Page 34 of Racing for Redemption
Nicholas immediately turns to me with a rehearsed smile. “So, Will, first season in F1. Nervous?”
“It’s William,” I correct automatically. “And no, just eager to get started.”
“Cool, cool.”Nicholas’ attention drifts. “Did I tell you about the party at Cannes last weekend? The yacht was insane. Models everywhere.” He lowers his voice, though not enough for the microphones to miss. “This Swedish girl, absolute rocket, kept giving me eyes all night—”
“Maybe we should talk about the season prep?” I suggest, cutting him off.
Nicholas waves his hand dismissively. “Boring. We’ve got weeks for that.” He leans in, his cologne—too much of it—invading my space. “Seriously, though, you should’ve been there. I could’ve introduced you to her friends. These girls are wild when they know you’re an F1 driver.”
I grit my teeth, jaw muscle twitching. The camera is still rolling, capturing every second of this farce. I could pretend I’m into all that and just go along to avoid internal conflict. But I am honestly not like that. The secondhand embarrassment is almost too much as he talks about women and parties. So, I go my own way.
“I was training,” I say flatly. “Six hours in the simulator, three hours in the gym, two hours with my physical therapist. Every day, for the past three months.”
Nicholas snorts. “All work and no play, Will. Life’s too short.”
“It’s William to you,” I repeat, clenching my teeth.Only my parents call me Will, asshole.
“Whatever.” He lounges back, clearly bored with me. “Anyway, next weekend, there’s this exclusive thing in Monaco. Dad’s friends with some dukes, so we get the royal treatment. Private rooms, premium champagne—the works. You should come. I’ll put you on the list.”
I grip the armrests of my chair. Behind the camera, the marketing team exchange glances. This isn’t the teammate bonding they were hoping to capture. I don’t know what this even is.
“Not really my scene,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.
“What? Parties? Beautiful women? The good life?” Nicholas laughs, a sound like expensive crystal clinking. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those boring guys who just sits at home watching race footage.”
A hot coal of anger burns in my gut. It’s not just his assumptions. It’s the entitlement. The casualness with which he dismisses anything that doesn’t fit his gilded world view.
“You don’t get it, do you?” I finally say, sitting straighter. My voice is quiet but hard.
“Get what?” Nicholas looks genuinely confused.
“Not everyone has a golden spoon in their mouth at birth.” The words are out before I can stop them. I don’t need to raisemy voice; the intensity comes through clearly. Cutting my words short, the marketing team continues their work.I'll be the better man. Let's not explode and hit someone.I stand by it, even if Nicholas deserves to be taught how to shut up.
“And now, if you two could just answer a few fan questions?” The social media coordinator holds up cue cards with forced enthusiasm, trying to smooth our interactions.
I nod. Nicholas sighs dramatically.
“First fan question: What’s your pre-race ritual?”
I lean forward, grateful for an easy one. “I listen to hardcore rock and metal. Gets my mind in the right space. Then I review the track map one last time before—”
“I call my girlfriend,” Nicholas interrupts. “Or whoever’s warming my bed that weekend.” He winks at the camera. I almost puke.
The director’s smile falters. “Right, um, Nicholas, perhaps you could—”
“What? It’s the truth.” He stretches, his grossly expensive watch glinting under the lights. “Fans want authenticity, don’t they? Last race weekend in Abu Dhabi, I had this model from Berlin who could—”
“Next question,” I cut in, catching the coordinator’s grateful look.
She shuffles the cards. “What’s been your biggest challenge in motorsport?”
I take a breath, considering. “Honestly? Money. Racing isn’t accessible to most people. My parents sacrificed everythingto—”
“Finding garage space for all my cars.” Nicholas laughs. “Such a nightmare. I’ve got this collection in Dubai that would make you weep, Will. The maintenance alone costs more than some teams’ aero budget.”
My jaw aches from clenching it so hard. I’ve been tolerating his bullshit for half an hour, but my patience is wearing thin.
“The Bugatti is my baby, though,” he continues, oblivious to the room’s discomfort. “Took her to three hundred on a closed road last summer. That’s the thing about having money—you can make anything happen.”
