Page 90 of Drive Me Wild
“Not obviously,” he corrects me. “Your dad was torn. Giovani was offering more money, but he liked the team over at McAllister better. There was more room to grow. More of a chance to make a name for himself. Ultimately, that’s why he chose them.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?” I ask, dumbfounded. “I thought he was always ride or die McAllister.”
“He loved McAllister with all his heart, but I’m sure he would’ve been just as happy at Giovani. Or with any team, for that matter. Your dad would’ve entered a damn golf cart in a Grand Prix if it meant he could race.”
I smile to myself at the image. “But he always encouraged me to land a spot driving for McAllister.”
“Because that’s whatyouwanted. From the moment you knew your dad drove for them, you were a McAllister man, Theodore. And yes, it’s special that you get to drive for your dad’s team, but trust me when I say, he would be just as happy with you driving for another team. It didn’t matter to him as long as you were happy.” He pauses before asking, “And are you? Happy?”
A film of sweat coats my body at his innocent question. Puffing up my cheeks, I blow out a deep breath and tell him everything. And I mean everything. Once given the chance to explode, I’m like Mount Vesuvius, spouting and spitting destructive fire. He stays quiet as I ramble and rage about Avery. My contract. The clauses.
I rest my head on the table once I’m through, not giving a flying fuck about the germs. A sick day doesn’t sound thatterrible—at least it’d be an excuse to lock myself away from the world and their questions and opinions.
“I don’t know what to do,” I mumble.
“You have to do what’s best foryou,” Richard says carefully. “And from what you’ve told me, that may mean you driving for another team. If you drove for Everest or Ithaca and they offered you this contract, would you sign it? No, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t have even bothered counter-offering. You’d already be knee-deep in negotiations with another team.”
“I’ve met with other teams,” I defend myself weakly.
But they aren’t McAllister. If Josie were here with me now, she’d be singing “I Want You To Want Me” by Cheaptrick.
“I know McAllister means a lot to you, but I promise there’s bigger and better things besides them. My advice? Stop focusing on if McAllister wants you or not and start thinking about ifyouwantthem. You’re a goddamn Walker, and any team would be lucky to have you.”
THIRTY-FOUR
THEO
I stomp my foot,really leaning into the whole toddler-throwing-a-tantrum attitude I’ve had all morning. “I don’t want to go.”
“Dealing with you is like having a kid I didn’t ask for.” Russell throws his hands up. “If you don’t mind a fine, then by all means, skip out on the press conference.”
Fuck fuckity fuck fuck.I forgot about the FIA’s tendency to fine drivers for missing mandatory media interviews. God knows Blake has enough of those to keep his lawyers busy for the rest of their lives.
I frown once again. “You know what they’re going to ask me.”
The same shit they’ve been spouting at me all weekend.Will you be re-signing your contract with McAllister? What’s the holdup with your contract negotiations? Are you considering switching teams? Who else has offered you a contract? There are rumors you’ve met with other teams, care to comment on that?
“You’ve had media training,” he reminds me, his voice losing its sliver of annoyance. “You know how to answer the questions, Theo. It’s nothing new.”
Media training requires giving diplomatic answers with a blank face. I’ve never been known for my subtlety, or filter for that matter. Giving them a cookie cutter answer is akin to admitting guilt, and I tell Russell as much.
“It’ll look worse to skip out,” he replies. “They’ll start digging. And if anyone approaches McAllister, who knows what they’ll say.”
Shit. He’s right. The ball is in my court; it has been since they gave their final counter. Taking a deep breath and pasting on a smile, I waltz into the press room like it’s any other post-qualifying press conference. As predicted, they start off with a doozy, not bothering with any of the niceties.
“Theo! Theo!” an ESPN reporter shouts. “McAllister had some recent internal management changes. Is that what’s been holding up your contract negotiation?”
Oh fuck.
Blake leans in and simply says, “Yes.”
“Oh, um, that question was directed at Theo,” the reporter clarifies. “Not you, Blake.”
Blake shrugs and takes a sip of his water. “Well, if I had to guess what’s holding up Theo’s contract, it’s that the internal management changes at McAllister suck. They hired a piece of shit for their CEO, and he’s going to run the team into the ground.”
Every nerve in my body pinches, like crabs are hanging off every available surface of skin.
“Um. Blake? Shut the fuck up,” I mumble. Now I know how Ella felt last year when Blake accidentally shared her secret to millions of people on live television. It’s like watching a dumpster fire and not having any water to put it out.
