Page 9 of Drive Me Crazy
IT’S ONLY the first Grand Prix of the season, but I’m already addicted to the visceral feeling it elicits. The hum of the cars, the vibration as they whiz by, the cheers from the fans, the smell of burning rubber and fuel. It’s a high I imagine no recreational drug can ever compare to. It’s mesmerizing, the cars shooting by in a technicolor blur.
I stand in the garage with the pit crew to watch the race. Mechanics don their helmets, armored with their tools, ready for any emergency pit stop. Guests crowd toward the TV in the back, fighting for the best view. Most of the action is in the midfield where the drivers battle it out to secure points for their teams, but everyone in the garage is focused on the McAllister men.
The reckless driver from last season is gone and forgotten, replaced by the Blake Hollis fans scream over and sponsors fight for. He’s devastatingly fast. His charming smile and devilishly handsome good looks are an easy distraction, but he’s a cold-blooded killer. All of these drivers are impressive, but there can only be one winner, and Blake’s talent speaks for itself.
Blakekeeps his lead for the first thirty laps. Theo’s not far behind him, with Everest’s Harry Thompson and AlphaVite’s Lucas Adler close behind them, aiming for a top position. The pendulum swung back and forth between Harry and Blake last year, and a win for Blake will hopefully set the tone for the season. The thick anticipation in the garage prohibits much conversation besides the occasional cheer or curse. The 191.5 miles leave room for a lot to happen and no one wants to jinx anything.
Blake takes a pit stop at lap thirty-six.Holy shit.I’ve never seen something happen so quickly in my life. Before I can even take a step forward, he’s zooming back out of the pit lane, new tires fitted and ready for the second half of the race. Two point four seconds … it took the crew two point four seconds to change his tires. Want to know what I can do in that time? Nothing. Literally nothing. I can’t even say my full name in that time frame.
The sixty-four laps end with Blake securing his first win of the season. Everyone in the garage storms out to the fences, shouting and whooping as Blake hops out of his car. It’s the boost of confidence McAllister’s brooding Brit needs. Soon enough, the drivers are back in the garage, elated grins lighting up their faces.
Theo takes off his helmet and shakes his head, beads of sweat flying at me.Gross. Although Blake’s been tactfully ignoring me, Theo’s been more than happy to step in. He’s been my personal Formula 1 tour guide for the past few days. He’s shown me around the motorhome, given me pointers on who’ll be most helpful with the book, and let me ask him questions about his car. I like him a lot. He’s got major golden retriever vibes—friendly, high-energy, and always running around. It doesn’t hurt that he’s extremely handsome.
“Impressed by my skills?” Theo winks at me.
“Never doubted I would be.” I take a step back to avoidmore sweat hitting me. “Third place is a podium win. Ain’t too shabby, my friend.”
“Oof.” He stumbles back as if stabbed in the heart. “Just a friend, babe?”
Blake overhears us as he walks past and slaps his friend on the back of the head.
“Winning first isn’t shabby either, Blakey boy.” Theo turns to me with a sheepish look on his face. I’m sure Blake’s given him an earful about me being here. “He’s not usually such a wanker.”
I shrug, pretending I don’t care. Blake may not want me interviewing him, but he can’t avoid the journalists at the post-race press conference. It’s the first one of the season, so I have no doubt I should be there taking notes.
I’m looking for an open chair when I spy Josie. I climb over lots of knees and feet before sliding into the empty chair next to her.
Her dark brown eyes shoot me a knowing look. “How’s Blake been? Any better?”
“Let’s just say I’ve made no progress whatsoever.”
She sighs sympathetically. “Imagine trying to get him to sit down for a YouTube Q and A. My new personal hell. He’s so crabby sometimes.”
“I’m sure press conferences aren’t much better.”
I nod toward Blake, who is not so subtly pretending Harry, who placed second, isn’t next to him at the long table at the front of the room. The two racers’ rivalry is well-known and almost came to blows last season. I talked about it in great depth on my podcast last year. I don’t think Blake dislikes Harry as a person; I just think he hates that Harry was there to pick up the pieces when he struggled. Now there are two Brits competing on two of the best teams—one veteran with a sultry smirk, one newbie with a sweet smile.
Josie starts singing “Macho Man” by the Village People.I’ve learned that she loves incorporating song lyrics in place of actual sentences. Blake briefly glances in my direction, a slight frown appearing when he notices me. I bet if I asked him what superpower he wants, he would say teleportation. That way he could send my ass back to New York.
The press conference starts off with all the usual questions.
How do you feel about the race?
Were you confident in your starting grid position?
Were you surprised by the pace of any of the drivers?
How does it feel to be back?
I’m starting to zone out just as a reporter asks, “Thompson, how does it feel to place podium during the first race of the season? You made your mark last year with some solid wins over who some are calling your biggest competition. Do you think this is a precursor to what the rest of the season will look like?”
Now I’m on high alert. Harry chuckles and rubs a hand over his chin. He’s twenty-three years old, but his clean-shaven appearance makes him look even younger.
“Well, I’m not sure I’d say Hollis is my biggest competition. I’d like to think I’m my own biggest competitor. But it’s only the first race of a long season, so we’ll see what happens.”
I mentally applaud him on his neutral answer.
“Blake,” a different reporter asks. “Last season you said Harry was, and I’m quoting you here, ‘a low-budget knock-off version’ of you with ‘driving skills equivalent to a senior citizen at night after a glass of wine.’ Do you still feel the same?”
