Page 8 of Green Flag
It wasn’t long before the media manager was back and awkwardly said, “Cris wants us all down in the pit box.”
2
Chapter 2
Luca
When my cousin crashed on the track, I’d been taking a celebratory shot in the VIP lounge with some racing friends. They were patting me on the back after the first test ride of my bike. In my eyes, I’d made it.
My friends from Sprint3 were chanting, “We like to drink with Luca, cause Luca is our mate… and when we drink with Luca he gets it down in eight, seven…”
Lifting my drink, I caught the unofficial StormSprint race on screen.
My cousin, Alvaro Mendes, was on the straight, his teammate Nixon Armas speeding to catch him.
Our group cheered as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and slammed the empty glass down.
My grin was enough to show my friends how happy I was. My next goal was StormSprint, the major league. My manager said teams were already interested—if I played this year well.
And I would.
With Alv’s help.
Matteo — Sprint3, team Velvár, my fellow Italian — passed me yet another shot. This time tequila. “So proud of you, Luca. Up from Sprint3 to Sprint2 in ayear!StormSprint next, I have no doubt.”
With my friends and I so loud, we hadn’t noticed how quiet the rest of the bar had become. I looked again at the screen the other drinkers gawked at.
Two red and green bikes were splintered across the track. One racer was lying on the tarmac, helmet on the green, while the other was sitting on the grass, tearing his helmet off.
Alv lay there. Just lay there. No helmet. No movement. As if taking a nap.
I wished he was taking a nap.
The camera jerked away to Nixon Armas crying, crawling towards his teammate.
My blood ran fast—and icy cold.
He’d crashed more than a few times. He’d always been fine. He was old for a racer now, and the last few crashes slowed him down. He’d become a touch more breakable — a broken rib, a few fingers, an ankle. But it hadn’t stopped him from racing for long.
He was going to get up.
He had to get up.
But he’d always risen with his helmet on.
And it lay so far away from his still body.
An ambulance was there, medics surrounding my cousin as Nixon cried for the stadium to see.
I didn’t even grab my wallet. I just ran.
* * *
“The safety of the riders was put at risk and was diminished by a poorly fitted helmet and a faulty clasp.”
Since the enquiry was given to the team last week, I had read it at least twenty times. Our team coordinator, Saliha, even offered me her highlighters and pens to annotate a printed copy with my thoughts and concerns.
Not for worries about my own helmet — that had been changed months ago — but more scribbles of my hatred.
