while I find the Bandini town car.
We get dropped off at the hotel where the team stays. I look around the elegant lobby, distracting myself with a funky art piece while Santi talks to the front desk. He texts his assistant to check each accommodation for two-room suites because he tends to be a needy man-child.
Our suite looks modern and fresh, with a minimalist color palette and a balcony overlooking the track. I throw myself on the living room couch. Comfortable cushions practically swallow me whole like a welcoming hug after a long day.
“I have to go to a couple sponsor meetings before working out kinks in the new car. You’ll be good without me?” His brown eyes gaze down at me as he places a Bandini baseball cap over his head.
“Sure. I have plans for the day anyway. Don’t worry about me.” I shoot him a toothy grin.
“I’ll always worry about you. You are a handful.”
I send him a mock-offended look. “No need to throw around charged words.”
He waves at me over his shoulder before exiting the suite. I throw a pillow at the door as it closes, missing my opportunity by a few seconds.
I take in my surroundings. The suite can’t compare to Santi’s previous digs, our upgrade having a television the size of my bed back home, a dining table fit for eight people, and a large sectional that surrounds me.
After changing into my bathing suit and grabbing my camera, I check out the hotel. My stomach grumbles during my tour, encouraging me to grab a quick bite to eat before I head to the pool. I relax and doze off on a lounge chair, heat from the sun enveloping me like a warm blanket, tanning my skin. An afternoon nap tempts me, my body giving into jet lag despite the regret I’ll feel later about my decision.
“I have a press conference today and I want you to come.” Santi walks into my room and plops himself on my bed. His post-practice round makes him a sweaty, sticky mess, with dirty skin contrasting against the white comforter.