Page 9 of Burn
Esteban’s room looks like a playroom, with video games, a mini-foosball table, and a beanbag.
Compared to his, my room is sterile. A massage table is the only thing that looks out of place, with its crisp white sheets and small pillow. The armoire is functional and white, housing my necessities. The desk and chair are small and tan, matching the sofa. The only splash of color comes from the framed photographs of my hometown of Tübingen, Germany, on the walls.
I want no distractions in my moment of failure. No media. No fans. No frills. The only one allowed in here is Lucas unless I say otherwise.
I strip off my suit and hang it on the rack, feeling my muscles tense as the cool air hits my skin. During some races I lose up to ten pounds in water weight from sweating alone, which is why I have a case of water in the corner. I reach for one and inhale the liquid, then pad into the shower and turn it on cold, gasping as the full blast hits me. I slap my hand on the wall, half expecting the entire building to come crashing down around me. I’m that angry.
Winning today was crucial, and not only for the points. Oh, sure, I want to win the championship. It’s been two long years since I’ve had a truly excellent finish, since I won my last championship. Last year was a bust with my old team, and now I’m with Onassis. This year we have the best car in the league, or so I thought. Now I’m having my doubts, given the way the engine blew up today.
On the last fucking lap.
This hadn’t happened to Esteban’s car, and I automatically wonder if I have an inferior machine. Rationally I know I don’t, but doubts creep in after something like this. Maybe this is my sign to finally leave the sport after years of injuries and neck pain—and after getting a call from the head of a startup electric race-car circuit in Germany. They want me to be a consultant, which would require me to retire as a driver. I haven’t told anyone this, not even Lucas. It’ll take time for me to process this offer.
I douse myself in soap, a knot of failure tightening in my gut. There was another reason I wanted to win here at Silverstone, a reason far less rational than winning another championship. One that Lucas alluded to; one that I didn’t want to admit aloud.
I lather my hair, practically scratching my scalp raw as I scrub.
Lily Onassis. I’d wanted to win for her. The boss’s daughter. The woman I’d lost my virginity to when I was twenty-two. She’d been an intern for her father’s team one season. I was driving for a different team back then, and sleeping with a rival team’s intern was taboo, so we spent eight months sneaking around, slipping into each other’s hotel rooms all across the globe.
When that season ended, she broke my heart.
She lives in Miami, and since this is the first year that the city’s held a race, I figured she’d be here today. Or at the after-party. I wanted her to see me win on her home turf. Before every race, I like to have a personal goal for winning. Sometimes it’s as simple as “Mama’s watching on TV and I want to make her proud” or “I’m doing this for that little kid with cancer because he’s my number one fan.”
Today it was “I want Lily to see that I’m a champion.”
“Fucking stupid,” I mutter as I rinse off. This is idiotic; she knows I’ve won the Formula World championship two times since we ended our relationship. I don’t need any more external validation, championship cups, or money. Hell, I’m not even sure how much longer I want to be in this sport.
But it would feel good to see Lily Onassis admit she was wrong when she broke up with me. She’s the only woman who’s ever rejected me.
Maybe I’ll skip the after-parties entirely and fly to Germany to see my family instead. Seeing Mama, Dad, and my younger brother always helps me focus. I’ll avoid all the post-race hoopla and get on the private jet. Or maybe Lucas and I will take a weekend trip to surf in Costa Rica. But he’s a newlywed, and probably wants to see his wife, a model who lives in New York. Maybe I’ll just fuck right off to Costa Rica alone.
I’ve gotta get out of Miami, preferably before tonight’s parties.
Because the last thing I want is for Lily to look at me and think I’m a loser.
Chapter Four
LILY
Adam and Tanya, the team’s public relations head, greet me at a side gate of the Miami track in a chauffeured electric golf cart. I climb in and we whiz away, slowing only for the security at various checkpoints.
The aftermath of the race is all around us: sanitation crews picking up trash, teams packing up giant tractor trailers, a few fans lingering in the VIP area hoping for autographs.
“We’ve asked the entire team to meet us in the garage,” Adam says, his long face pinched with worry.
“Perfect. Anything else I need to know before I talk?” I’m back in corporate crisis mode, something I’d thrived at in my last job. At least until the crisis involved me.
I’ve known Tanya for years. She was head of PR for Team Eagle, the racing outfit that Max went to after we broke up. Tanya is almost forty and has seen a lot in Formula World—so much that she seems entirely unfazed at the moment, while Adam and I are both drenched in sweat and have faces pinched with worry.
I’ve always admired Tanya’s tough-as-nails demeanor. We’re not exactly friends, more like friendly acquaintances. I suspect this is going to change. It could go either way—we’re either going to be besties at the end of this situation or we’re going to hate each other.
“Max is in a bit of a state because his engine blew up on the last lap, and he was leading the race,” Adam says.
A bit of a statein Adam’s dry, polite UK English probably means Max is irate and possibly even had a tantrum on the track. Most drivers would, from what I’ve seen and experienced in my years observing Formula World.
“Max controlled himself well, as he always does. But I could tell he was pissed.” Tanya’s voice is matter of fact.
“Ouch. How did Esteban finish?” Since everyone knows of my history with Max, I’d prefer to deflect any conversation about him, at least for right now.