I exit my Twitter app, wishing I could erase another article detailing me as some F1 fuck-up after my hookup with Claudia. My dick really got me in trouble this time. Usually, we work together because two heads are better than one.
My recent indiscretion threatens my contract renewal with McCoy, my dream team, the one I worked hard to join. No pressure at all. Either I perform well, or I’m demoted to a lesser team after two years of racing with them.
My team gives me the opportunity to compete against two of my friends who happen to be some of F1’s best. Jax, Noah, and I make up a trio destined for trouble and trophies. To us, driving feels as fundamental as breathing, eating, and fucking.
The adrenaline high I experience when I sit behind the wheel beats nothing else—except I’ll come down hard from my high like a lousy hit if I don’t land a new contract with McCoy. So, I need to work my ass off double-time to prove my worth because being a past two-time World Champion means nothing when I fuck the wrong girl.
Don’t get me wrong, I know my agent will receive multiple contract deals from opposing teams, but I love my spot in McCoy. I have enough fight left in me to give a nail-biter show to the fans, the team, and Peter McCoy himself.
I wrap up getting dressed and lock up my Monaco flat. My shoes click against the cobbled steps as I walk toward my car, breathing in the salty air from the Mediterranean Sea.
I drive down the roads of Monaco, the engine of my blue McCoy convertible revving as I shift gears. Tall buildings and coastal waters soar past me. The ringing of my Bluetooth speaker interrupts my thoughts.
“Hey, Pa, what’s up?”
“Hi, what are you up to? Do you have a second?” My dad’s German accent carries through the speakers.
“Sure. I’m driving to a meeting I have with McCoy.”
“Good because we need to talk. Your mom and I saw the latest story. Please tell me it isn’t true.”
I grind my teeth together as I think of what to say. “Which part? The fact that I fucked Claudia? Or how I kicked her out of my apartment without a kiss goodbye?”
My dad lets out a deep sigh. “This isn’t a joke.”
“I know, but what can I do? Yes, I had sex with her, but we never were a couple in any other sense of the word. We were more like fuck buddies. She knew the deal—hell, she practically came up with half of it herself.”
“What made you think hooking up with your boss’s niece was a good idea? That’s a new low, even for you.”
“She fell into my lap at the F1 end of the year gala. She’s beautiful, but I’ve since learned how desperation smells an awful lot like Chanel Number Five.” I should have taken her ambitiousness as a warning sign, but fame makes people arrogant and complacent.
“When are you going to grow up and stop acting like sex and women are transactional? I thought you’d stop once you turned twenty-six, for fuck’s sake. But here we are, almost three years later, and you’re still screwing around.” The speakers vibrate from his grumbling.
Guilt churns inside of me. “Maybe when I hit thirty-five? Retirement age, perhaps?”
“You keep messing around as you do, with women related to powerful men no less, then retirement will be a hell of a lot sooner than thirty-five. I can tell you that.”
Shit. Someone call a doctor because my dad gave me a third-degree burn.
I resist the urge to snap at my dad. “I get it. I fucked up big time, messing with the man who signs my paychecks. But I plan on making smarter choices this year.”
Thanks to my stupidity, I put a target on my back in a sport where there are only twenty spots with hundreds of eager drivers. No math needed to show what a fucking idiot I am because this one is easier than two plus two.
“I sure hope so. Look at Noah, now having to share Bandini with a younger driver. There’s always someone eyeing your position.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Santiago Alatorre is talented, I’ll give you that. But he’s a total psycho behind the wheel, so Noah having his hands full with him can work in my favor.”
“Not if you keep messing up. You know, I’d hate for the day to come when you meet the right girl, but you’re too blinded by your ignorance to see it. Your reputation will get you in trouble if you don’t fix it because no worthy woman wants to date a guy who acts like you do.”
“What woman wouldn’t want to date a successful F1 driver?” My knuckles blanch as I grip my steering wheel, my nails biting into the leather.
“The same type who wouldn’t want to date a has-been manwhore because she has enough self-respect for the two of you.” His clipped tone echoes through the speakers as I pass ocean-lined streets.
I take in a few deep breaths before responding. “I appreciate how much you care. Truly I do. But I’m going to fix it with McCoy, avoid drama, and stick to racing. No more stories about my dick in the papers. I promise.”
“If I had been half the idiot you tend to be lately, I wouldn’t have snagged your mom.”
My parents have a perfect marriage with arguments that end in a hug, a schedule for who takes out the trash and does the dishes each day, and displays of affection that no child should see. Thank God I have a brother because I would’ve been traumatized if it weren’t for him. Lukas taught me why we don’t go into our parents’ room when they close the door, no matter how loud they scream.
“Not everyone gets to have a happy ending,” I mutter into the Bluetooth microphone. The usual tightness in my chest occurs at the memory of Johanna not getting hers.
Fuck. Leave it to my dad to stir up old feelings that have no place in my life right now.
“Listen…I know what happened with Lukas and Johanna affected you more than you let on. We all loved her, and you both were especially close. But you can’t let fear drive your life. What happened was tragic, but that doesn’t mean you need to live guardedly because you’re afraid.”
A bitter laugh makes its way out of my throat by its own accord. “I’m not talking about this with you.”
“You never talk about it. Not with me, not with anyone. Her passing away was hard on us all. But you shut down, and now look at you. It’s been almost three years, and you’re still making these foolish mistakes. Every December, it’s the same with you, holing up somewhere as soon as the season ends, making self-destructive decisions. You avoid us right after the holidays for Kaia’s birthday. This time you ended up with the wrong girl at the wrong time. So, you can pretend to be fine in front of everyone else, but we know.”
