Page 85 of Fast & Reckless
“Head’s fine. That’s what I keep telling them. The stupid sensor triggered, but I’m fine.” Mira must be so upset. He needed to see her.
“They said you don’t have a concussion,” Mitchell said. “Which is good news.”
“IknowI don’t have a concussion. Honestly, I’m fine. Can you just get them to sign my release and—”
“And the hand?” Mitchell’s eyes had fixed on his right hand, hidden under an ice pack. “The doctor said you’ve got some damage.”
Will fought the urge to hide his hand behind his back. He’d managed to crash into a wall at three hundred kilometers an hour and walk away unscathed, but apparently smashing his fist into Brody’s fucking face did some damage. He’d felt fine when he climbed into the car, but he’d still been buzzing with adrenaline. And then there was the shock of the crash. It was hard to feel anything in the midst of that. But the longer he sat here, the worse it felt.
“It’s nothing.” He held it out, and Mitchell and Paul leaned over, examining his red knuckles. “Just a little sore. It’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
Mitchell frowned forbiddingly. “This swelling’s not good.”
“It’s fine.” As proof, he flexed his thumb for Mitchell, but had to stop when a sudden flash of pain shot up his arm. He hissed through his teeth. Paul and Mitchell glanced up at him.
“Not so fine,” Paul muttered.
Mitchell ran his fingers along his thumb, prodding at the obvious inflammation. “It hurts?”
“A little,” Will conceded.
“A little?” When Mitchell rotated his thumb, Will winced again.
“A lot.”
“Hmm.” Mitchell was still scowling. “You’ve got a sprain.”
“No. I’m sure it’s just a little swollen. Give me a shot to bring down the inflammation and a little something for pain andI’ll be fine.” Mitchell flexed his thumb again, and Will’s face crumpled. Besides hurting like a beast, his range of motion was diminished. Like, nonexistent. “Fuck. Mitchell, you have to fix it.”
Mitchell straightened, rubbing a hand over his short-cropped salt-and-pepper beard. “It’s soft tissue damage, Will. There’s nothing I can do for that.”
Paul let out a tired exhale, his eyes falling closed. “Ah, bloody hell. That’s that, then.”
“What are you saying?”
Mitchell stared at him. “Will, you know what this means.”
Yes, he did know. It took a million constant adjustments to operate a Formula One car and almost all of the controls were on the steering wheel—and they all required his thumbs. A sprained thumb. What a stupid fucking injury. But it was about the worst injury a driver could have. He had walked away from that crash unscathed, but this—his bloody fuckingthumb—was going to put him out of the race.
“So he can’t race?” Paul asked, sounding as if he already knew the answer.
Even hearing the words made Will feel sick.
Mitchell shook his head. “Not in Monza, for sure.”
“And Spielberg?” Paul pressed. “That’s in a week.”
Mitchell heaved a sigh. “Ice and heat to bring down swelling, anti-inflammatories … we’ll keep a close eye on it. And we’ll just see. That’s all we can do.”
“Paul,” Will pleaded, “come on. Mitchell can give me a cortisone shot. I’ll ice up all night. I’m sure it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
Paul shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, looking as cold and forbidding as a glacier. “I can’t take that chance, Will. You know I can’t. You’re out for Monza.”
At Harrow, when he was fourteen, he’d been playing a pickup game of football with some friends. He’d taken a wrong step into a divot in the grass and sprained his ankle. He’d ended up on crutches for six weeks. Mitchell was right—there was no predicting these things. Best-case scenario, he’d be back behind the wheel in Austria. Worst? His season was over and so was his fight for the world championship.
37
The instant her father emerged from the back with Mitchell and Tae, Mira was on her feet. “How is he?”
