Page 10 of Drive Me Crazy
I cough to cover up a laugh. His comment may be rude, but it’s kind of funny.
“I’m way better looking than Thompson, so I doubt I would’ve compared us.” Blake grins at the reporter before taking a sip of his water. “And Theo’s nan just passed her driver’s test at the age of ninety … not much of an insult.”
Hisdeep voice and British accent are quite the panty-dropping combination. I accidentally lick my lips. Although his answer is a complete non-answer, it’s much better than anyone was expecting. Given his change in demeanor from last season’s press conferences, it’s clear he’s been through some extensive media training in the past few months. Good job, Marion. I’m pleasantly surprised by his carefree tone and relaxed smile. Now, if only he would act that way toward me.
I GAVE Blake his space during Bahrain, but we’re in Australia at Grand Prix number two and he’s still avoiding me like I’m the flu and he’s unvaccinated. Blake is the founder, president, and most active member of the Go Fuck Yourself, Ella Club. I feel like I’m going to have to Guantanamo Bay him in order to get him to talk. I’ve never waterboarded someone before, but if it comes to that … I plead the fifth. He’s almost thirty, yet his emotional intelligence is closer to that of a three-year-old. This shouldn’t surprise me, but it annoyingly still does. I don’t think men exist. They’re all boys.
I’ve had other people to interview—mechanics, engineers, the marketing team—but Blake’s going to have to sit down with me sometime soon. He can’t keep dodging me forever. I’ve got a book to write and he’s got an image that needs rehab.
The days leading up to the race, I follow him from a safe distance. He barely has a second to himself. The team arrives on Thursday to settle in and attend the first sponsor event of the weekend. Fridays are filled with practice and technical debriefs where the team evaluates the setup of the car and its performance. Saturday is more practice and then a warm-up before qualifying the car. It’s a stressful day because if Blake makes a single mistake or suffers a mechanical issue during his qualifying lap, he can find himself starting the race from theback of the grid. If he lands in one of the top three positions, he attends a special press conference and then attends more debriefs, more press conferences, and another sponsor event. And this is all before the actual race day.
I spend the night before the Grand Prix tossing and turning. I give up on falling back asleep and scroll on my phone until my alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. I’ve been trying to work out every morning to give my days some structure. My therapist suggested I find an activity that lets me feel in control; I chose exercise. It’s become an outlet for me. An added perk is that the stronger I get, the more capable I feel of defending myself.
I’m allowed to use McAllister’s facilities as long as I’m not obstructing or distracting the drivers. Turns out, I’m not the problem this morning, Blake is. He’s working out with Sam, his performance coach, at the other end of the gym. I didn’t realize I purchased tickets to a gun show this morning, but there Blake is, showing off his arms like the weapons they are.
Can there be a rule about the drivers distracting others in the gym? How does he manage to makesweatlook hot? His gray shirt is drenched and it’s making me warm even though I haven’t started my workout. There’s no way I’m going on the treadmill while Blake is five feet away from me. I don’t want him to think I’m following him around before his day even starts. Neither of them notices me, so I sneak over to a mat behind the free weights. Looks like today’s going to be a light day.
My spot has a great vantage point because I can see and hear them without being spotted. And you bet your ass I turn the volume down on my earbuds to listen to what they’re saying. Blake seems at ease, which is nice to see. Sam’s been part of Blake’s teams for years. It’s his job to make sure Blake’s in the best place mentally and physically to perform at hispeak. It looks like last year didn’t scare him off because he’s still Blake’s right-hand man.
I attempt some leg exercises and crunches, making sure anything I do keeps me hidden below the height of the weights. I’m not looking my best thanks to a rough night of sleep. I have bags under my eyes, and they definitely aren’t designer. Oscar de la Renta? More like Old Navy.
I’m resting on my back, sprawled out like a starfish, giving myself a minute of rest in between sets, when a shadow crosses over my face. I glance up to find Blake hovering over me. My body freezes. Not because I’m scared, but because I can see directly up his shorts. Thankfully, he’s wearing compression shorts, but I really can’t handle the view this early in the morning … or probably ever.
Blake tilts his head as if trying to figure out if I’m doing some new yoga stretch before asking, “Why are you here?”
I roll my eyes. “To knit a blanket. Obviously.”
What the hell else does one do in a gym?His eyes stay trained on me as I readjust so I’m sitting cross-legged. Feeling unnerved by his stare, I blurt out, “Why did the cheeseburger get a gym membership?”
Really, Ella? A dad joke?
I wait for him to answer, which he soon does. “Um … why?”
“To get bigger buns.”
I’m about ready to knock myself out with a dumbbell so I don’t have to die from embarrassment when Blake lets out a low chuckle. The sound reverberates off the gym walls and sends goose bumps up my arms. Definitely blaming my hardened nipples on the air conditioning and not his laugh.
“Hey, Ella!” Sam positions himself next to Blake and shoots me a friendly wink. “We’re about to grab breakfast if you want to join us. If you’re done working out, that is.”
I hop up with ease. The hopeful look I give Blake goes unnoticed, but I don’t care. Breakfast with him is the mostprogress I’ve made. He’s quiet the entire walk to the motorhome. I can see the muscles in his neck ticking in irritation. It’s clear he’s not happy I’m crashing their breakfast. Too bad, so sad. He’s going to be a lot unhappier when I eat at the pace of a snail to drag out our time together.
Chef Albie claps his hands together as he notices me behind Blake. “Ella! I can’t believe you’re back after I almost killed you yesterday morning.”
I’d tried Albie’s French toast and he put so much maple syrup and powdered sugar on it that I almost choked to death. Blake’s eyebrows rise in surprise at our familiarity.
“It still tasted better than anything I could ever make,” I reassure him.
Albie nods at Blake. “She’s a good taste tester.”
Thank you for the vote of approval, Chef.He fills my plate with every carb imaginable. It’s stacked with potatoes, a new and improved French toast, a croissant, a crepe filled with Nutella and strawberries, and a breakfast burrito. I can eat maybe a third of this. His eyes are definitely bigger than my stomach.
Blake slyly eyes my croissant as we situate ourselves at a small table in the front of the motorhome.
“Want some?” Half lands on his plate before he can respond. “If anyone needs to carb up, it’s you, not me. I don’t think my crunches even burned a sesame seed.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, the walk over here probably burned off a few poppy seeds, at least.”
The man makes jokes!
