Page 1 of Jump-Start
CHAPTERONE
leonard
Another race. Another win. Another critic probably ready to jump on the mistake I made in the third corner during the opening lap.
I felt it in the car as soon as it happened. I didn’t leave enough space for my rival, and teammate, so he went off track and lost first place. I can already see the headlines. ‘Leonard Tick Only Wins Races By Cheating’. My entire life has been like this. Since I was a kid, people have attacked me and tried to tear me down. That’s what happens when you’re the first black race car driver in a predominantly white motorsport. I fucking love this sport, but there are so many things wrong with it. We still have a long way to go before we can truly be proud of it.
I jump out of my Formula One car, briefly appreciating the sleek black colour my team went with this year. My eyes fixate on the Mercedes symbol on top of the nose, a wave of nostalgia running through me. I won my first World Championship with this team and hope to win more in the future. We’ve come a long way over the years I’ve been a racer at Mercedes, and I couldn’t be prouder of the team I have.
“Leonard!” the post-race interviewer—Jason Dirk, I believe—starts, and I stare at him with my lips pulled into a thin line.
Formula One has hardened me to the point of no return. One smile is all it takes for people to spin things out of proportion like I’m happy about the move I pulled in corner three, which inevitably led to my win. Sometimes shit like that happens, it’s normal in an aggressive sport like racing, but reporters don’t care about that when it comes tomemaking the mistake. I’m judged a lot more harshly than other drivers.
“You drove a great race today and managed your tyres well. What a way to start the season! How do you feel coming back as a World Champion?” he asks, and I suck in an inaudible, sharp breath.
“I feel great. My team and I have worked hard and restlessly over the break, which is why it’s great to see it paying off already,” I say, shaking my head at his next comment.
“That incident in turn three sure did help. How do you feel about that?”I feel like I want to punch you in the face, I think to myself, but except for me grabbing my towel a little harder, no one would suspect how much his question bothers me. That’s why it’s great to have a reputation for never smiling. It allows me to hide how I truly feel.
“I will have to review the incident before I can comment on what happened. From the car, it felt like a normal racing incident,” I explain, wiping away the sweat dripping down the side of my forehead.
I’m exhausted.
Today was a hot and long race, and I can’t wait to get back home and spend time with my family. After test-driving the car for the past few weeks and putting every available hour into training to get ready for the start of the season, I’ve barely seen them. My brothers, Mum, and Dad all miss me too—they make sure to remind me every day—and I have to get back to Benz, my three-year-old Pit Bull. I miss her. I miss everything about my home. Even that pain in the arse, Chi—
“Well, congratulations on your win. Let’s move onto our second place,” Jason says, and I step over to where my performance coach, Quinn, is standing.
“Great drive, kiddo,” she says before my hand slips onto her shoulder. Quinn is my best friend in the entire world. She’s hardly five years older than me but insists on keeping that nickname.
“Yeah, you liked my move in corner three?” I ask, which causes her to laugh. We both know I’m joking in the only way I do—without showing it on my face—but she’s enjoying my playful attitude very much.
“I did. Now go get your trophy, kiddo. I haven’t got all day,” she teases, and I pinch her side in response. She laughs loudly, the sound making a wonderful warmth spread through my chest.
Before I can make my way to the cool-down room, Adrian Romana, a Formula One rookie I’ve only met a few times, comes up to me, still wearing his helmet. He holds out his hand for me as he calls out a ‘congrats’ before pulling me into an excited hug and telling me how well I drove—from what he could see as I lapped him. I don’t usually show affection to people, but this barely eighteen-year-old gives me no choice, and I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would. Adrian’s a good kid, maybe that’s why.
“I’ll see you later!” he says before letting himself get weighed, just like every driver has to after a race.
I wonder what the fuck has him so happy all the time, but it’s nice. Having someone positive like him in my life might be good for me. The thought is pushed away by my pessimistic side before I can linger on it.
My tired and sore feet bring me to the cool-down room, where my teammate, Jonathan Kent, is taking small sips from the bottle of water they have ready for us. There are three podium-style tables at the front of the room, and I walk toward mine, seeing the cap with the number 1 on it. I place it on my head before taking my bottle and joining the other drivers.
Cameron Kion, Adrian’s teammate, managed to come in third, and it has him smiling so brightly, I wish I knew if he’s always this fucking happy too. Whoever paired them up wanted a sunshine driver line-up. They must be quite popular with the fans.
“Nice defence in the eighth corner on the second lap, Leonard,” Cameron says, and I shift my attention to his blue eyes, giving him a slight nod.
“Nice work on your start,” I reply, not used to anyone making small talk with me after the race.
The other drivers mostly keep their distance from me. It’s always been like this, but I can’t blame them either. My facial expression doesn’t communicate ‘hey, I’m approachable’. It communicates ‘fuck off’, I’ve made sure of it over the years.
“My throttle was fucking stuck in the first corner,” Cameron goes on, and I raise both eyebrows in response. “Yeah, it was crazy. Thank God it unstuck itself after a terrifying five seconds,” he says with a slight laugh that makes his chest move. I give him a thoughtful nod, so he moves over to his water bottle.
Dreadful silence fills the room, and I’m convinced I can hear Jonathan’s stomach rumble from hunger. It makes me want to kick him. We don’t have the closest of relationships. He can’t stand me, and I’ve fantasised about strangling him on many occasions. He’s a spoiled, arrogant brat, and I’m too serious for him. We don’t match on any level, but fans go crazy for our rivalry. Last year, we were head-to-head in the Driver’s Championship, but I beat him in the second-to-last race for good. The title fell on me, and he’s hated me more since. I couldn’t give less of a shit. As a matter of fact, I often have to suppress a grin when he tries to talk behind my back about how I cheated to get the title. He’s such a bloody sore loser, it’s hilarious.
“Let’s go,” someone says, and I stand up from the seats at the wall to follow them toward the podium area.
First, Cameron steps onto the podium, taking his place. Then follows Jonathan, who bumps his shoulder against mine on his way out knowing full well I won’t be able to trip him in front of all of these people. I would love to though. I would also very much enjoy it if he fell right on top of that nose job he had five years ago. Arsehole.
I walk onto the podium, standing on the highest spot because I’m the winner of the fucking race. I should be happy. Starting the season off like this is what every driver dreams of, but, for some reason, a numbness has spread through my chest. It’s incredibly unsettling and makes me suck in a sharp breath.What the hell?
