Page 1 of Until The Lights Go Out

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THEO | PRESENT

RACE WEEKEND ZERO - PRESEASON TESTING

There were two things I loved and two things I hated. I loved: racing and winning. I hated: losing and fucking media days.

Not even ten minutes into the first media day of the new season, and I was already dreading all the stupid interviews and gimmicks the barely-legal admins had convinced the higher-ups we needed to do. I had a mic shoved in my face, the sun beating down like it had something to prove, and a Kaz Energy admin giving me a smile that said ‘Play nice or I’ll make your life hell.’

I dreamed of racing, not of interviews or stupid games for media days. But, much to my dismay, the two came hand in hand.

I walked through the paddock with my sunglasses on and my headphones in, even though I wasn’t listening to anything. It was the international sign for ‘Don’t talk to me’—which of course meant five more people talked to me before I even made it to the Kaz motorhome.

“Smile, Bauer!” a photographer called out.

I gave them my signature smirk. Flashy. Cocky. Just the right amount of smug. They ate it up, as usual. I was good at this part.

The interviews were all the same.

How’s the car feeling this year?

What are your expectations for the season?

Do you think you can beat Alexander Wright?

I’ve been asked that question every year since I was a bright-eyed eighteen-year-old rookie. It never got old. Or maybe it just never stopped being annoying.

I don’t think I can beat him, I said, letting the silence hang for dramatic effect. I will.

Cocky? Sure. But I could back it up. That was the difference.

I moved through the motions of the day—filming promos, meeting sponsors, posing for photos next to a car that wasn’t even race-ready yet. I signed hats, answered fan questions, and gave a wink to a reporter I was pretty sure I had flirted with two seasons ago in Monaco. It was all part of the job.

Then it was the media pen—my least favorite stop. Bunched up like cattle between branded backdrops, trying to remember which camera belonged to which outlet and which answer I’d given to whom.

“Do you think this is your year, Theo?” one reporter asked.

“This year, next year, any year,” I shrugged. “I don’t show up unless I plan to win.”

They laughed like I told a joke.

Eventually, I was released back to the garage for a debrief that was more press strategy than actual racing strategy. My team principal clapped me on the back and said I handled it well. Translation: I didn’t say anything that would get us fined. I peeled off the fireproofs they had me wear for a promo shoot—pointless, sweaty, and annoying—and finally got a moment to breathe.

Just as I was about to head upstairs for a protein shake and five minutes of peace, my brother walked through the main hall doors. Sebastian, also happened to be my new manager after I had fired that imbecile Matt from last season. It was Nicola Moretti who had warned me, and while I usually didn’t listen to petty gossip or pay attention to the most recent drama, something about the way she had said it made me trust her. Nicola had been around race tracks her whole life. She knew everything about everyone, and I would’ve been a bloody idiot not to heed her advice. Plus, after Matt leaked personal photos of her and Matteo DeLuca, another driver, I wasn’t going to keep him anyway. So now here I was, with my family wrapped up in business. I didn’t mind it much though; my brother was a good man. We both grew up loving racing, but while I took part in the actual racing part, he was fascinated with the numbers and logistics of it all. His sandy brown hair was lighter than mine and his Irish accent thicker, or so everyone told us. I grew up traveling half the year for racing with our father while he stayed in Ireland with our mother. Sebastian waved me over while still muttering into his phone.

“Hey T”—he covered the receiver end of his phone with his hand—“any interest in a new commercial for Kaz Energy’s new electrolyte line?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“Yeah, that sounds great man. Theo is honored to be the spokesperson for this new endeavor.” A pause. “Yes, talk soon.” Seb hung up and let out a sigh. “You should really thank me for being so good at this job.”

“Yeah mate, mega job.” I gave him a pointed look.

“Would it kill you to be more upbeat?” Sebastian glared back.

“Yeah, probably.” I took a sip of my protein drink. “We training or what?”

“You know, I hired you a trainer.”