Page 43 of Start Your Engines

Senna

Connor walkedout of my office nine hours ago. I should have asked him to stay.

For the first time, he apologised without justifying what happened or giving excuses. He gave the most honest and raw apology, and I still didn’t ask him to stay.

As he sat in my office, dejected and vulnerable, I accepted that my feelings for him when he was younger never disappeared, and in my heart, I forgave him. That’s why I wanted him gone: having the man who’s remained deep in my heart and featured in virtually every fantasy I’ve had in the last three months working under me for the rest of the season isn’t helpful or wise. I can’t control myself around him, and even though I don't know the truth about what happened that day, I’ve let him in over the last months. My judgement is fucked when he’s involved. I’ve been able to manage my emotions over the years. If I let him back in, I’ll be a team boss ruled by others and not in control. I need to be in control like my dad was.

I can’t get hurt by him again.

I thumb through the messages Jimmy left on my desk. I ate the dinner delivered early evening, as always, and I changed into my shorts and hoodie like I’ve done every evening since Connorlast visited in the hope he’d gaze at my legs like he did that night he brought me pizza.

He’s not coming back. I should search for another driver and sort out his contract, yet I’m sitting here remembering how his forearms felt under my fingers.

I check my phone. My screen shows a voicemail from Ralf. It might distract me.

“Little boss, I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you. There’s something you should know. I looked into those investors your dad had with him in Spain. There is a rumour that they’re potential buyers. I’m so sorry. Leave this with me, and I shall see what I find out.”

Betrayal stings my throat. Why does Dad always let me down?

I need to do the only thing that stopped me from overthinking when I had no other options.

I shove on my trainers and head to the garage. I need to get my hands dirty and listen to pop music while I spend a couple of hours deep in the engine of a crappy car I make my team keep.

The lights in the garage are on. I grumble as I walk through the space. It smells of oil and fuel, and I breathe it in: the scent of my teenage years, of laughing with Niki as we tinkered on whatever car we were allowed to play with. I’d hang out with Uncle Ralf as he told me about all the different parts of the engine and how to use that knowledge to maximise performance.

I miss racing sometimes, but I love the backstage stuff, too. I love working with something to make it brilliant. Now, the engine I’m working with is the entire company.

Soon, I won’t have anything.

Connor’s deep voice rises and drops as he sings to Lewis Capaldi’s “Someone You Loved.” My heart beats faster. He hasn’t left yet.

I listen and immerse myself in the words. His local accent is gravelly, and he keeps missing the T at the end of words. As his singing fills my body, I hold onto the moment tightly. This is the Connor I remember—the guy who bares his soul when he sings. As the song finishes, I debate whether to disappear without saying hello. He wants to leave the team, and I shouldn’t stop him.

“I know you’re there, Sen,” he says, his face peeking out from behind the raised bonnet of my banger. “Please stay.”

Again, that rare vulnerability. When we were younger, he hoped his dad was watching him race before realising he was distracted by a pretty woman, and he’d keep up the banter. But sometimes, when I joined him and Niki karting at night, he’d show crumbs of sadness.

“Okay,” I reply, stepping closer.

“I’m having a problem. Please help.”

He points at the engine, and we work on it to a playlist of chilled tunes.

As we work, I breathe in his woodsy smell that lingers whenever he leaves my office. I want to smooth the lines on his forehead away. The smudge of oil on his cheek highlights cheekbones I long to touch. When I last spent time with him like this, he was a boy, but now he is all man. Occasionally, our hands touch, or we get in each other’s space.

Eventually, when I can’t take it anymore, I say, “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

He shrugs. “I got a bit caught up with this. But don’t worry, I’ll be out of your way soon.”

“Please don’t go.” I can’t look at him as I say it, fearing he’ll see emotions that have bubbled to the surface since we ate together. Watching him perform his rituals before the race has only sharpened them. I want to help him, and not just becauseI’m his boss. “The team needs you.” He doesn’t respond, and I share my truth. “I need you.”

“Okay. I’ll stay.” His voice is husky. “For you.”

My heart jumps. “Thanks. Although I might not be the boss for much longer.”

He continues tinkering, which makes it easier to talk. It’s as if avoiding eye contact quiets the tension that usually fills our conversations. “How come? You’re doing a brilliant job, considering the egos of your two drivers, especially this one.”

I chuckle. “You got that right.” I sigh, and the humour drops. “Uncle Ralf left me a message. The men with Dad on Sunday might have been potential buyers. I thought he was finding investors, but I suspect that since I took over the team, he’s only searched for buyers.”

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