Page 17 of Racing Hearts
“Whoa, aren’t you gonna knock first?”
Startled, I immediately spilled coffee down the front of my jeans.
“Fuck. Edward! What are you doing here? Inmydriver’s room?” Edward tossed me a towel, and I made quick work of wiping up the hot coffee that was staining my trousers.
“Your mother let me in.” Edward shrugged. “Said you could use a friend after a tense morning meeting.”
“Oh really?” I drawled. “How nice of her. Did she also tell you about herbetrayal?”
“Come on, Luca. Dating Georgia won’t be that bad. Hell, after the impressive response to today’s tabloid article, it’s sort of a good idea. The fans love the two of you.”
“Et tu, Brute?” I tossed the damp towel into my laundry basket and fell back onto the couch, facing Edward with my arms crossed. He joined me on the opposite end, propping his grubby feet up on my coffee table.
“Let me guess,” I muttered scornfully, “you’re here to talk me into it.”
Edward glanced at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “Well, from what I can see, you don’treallyhave much of a choice.”
“Thanks, Ed, just want I want to hear.” He shot me a sympathetic look, his eyes softening as he leaned forward.
“Luca—”
“Save it,” I snapped, waving my hand dismissively. With the number of lectures I was getting today, it felt like I’d been enrolled in university. “I know I have to do this. My father made that crystal clear. Georgia and I are splashed across every tabloid, and my phone has been blowing up all morning. If I don’t do this, the press will crucify me. Dating random girls is one thing, but breaking the heart of the newest female driver on the grid? Any remaining sponsors I have left will run for the hills.”
Edward leaned back onto the couch, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You know my father had the nerve to say that dating Georgia would help with mydriving. I can fucking drive an F1 car, Edward. I have countless trophies sitting in my cabinet at home from the last five years, but why bother trying to win when Hermes prioritizes Henri? I mean, in Australia, I was running in second, ahead of Henri, and they still demanded I move aside for their precious number one driver. Not that my father gets that, considering hewasHenri when he was racing for Hermes.”
“Luca, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“Oh no, he did.” My voice cracked, and I turned away, blinking hard. “He thinks I’m in it for the social perks, as everyone likes to say. Like I had achoice, as if racing wasn’t forced on to me since I was a child. Why does it even matter if I like the social perks? Am I not allowed to have fun?”
I reached over to the side table to grab my water bottle, but my attention was immediately drawn to a fallen picture frame. My stomach sank as I recognized the photo of me and my dad at one of my early karting competitions, another reminder of the racer Iusedto be. Edward noticed my distraction, inching closer to look at the photo.
“Your dad talks about that track often,” he remembered. “You used to love racing, Luca. What happened?”
I set the photo back in place, brushing off the dust. “When I was a kid, I wasn’t a Formula 1 World Champion’s son.” My voice was barely above a whisper. “I was just Flash, the kid who loved to go fast.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m Michael Rossi’s disappointing failure of a son. The son of Hermes’s mostbelovedchampion, who finishesbehindhis teammate.” I tried to laugh, but it came out thin and bitter. “You know, last week someone in the press accidentally asked Henri about how wonderful it must be to have a Formula 1 champion for a dad? I’m so embarrassing, even the press can’t believeI’mMichael Rossi’s son.”
Edward put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I hate how we’re forced into all of these painful press interactions. I’m sorry that happened. You aren’t a failure, Luca. It’s a new week, a new race. Hermes signed you because you’re talented, and there’s still time to show them that you’re worth investing in, too. Or even better, maybe show another team that you’re worth their time. There have to be other teams interested in you.”
“Hah,” I snorted. “As if my father would ever let me race for someone other than Hermes.”
Why would Hermes want to invest in an almost 30-year-old racer when they had an up-and-coming 25-year-old star as the lead driver? If I was lucky, I had maybe another three-year contract before all the teams considered me washed out.
I was still stewing in that grim thought when Edward, in true Edward fashion, cut through the spiral with a smug grin. “You know what I think?” He leaned in like he was about to tell the world’s biggest secret. “I think by the end of this season, you and Georgia will actually be dating.”
I scoffed so hard I nearly choked. “Pretty sure Georgia would rather crash into a barrier during Monaco than date me.”
He held up his hands. “A thousand euros says I’m right.”
“Look, if you want to lose some money, who am I to stop you? Deal.”
Edward shook my hand with unwarranted determination.
“Hopefully, there’s a softer, more complacent Georgia,” I added, “or this media training they’re expecting me to give her is going to be near impossible.”
