Page 1 of When I Had You

1

Cash Ryatt

I’m great at two things—winning and fucking.

Depends on the day, but I always take my skill set seriously when it comes to women and my career. I go big, especially when screwing up my life.

“Good job, Cash.” Hansen’s voice breaks through my thoughts. Good is relative, I suppose, but Westcott Racing’s race engineer isn’t bad for my ego.

To be the best again, I need to get my head off how I just fucked up. And per the last team meeting, I need to sport a “sunny disposition” when I come off the track for the owners’ benefit. Apparently, my bad moods aren’t good for business.

Sunny and losing aren’t synonymous, and getting overtaken on the last corner pushed me into seventh position on the grid tomorrow. “Fucking hell.”

“Bring her around, Cash,” Hansen instructs over the radio. As my race engineer with Westcott Racing, I give him the respect he deserves. “You did well today.”

I flex my fingers around the steering wheel as anger surges through my veins. How can he say that when I’ve made it twice as hard to top the podium tomorrow? “Good job, my ass,” I snap back over the radio. I don’t have a cool enough head to go into the issues of the tires spinning out instead of sticking. I take a deep breath and slowly release it, easing my anger the best I can. For now.

Hansen doesn’t say anything else. He’s smart enough to let me get my frustration out of my system on the cooldown lap.

As soon as I pull into the pit, the crew surrounds me, and I release myself from the confines of the cockpit. “Sunny disposition” slips through my thoughts, and I try for a smile behind my helmet. Yeah, not happening. I leave my helmet on, saving my harsher reaction for the privacy of the dressing room, out of sight of the press, team, owners, and spectators.

Why does everything in this sport have to be so goddamn public all the time anyway?

Money.

I’m not naive enough to be deluded by what makes the world and this sport go round. Not anymore anyway. Principle One racing is a rich man’s sport. There aren’t just millions on the line. There are billions to be made. Despite the warnings I’ve been given, With my visor down, protecting my face and hiding my mood, I head toward the paddock to get weighed so I can bolt to my driver’s room right after.

I don’t get five feet before the team’s manager glues himself to my side and matches my pace. Not everyone is as good as Hansen when it comes to timing . . . “We’re happy with seventh, Cash.” My back is patted, causing me to look left. My helmet may be limiting my field of vision, but I already know who it is from the gruff voice. Three years tobacco-free can’t fight against the forty he had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Darren Ellis has been in the racing game almost as long as I’ve been alive, so I trust his wisdom. He adds, “If this were the race, we’d have points on the board. I’m not upset by this result, and neither are the sponsors.”

More importantly, his opinion matters and carries weight. That he sounds happy is the calm I need in the middle of this turmoil. We keep walking, and he says, “I get it, Ryatt. You want pole position, but we’re a new team. That we’re in the top ten in our first year of racing means we’re doing everything right.”

“The crossover on—”

“The last turn. Yes, we’re looking at the footage. The wheels spun twice, which gave Leandro time to pass.”

“The spin makes me think it’s the track, not the tires,” I grumble, knowing damn well we have no control over the track. “There’s no rubber left at this—”

“Don’t worry.” He stops walking. When I turn back, he says, “We’ll have it figured out before the race tomorrow.”

“It’s my job to worry about it.”

“No, it’s your job to drive that car as fast as you can tomorrow. It’s our job to fix the issues.” His gaze travels over my shoulder. “Anyway, you have other things to worry about.”

“Like?”

When I glance over my shoulder, he replies, “Play nice. The owners brought their family.”

“Oh yay,” I mutter, remembering the memo I got yesterday, and start walking. The faster I go, the quicker I’ll be done.

The crowd of Westcott purple parts for me as I head for the paddock. I touch a few hands as I pass, my gloves blocking any real connection, which is how I prefer to keep my life these days. It’s a lot easier this way. Looking ahead, I have maybe thirty feet to cover until I’m away from the onlookers and can leave this unofficial meet and greet in my rearview mirror.

Announcements blare overhead, but I’m focused ahead and specifically on the left.

White shirt against tanned skin.

Brown hair mixed with some blond, which reflects in the sun.

My attention is set on the woman ahead . . . the woman who is too busy to look up from her phone to notice me. I pause, waiting for her to see me. This is a meet and greet, after all. Everyone is only here to greet or to meet me. Except her.

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