Page 34 of Downforce

I examine race strategy in my head, recalling Drake’s instructions on how to handle the track. Which is why I don’t notice my mother, at first.

Not until I’m only a few paces away from my door.

“There you are.” She already sounds annoyed. “I was knocking for nearly an hour.”

It’s an exaggeration, of course, but meant to convey her annoyance.

“This is why I insisted I should have a key to your room.” She pushes out a breath, folding her arms and staring at me as I open the door.

“How did you find out my room number?”

Her face scrunches up, and I regret the question.

“Edwin, of course. Who else? He actually answers my calls.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Did you need something?”

“My friend, Sheila, hasn’t received her ticket for today,” she says, following closely behind as I enter my suite.

“Sheila?”

She rolls her eyes. “Dwight.”

I probably should know who she’s referring to. At least, that’s the impression she’s giving off, but I don’t.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s here this weekend, and for some strange occurrence only received a ticket for Sunday.”

“And I’m supposed to …”

Her mouth drops open but only for a beat before she closes it again. “You’re supposed to be a dutiful son and get my friend a ticket for today as well. How could you think someone would come all of this way to support you and not bother to get them a ticket for qualifying?”

The notion that her friend, whom I don’t remember, is actually here to support me is absurd. More like to be my mum’s wingwoman for the weekend.

“Edwin handles that. You should speak to him about it.”

“Edwin isn’t my son.”

Lucky him.

“And he’s not the one in the race either,” she points out. “You can speak with Drake to get her another ticket to enter today.”

“I’m not going to disrupt my team principal on the morning of qualifying for the opening race of the season about a ticket for some woman I don’t know.”

Her eyebrows spike. “You’re such an ungrateful toerag,” she throws at me.

I don’t flinch at the hurtful insult, only due to years of practiced emotion. If she sees the hurt on my face, it’ll only make her dig in more.

“All that I’ve done for you after losing the love of my life and you can’t even⁠—”

“I’ll make a call,” I say, not because I suddenly care about her friend needing a ticket but to get to the end of this conversation as quickly as possible.

I start for the bathroom.

“You’ll do it before breakfast?” she calls to me, her voice sounding lighter.

“Yes,” I toss back right before the door slams behind me.

CHAPTER 11