Page 30 of Green Flag
“Yes, well—”
“Do you think the helmet changes are satisfactory?” another asked.
“I have been assured they are,” he said with a sigh. He was paling. I wanted to reach out to hold his leather gloves.
“Will this change your mind on staying with Ciclati?”
Here they went, meddling. Just as they’d done to me when Pedro had been arrested.
“Ciclati were my dream,” he said with a smile but it ticked, his dimples not as pronounced as they had been at the bar last night. “Of course I want to stay.”
“Can’t help but note the past tense, Luca,” one laughed.
My back straightened and my eyes narrowed on the shit-stirring piece of crap before me. He was tall, suited, even in the hot weather. His microphone was shoved in Luca’s face.
Prick.
If they wanted a story, I had one. If only they knew what I did… if only I could prove it. They wouldn’t need to be so cruel to Luca, scrounging for anything to publish at his expense.
“Didn’t realise StormSprint was hiring linguists for the press,” I said with a sharp smile. “Impressive, really, how well some of you know your fiction. Digging for stories that don’t exist. Twisting words just to chase a headline.”
The audacity of these slander-hungry assholes.
Fuck you, fuck you, and, oh yeah, you.
“Maybe let theboxing championand StormSprint’s breakout rider of the yearbreathe before his race? Just a thought.”
I let the passive-aggressive threat simmer.
Luca tried to smother his smile, but his eyes widened, looking down at his bike.
“There is no story here,” he clarified after a second.
“And Cally, Alv’s wife, how is she holding up? And the children?”
“They deserve their privacy,” he snapped. “As do I.”
It was then that I could see Luca’s protective side. He didn’t care for himself, but his cousin’s wife was a different story.
“Any update on his condition? They mentioned only that he was still stable in the inquiry…”
But Abbé was there, glare ready to kill as he stormed over. “I’m sure you’re aware but we have an interview scheduled for after the race. Riling my racers up before is not appropriate and you know it.”
“No riling—”
“Riling,” I countered, voice tight.
Only for Abbé’s glare to spin around and root me to the floor.
I swallowed.
“Our media manager has already discussed with you—”
But they were starting to leave, as Abbé stood his ground and Luca drank his drink, the sucking of his empty straw the only sound he made as he side-eyed Abbé and then the crowd.
“That was dramatic,” I sighed.
One of the mechanics laughed beside my feet.
