Page 22 of Downforce

“I found one of Severino’s old shirts back at headquarters.” He thrusts out a hand, holding the folded shirt. “What if you wore it for the photographer to take a few photos?”

Silence answers the guy.

I turn to look up at Max, whose gaze is glued to the shirt. His eyes have become hooded. Max typically wears an aura of a light-hearted playboy. He’s the partygoer who can stay out all hours of the night and show up for a race the next day.

And sometimes win.

Most don’t take him seriously, which leads them to believe he doesn’t take himself all that seriously.

But viewing his profile from this angle as he wordlessly stares at his father’s old shirt, it makes me wonder about things I have no business thinking about. Like, what is it that gets underneath Max’s skin?

Why did he make the leap from Krämer to Amato?

Does staring at that shirt bring back memories from a trauma that no child should ever experience?

“He’s not wearing that.”

Edwin’s declaration acts in the same way as someone pressing their finger on the play button of a paused video. Max does a tight shake of his head.

“I told you earlier when you asked about it, mate.” Edwin’s voice is harsh, his movements slightly aggressive as he approaches the younger man.

“Edwin, drop it.” Max’s voice is low but controlling enough that Edwin halts the tirade that looked to be in the tip of his tongue.

They share a look for a second before Edwin takes the shirt and says something I can’t hear to the young Amato employee.

His shoulders droop but he doesn’t say anything and turns to head back toward where the other Amato employees gather.

When I look back at Max, that easygoing expression has returned.

“Let’s go through a few more poses,” the photographer directs.

The minutes tick by and I try my damnedest not to let my private inquiries run wild. I tell myself the only reason the questions are mounting is because of how much I’ve read about every F1 driver on the grid this year.

As a fan of the sport for years and the sister turned assistant of one of the best drivers in racing, I do my research and can’t help it if I read an additional article or listen to a broadcast that details the entire careers of one or more drivers.

That’s it.

I’m just a curious fan with a little more access than most. Anyone would be curious to wonder about the inner-workings of Max Ferreira, son of the late, great Severino Ferreira who literally changed Formula 1 for the better.

“We don’t have time for your daydreaming in the middle of a photoshoot, princess.”

My stomach muscles clench in anger. My eyes meet Max’s closed off gaze.

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.”

I hate the way he says it. It makes me feel like he perceives me as some stuck-up airhead who couldn’t possibly relate to anyone or anything real.

“Testy,” he replies.

“I got your⁠—”

“You’re standing too fucking close to my sister.”

I whip around to find Travis glaring at his teammate.

“Nice of you to show up,” Max tells Travis. “Wondered if you were going to have your sister drive for you this season, too.”

“You son of a⁠—”