Page 4 of Cross the Line
‘Looking like what?’ I challenge, lifting my own champagne glass and knocking back its contents. I drag the back of my hand across my mouth before continuing. ‘Looking like I’m about to lose my career and fail to get my dick wet all in one night?’ Because that’s what it’s feeling like.
I’ve worked too hard to get to where I am, and I refuse to leave Formula 1 until I’m good and ready. Is Argonaut Racing the best team on the grid? That’s a joke if ever I’ve heard one. But if I’m going to break free from the midfield and land myself a seat at a top-tier team, they’re my best bet.
Every driver aspires to win a championship, and my chances of ever doing that hinge on my performance now. I came up through Argonaut’s driver-development programme as a kid, and I’ve only ever driven for the team, so I’m loyal to them in most respects, but I can’t stay there for ever if I want to win. And yeah, it’s optimistic for a driver who’s never won a single F1 race to be looking toward the championship, but I’m a dumbass with dreams.
The problem is that those dreams feel more out of reach with each passing day. Unless NASA starts designing Argonaut’s cars, I’m never going to win a championship with them. I’m certainly not going to do it while Zaid Yousef and Axel Bergmüller are battling it out at the top, no matter what car I’m driving. Honestly, I’d be thrilled to place third or fourth with my current team, but that seems about as likely as the sun exploding tomorrow.
For now, though, my priority is staying in Formula 1 until I can prove that I belong in the upperupperechelon of this elite sport. I just have to keep my head down and perform well enough to garner the attention of the best teams’ bosses. Zaid should be retiring in the next couple of years, so surely Mascort is thinking about his replacement. Or maybe Specter Energy will decide they need a new number-two driver to support Axel, and if so, I’ll be their man. That won’t get me the title I’m after, but it’ll be a step closer to it.
But none of that will happen if I lose my sponsorships and Argonaut cuts my contract short, all thanks to Jani’s parting gift. The team may not rely heavily on the money I bring in, but no one wants a driver who has nothing but their talent to contribute. It’s shitty, for sure, and yet it’s how our little world works.
After this season, I have another year left with them, and if I don’t live up to – or exceed – their expectations? Fuck, if I think about the possibilities for too long, I might crawl into the nearest hole and never climb out.
‘You’ll get laid again, Dev, I promise,’ Mark says. ‘But only if you stop moping like a little bitch.’
There’s no missing how he ignored the first part of my complaint. I’m not the only one who’s worried about my future in F1.
‘I’m not moping,’ I mumble. But he’s right. Iammoping. I’ve always been the smiley guy, not the scowling one. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be. ‘I’m just stressed, all right? It’s a big night.’
It’s a big week is more like it. Tonight, I have to prove that I’m an asset to the world of racing, not a liability. Tomorrow, I have to grin my way through my media duties for Argonaut and pretend I don’t hate my teammate. Then I have to get a solid time during free practice on Friday, qualify higher than P10 on Saturday – there’s no way I’m scoring points otherwise at a circuit like Monaco, where overtakes are nearly impossible – and drive like my life depends on it on Sunday.
In a way, I guess it does.
‘You’re gonna get through it.’ Mark sounds assured, but I know he has his doubts too. ‘And if you don’t believe me,’ he says, nodding to the other side of the room, ‘go ask Oakley. You know he won’t sugar-coat anything for you.’
I turn in the direction Mark’s nodding in, spotting our friend by the doors to the ballroom where he’s shaking hands and slapping shoulders.
Thank fucking god. It feels like I’ve been waiting years for that dickhead to get here and save me from the boredom these stuffy sponsor events always inspire.
I’ve known Oakley since before I could walk. Our families have been neighbours for longer than I’ve been alive, and he and I grew up together in the karting circuits. We’re the founding members of theAwkward White Dads Club, two mixed kids – Black in Oakley’s case, Indian in mine – with white fathers, who bonded over never quite fitting into the motorsport world thanks to the colour of our skin. And also, because our dads are easily the most awkward people on the planet. Nerds, the both of them, but considering Oakley’s job these days, he’s not far behind them on the nerd scale.
Needless to say, we’ve been friends for ever.
And I almost ruined it all in a single moment last year when I kissed his sister.
I shake the memory from my head before it can replant itself and grow roots again. I know better than to dwell on it – I’ve done enough of that already and faced the consequences. Besides, I refuse to let it interfere with my friendship with Oakley; it was a one-time mistake, never to be repeated. I know better now.
Before I can make a move to head in Oakley’s direction, my agent steps into my path, blocking me from going anywhere. Great.
Mark, the bastard, manages to sidestep the glowering man and grins at my misfortune, lifting his empty champagne glass in a sardonic toast. ‘Catch you later, buddy,’ he calls to me before striding away.
A few steps behind my agent stands an exasperated Chava, his hands held out to the side in a universalI triedgesture. No doubt my assistant did his best, but there’s no stopping Howard Featherstone when he’s on a mission to make my life a living hell.
‘Howard!’ I call out, donning my signature smile and feigning enthusiasm. I knew he’d be here tonight, but I was hoping to avoid him for at least a little while longer. ‘How the hell are ya?’
‘I’ve been better, Dev,’ he says flatly, those cold grey eyes levelling on me. ‘But I think you know that.’
I’m tempted to stick my fingers in my ears and mockingly repeat Howard’s words back to him, but I have to remind myself that I’m a twenty-five-year-old man – the appropriate response at my big age is to tell him to go fuck himself.
Thankfully, I’ve had enough media training to keep me from behaving either way in public, so I school my expression into one of understanding and nod solemnly.
‘I hear you,’ I agree. ‘We’ve had some tough times lately.’
He eyes me suspiciously, probably well aware that I’m putting on a front. But he’s not about to call me out on it in case it leads us off-topic. ‘We have. And it’s past time to fix things. We could have started sooner if you weren’t avoiding my calls.’
I chuckle and drag a hand through my hair in an act of false sheepishness, though I can’t resist lifting my middle finger just a little as I drop my hand back to my side. I haven’t wanted to talk to him because I knew what he’d say.You need to fix this, Dev. Hire someone to clean up your image. Get a full PR team in place. Let them turn you into a robot. Let them drain the life from you.
‘Sorry about that,’ I reply, boldly dishonest. ‘The past few weeks have been crazy, you know? Hey, did you catch the race in Azerbaijan? I managed to make it to Q3 in—’
