Page 32 of Off the Grid

Through the turnstile, with its security guards and those milling just outside of it, waiting for a quick picture or interaction with a driver.

Then out to the almost empty car park.

Just my luck, that’s when my mobile buzzes in my hand.

At least there won’t be any witnesses to the bad news being delivered.

“Ari Fornierj. What reasons were you given this time?” I ask by way of greeting, the sarcasm dripping from my tone.

“Spencer.”

My feet falter at the gravity to his tone. At the use of my first name when no one ever calls me by it. It’s Maxim. Has to be. Christ, it’s not good, is it? I glance around at the car park and then stop altogether. “What is it?”

“It’s you.”

“What do you mean it’s me?” I ask.

“They called. It’s your turn, Riggs. It’s finally your fucking turn.”

“Ari . . .” Fuck. Emotion swells in my throat and tears burn in the backs of my eyes as I try to find words. “You better not be fucking with me.”

“Not on something like this. Never.” He pauses and clears his throat, the moment clearly getting to his calloused heart too. “This is real. Believe it. Your time has finally come.”

“Maxim?” I try to process this. The thrill that rides shotgun next to the guilt that I’m getting a chance because my friend is hurt. The sudden rush of adrenaline that everything as I know it is about to change.

“His injuries aren’t grave, but he’s going to need some recovery time. By all preliminary reports, he’ll be fine.”

“Good. That’s good.” I will myself into believing it to ease my guilt that his crash is my fortune.

“But Moretti has to fill his shoes in the meantime. Luckily, there’s time before the next race, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t already thinking about it. They’ve strung together a few good outings and don’t want to lose momentum.”

I know Moretti has had a rough go of it lately. Maxim was their number one. That means their number two, Andrew Erikkson, will shift to one, and I’ll come in as the number two driver.

But they’ve had two good races after a dismal past few years.

It’s the perfect place for me to step in and try to make a name for myself—the motorsports icon, which has been mediocre as of late. I couldn’t ask for better timing.

There will be expectations but not of miracles. While we use the same tracks in F2, we race on different weekends, so my familiarity with the courses is also a plus.

“Holy shit.” It’s all I can think to say as I try to align my thoughts and remember what circuit is next for them.

“What a lucky fucker you are to have moved to Wellingshire. Moretti’s headquarters is right there.”

“It’s all that manifesting that you said was bullshit.”

He barks out a chuckle. “I never said it was bullshit. Just more like . . . new age-fandangle shit that is for wanna-be-hippies.”

I laugh, the tension leaving my body with each passing second. “Well, whatever it is, it worked, right? I got the fucking call.” I fist-pump the air when what I want to do is shout it from the rooftops.

“You did, Riggs. God, you did.”

Reality hits. The chaos that’s about to ensue for me over the coming days. Chaos I’ve witnessed firsthand so I’ll be prepared for the whirlwind to come.

“So what’s next? Where do I go? When do I need to be wherever I need to be?” The adrenaline starts to ebb. My hands tremble and my voice wavers.

“I’ve requested the specifics. I’m sure they’ll get you some time behind the wheel either here at Silverstone or have you head out early to the next race. It’s going to be crazy—seat molding, suit fittings, pressers, photos, meetings with the race engineers on telemetry data.”

“I know. I’m . . .” At a loss for words.