Page 21 of Drive Me Crazy
“I’m not interviewing you,” she scoffs. “News flash, but conversations usually involve two people talking. That includes asking questions.”
I mumble some sort of half apology.
“Has anyone ever told you that you can be quite hostile?” Ella asks.
“No. What? No.”
She swirls the wine in her glass around and laughs at my bristling reaction. “You may claim you’re good at everything you do, but I have a feeling you’d be terrible at first dates.”
“This isn’t a date.”
She rolls her eyes to the high heavens. “Christ, Blake. I wasn’t implying this was.”
“Oh. Okay.” I settle into my chair. I don’t want her to think I can do anything more than a friendship. She’s only here for the season, then she’s leaving. Just like my mum, just like my dad. I closed the door on the idea of a relationship years ago; there’s only so much rejection someone can take before it hardens their heart to stone.
“I honestly can’t remember the last date I went on,” she admits with a shrug.
I tilt my head as if I just learned classified information. “Really?”
“Yep. It’s not that I don’t date,” she continues. “I’ve just had bigger priorities than that the past few months.”
“Got it.” I want to know what she’s been focused on instead but keep my mouth shut. “Makes sense.”
“Imean, if you know a guy who thinks with the head on his shoulders instead of the one in his pants, by all means, send him my way.”
I release a low laugh. “I’ve read your stuff, you know,” I confess. This seems to surprise her, but she doesn’t comment on it. “Your writing doesn’t indicate you have a dirty mind.”
“Did you expect me to write about Travis Kelce’s tight ass?”
“He has a tight arse? I’ve never noticed.” I may not get a lot of her television references, but I do understand her American sports ones.
“It’s why I liked podcasting so much. I love writing, don’t get me wrong, but there’s only so much subjectiveness allowed. Podcasting is a lot more flexible. It allows me to talk about whatever I want, however I want.”
“Including my season last year?”
She grimaces, her brows knitting together. “I didn’t mean to go so hard on you.”
“It’s okay. Comes with the territory,” I say, waving off her worry. “Plus, I wasn’t at my best last year. I can objectively say that.”
“It doesn’t make it any less hurtful.”
“Well, I also read your article about my Monaco win from a few years ago. That helps soften the blow.”
She knows exactly what I’m talking about. My win had been “nothing short of astonishing”—her words, not mine. It was a true testament to my driving skills over the car’s performance, thank you very much. The Monaco circuit is wedged into the narrow spaces of city streets with nonstop twists and tight turns. There’s no run-off area to correct yourself if you’ve made a mistake. One error and you kiss the wall and your chances of winning goodbye. Pole position tends to dictate the winner and with a P3 starting position, it was expected that MateoBertole would win. It was me who ended up securing first place instead.
“Your driving speaks for itself.” Her cheeks turn a shade similar to the wine. “You don’t need me telling you that you’re the best.”
Refilling her empty glass, I give her a small smile. “It may not be the best, but your podcast isn’t half bad either.”
I’ve almost binged every episode ofCoffee with Champions, but I don’t feel like admitting that.
“Yikes. Was that your attempt at a compliment?” She cocks her head to the side. “Because it sucked.”
I roll my eyes. “So, how’d you get into sports journalism? Tough industry.”
“My family’s always been big on sports, so I grew up around it. I’ve always liked writing and asking questions, so sports journalism seemed like a natural fit.”
“Well, you’re a good journalist. Your podcasting and writing styles are different. It makes you versatile.”