“Just because I’m having fun and hooking up with women doesn’t mean I’m hung up on Johanna’s death or anything. I get I messed up, but don’t be ridiculous trying to connect it to shit from the past. I happen to get busy after Christmas.” I bite on my tongue.
My dad sighs. “Save your lies for people who believe them… Really, it’s okay to let someone in. To let them know you for more than the image you put out there.”
The thing about being the nice guy is how no one sees how corroded my heart is—how it leaks acid like an old car battery.
“I’m not looking for that right now.” Or ever. Not since I experienced firsthand what happens to people who love hard.
Johanna’s death changed me. A few months after she passed, I zipped up my race suit, signed a contract with McCoy, and won my second World Championship. I accepted the life I was meant to live while shunning the bitter memories. Passivity became my defense mechanism over the past few years.
My dad pauses. “That’s what people always think.”
I tap my agitated fingers against the steering wheel. “For a good reason, no doubt.”
He lets out a deep sigh, probably rubbing his eyes. “No. The dumbasses who say that usually get hit the hardest.”
“Hopefully, you mean fucked the hardest.”
My dad’s a good sport who laughs along with me while ditching his bad mood. He thinks I’m afraid, but I’m just indifferent.
“Liam…be careful, okay? There’s no reason to make stupid decisions when you can have anyone you want. You only need to be willing to try.”
It’s selfish as fuck for me to still be affected by Johanna’s death. I get it and despise it. Screw my brother for falling in love with my best friend. Part of me resents Lukas for making Johanna part of our family before she was ripped away, leaving me hollow and aching at her memory. Maybe if he kept to himself instead of pursuing her, I wouldn’t be in this very position, screwing my boss’s niece as some stupid distraction.
After chatting with my dad for another ten minutes, I park my car and situate myself inside of McCoy’s waiting room. Rick, my agent, and Peter go back and forth, exchanging inaudible words with one another in a conference room surrounded by glass. Functionally stupid since I can see everything happening.
My agent looks at me a couple of times with a scowl. His slicked-back hair, cobalt suit, and tapping Ferragamo shoe mean business. My eyes stay glued to their discussion as I sit around like a little kid waiting outside the principal’s office.
They call me into the room after five minutes. The sleek conference room feels small enough to make Peter look intimidating. His bald head gleams under the bright lights, highlighting his dark eyes and beard—a scary-looking motherfucker. Anger rolls off him, his eyes following me as I walk around the large table, my stomach turning at his frown. I give him a tight smile before taking a seat in one of the black rolling chairs, feigning comfort despite the edginess creeping into my veins.
Hopefully, my casual stance gives off a submissive vibe. I don’t want to appear overly cocky because Peter looks like he wants to kick my balls hard enough to ensure my future offspring learn from my stupidity.
“As I was saying, Liam feels extremely apologetic about the situation with your niece. He never wanted the breakup to become public, especially when things ended amicably between the two. We have no idea where these negative reports are coming from.” Rick’s American drawl carries through the room. He does his job well, especially since he kisses Peter’s ass enough to make it chafe.
Rick coughs, getting my attention.
I snap back into the conversation. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt Claudia’s feelings, honestly. I shouldn’t have pursued anything with her, out of respect for you and the team. We’re not a good fit. But it won’t affect my skills on the road or my professionalism because I love McCoy. I’m ready to land on every podium this season with no more drama.”
“Drama seems to be following you around lately. Your name comes up way too often in the media.” Peter’s dark brow rises.
No one in McCoy is supposed to talk to gossip rags. Conveniently, Claudia doesn’t need to sign an NDA like the rest of us because of her family name. McCoy didn’t have a reason to believe she’d want negative press for a company that pays for her exclusive trips to Saint Tropez and her monthly shopping bills.
I lace my fingers together. “I’ll do everything I can to fix my image and repair the public’s perception of me.”
Peter’s narrowed eyes hold mine. “It would be best for you to remember you’re replaceable. You’re one of the best drivers in the whole sport, but nonetheless replaceable. I don’t want to read any more nasty gossip articles about you. Chris picked you for this team, knowing you’re one the greatest, up there with Noah. So, show us you’re worth every million we pay you.”
Chris, our team principal, manages the McCoy crew, including Jax and me. Peter bringing him up adds to my embarrassment, knowing I pissed off a man who has always believed in me.
I swallow back the lump in my throat. “I’ll make sure to drive my best, and I’ll keep my dick out of the papers this season while making McCoy proud. No question about it.”
Peter stands. “You’ve got a tough season ahead of you, with Santiago joining Bandini and Noah having a fire lit under him from new competition. James Mitchell wants another win. I expect nothing but the best work from you and Jax, especially with the new lineup of cars we have for you. Now get out of here and go test the car out. I want to hear positive reports from the team.”
Peter doesn’t have to tell me twice. I say goodbye and leave like my ass is on fire. Somehow, I dodged a bullet. I’m shocked at how Peter seemed a lot more relaxed than I anticipated, but I can’t help worrying about it all being a false sense of security—a trap to see if I fail again. But this time I’ll stay aware and think before I act.
There’s no need to harp on the conversation because this shit needs to be put behind me, including the crap my dad brought up today about Johanna. I don’t race in F1 for the drama. No, I race for trophies, titles, and titties—except the latter now remains off the table for an unforeseeable future thanks to my recent blunders.
I want to keep the past in the past, right where those fucking bad memories belong.
