Page 48 of Downforce

I get out of my car, the weight of the world hunching my shoulders as I stride toward the Amato headquarters entrance.

The day after my return from Japan, I was summoned by Drake to his office. Like a fucking school child. I know Travis will be here. He and I have barely seen one another since the accident. We were, rightly, separated, and I’m certain his wife went out of her way to play interference.

A stab of jealousy hits my chest. That’s what it is, I can admit now, I am jealous of Townsend. He’s Amato’s golden child and I’m the second driver to his great championship run. The hope most people place in me is my role in aiding Amato win a Constructor Championship.

That’s the expectation for me.

It’s what I’ve been reading online since Japan’s fuck up.

“You don’t have the heart.”

Pain sears across my chest when Annalise’s words flood my memory. I can’t get the look on her face when she said those words out of my mind. The expressive way her eyes ballooned and then narrowed, the color altering slightly as if imploring me to believe her.

“You’re the most technically skilled driver on the damn grid …”

Did she mean it?

She’d sounded forthright. And what would she gain by lying about something like that?

I’ve twisted her commentary in my mind a thousand different ways, exploring every possible meaning, each interpretation. Hot anger is the first emotion that rose in me the moment the words passed her perfect fucking lips.

That’s what I told myself. Because the anger dissipated quickly and I was left with the truth of what I felt.

Greedy.

I want to hear her tell me again.

I want her to relay all of the ways she sees my talent, the talent I supposedly obscure.

“Look who decided to show up.” Travis’ brusque voice pulls me away from thinking about his sister.

He stands there in an Amato T-shirt and a pair of jeans, arms folded, the typical glare on his face.

I casually glance down at the watch on my wrist. “I’m right on time.”

“You’re late,” he throws back. “Drake said I wasn’t allowed in his office until you showed up.” He sounds disgusted.

His words and demeanor bounce off of me. I’m too mentally consumed thinking about a certain woman with red hair, unmarred light brown skin, and freckles that decorate high cheekbones.

Travis knocks on Drake’s door.

“Is he here?” our team principal calls out.

“Unfortunately,” my teammate gripes.

I follow him inside.

“Close the door,” Drake orders, causing the dread I’ve been feeling since I landed back in Monaco to well up.

Might as well get this over with.

“What the hell do you two think we’re doing here?” Drake immediately blasts into us.

Neither one of us attempts to answer this question. Or any one of the other rhetorical questions our team principal throws our way. He’s pissed, probably angrier than I’ve seen him before.

“You two better get your shit together,” he says, pointing. “You aren’t the only ones gunning to be on that grid. We’ve got at least five guys in the academy hungry for the number one or two seat.”

He’s referring to Amato’s motorsport academy that trains young drivers, preparing them to hopefully take the reins in Formula 1 someday.