Page 64 of Red Flag
It had been a bit of fun. I couldn’t get attached. I deleted our messages.
The weather reflected my mood. The skies were thick withgrey clouds, threatening to fall despite the heat. We’d been promised a clear, rain-free race, so I knew the clouds would pass and we would miss the storm.
When we arrived at the circuit,Criswas there in the pit box. “Livia, you seenLuca?”
Nix was already suited and booted, sat on one of the leather seats, bent over on his phone.
“He just went to see Frank about something,” I said, watching Nix’s head rise an inch at the mention of his fellow racer. “He won’t be a minute.”
“We don’t have a minute,”Crissnapped, already with his phone to his ear. “Luca! Get over here…”
Abbe was at my side with a sigh. “The weather predictions have changed. Instead ofSprint3then 2 going before,StormSprintwill go first. The rest risk being called off.”
“Ah,” I said with a nod. “Makes sense.”
“I forget how new you are to all of this sometimes,” Abbe laughed. “It’s a lot different to rackets and nets.”
“I prefer it,” I said honestly. “It’s far less complicated. I enjoy watching. Can’t complain about all the travelling I get to do as well.”
“Bet you don’t prefer your client,” Abbe muttered, only half moving his mouth but glancing over at a grumpy Nixon. “He’s miserable.”
“Can hear you,” Nix grumbled, tapping on his phone.
“Put your helmet on then,” Abbe retorted.
Nix gave him the driest look before turning back to his phone.
How far down his list of texts was I now? How many women had he messaged since I refused to pick up?
“As long as he starts to learn some details about Clara, Idon’t careanymore,” I said, keeping my voice at the same volume. “Last week, he said she was from America. She has a more British accent than me.”
That dry look turned on me.
Two of the bikes were wheeled to the grid box and, before I knew it, the race was starting.
The first three laps went by without a hitch. Nix was in second place, having kept a consistent pace.Lucahad overtaken two, coming in now at fourth. I knew he’d be fighting for third shortly, but with 21 laps left to go, it wasn’t wise to get ahead of ourselves.
“Clouds aren’t good,” one of the mechanics muttered at my side. “Looking real bad.”
Crisstared over his shoulder at her, then out to pit lane, gave a nod, and the four mechanics sprang into action.
Just as the heavens opened.
The rain pelted the tarmac and the riders. It came down in violent streams. I had to check twice to see if they were hail stones.
Torrential rain.
“The track is absorbing it,” Abbe said, leaning over in his chair, head in his hands as he watched, eyes tracking the bikes on the screen. “Should be okay.”
But within a minute,Criswas muttering, “White flag. White flag.”
As if he was behind the decision, the white flag was flown and the riders came back to collect the bikes prepared for the rain.
“What’s the difference?” I asked as everyone’s tense bodies eased for a minute. “What happens now?”
“Based on where they were in the race when the flag wasflown, they return to the grid in that position.”
“Right,” I said, always appreciative of how Abbe told me the facts without patronising me.
