Page 32 of Start Your Engines

“Not for weeks.”

“It’s a shame he never took over team leadership.”

I suck in deep breaths, but all I taste is stale air. I’ve never felt more alone. Ralf sends me the odd message, but that’s it. I can’t tell Jacs what’s happening because she’s stressed enough with her team and struggling with the cars on a shoestring budget. I need to fix everything in this place.

When I was comms director, my team had my back. They’d fight some of my decisions because they wanted the best, but wewere a team, and their loyalty was unquestionable. The board barely talk to me, and now I know why.

Sensing my lack of response, my dad changes the subject. “How are your drivers? I hope you’re keeping Antoine sweet.”

“Why?”

“No reason. Is Connor staying out of trouble?”

“They both are,” I reply. “They’ve been in the top fifteen in most races, and Connor always leads Antoine. Antoine is not the best driver we have.”

“He would be if I was in charge. I should come to the meeting tomorrow. I can show you how I manage the board so you can learn from my example. They always listened to me.”

I throw the stress toy across the room. It bounces off the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the car park. Even though it’s the beginning of June, darkness covers the space.

“I’m fine. I run the team okay. The next time one of the board tells you things, please tell them to speak directly to me.” I’m struggling to keep the begging out of my voice.

“If you’re sure.”

“Certain. Goodbye, Dad,” I say.

“I’ll call after the board meeting to see how it went.”

I hang up to stop myself from saying more. I’ve never been able to stand up to him. I look again at the photo on my desk. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to make him proud, and look where it’s gotten me. I had a failed driving career, and now I’m a failing team boss.

I retrieve my stress toy, but gripping it and squashing it in my hand won’t shake the loneliness that fills my soul.

I peek out my door, and as I expect, I’m alone. I replace my designer shift dress with my team running shorts and hoodie.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I forgot dinner. We’re a few days away from travelling to Spain for the next race. I stareat the ceiling as I try to recall when I last ate a hot meal. If not for Jimmy, I wouldn’t have breakfast or lunch.

I rummage through my drawers but am out of emergency chocolate bars. Half a breakfast bar with little dots of green and furry edges sits at the back. I gag as I drop it into the bin.

It joins half-chewed pen lids, a bloody staple I removed from a member of the accounting team who accidentally stapled himself when he found another file of bad news my dad hid, and an empty box of chocolates from Jacs because I haven’t had time to hang out with her.

I’m losing everything I’ve wanted and worked for.

At least we’re doing well in races. Connor beating Antoine regularly has created tension, but instead of it boiling over, it’s simmering. As Dad used to say when Niki beat me on the track, competition is healthy. It was different when I won against him, though. And when Connor beat both of us, we got a lecture.

Connor Dane.

Since Australia, our interactions have improved. He’s cordial and sometimes pleasant. We’re not besties and never will be, but I can cope.

I prop my feet on the desk and flip on Taylor Swift. With my eyes closed, I imagine falling asleep and getting the rest I crave, but I haven’t got time for that tonight. It will be another one a.m. drive home before returning at six thirty. With my new bitch boss style persona, I’ll have to be up at five thirty because doing hair and make-up takes a fucking age.

“Anti-Hero” reaches its crescendo, and I whistle along. When I was younger, I sat on my bed, listened to “Love Story,” and imagined it was about me and Connor. But Connor and I weren’t star-crossed lovers. I was an annoying tag-along.

“Still sound like a strangled ferret when you whistle, then, Coults.” At Connor’s lazy drawl, my eyes pop open, and I grip my chair’s arms so I don’t fall.

“How long were you standing there?” I reply, my face warming with embarrassment.

“Long enough to realise you’re still a Swiftie. You used to listen to ‘Love Story’ on repeat.”

He remembersthat? He winks, sending my face from warm to hot. He’s got his team cap on backwards, which reminds me of the cheeky, adorable Connor from the old days.

---