Page 53 of Until The Lights Go Out

“So,” I said, forcing lightness back in, “try not to waste my brilliant analysis, yeah?”

His mouth curved. “No promises.” Another beat, the kind that lingered. “You’re good at this,” he added quietly.

I held his gaze. “I know.”

He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “God, you haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you,” I shot back. “Still reckless.”

16

THEO | PRESENT

RACE WEEKEND TWO - CHINESE GRAND PRIX

Media days had a way of making time feel slower than it actually was.

Not the kind of slow that let you breathe—no, this was the kind that stretched every second into something you had to endure. Bright lights, too many cameras, too many people pretending to be interested in answers I’d given a hundred times before. By the third interview, I could feel the irritation sitting just under my skin, coiled and waiting for something to set it off. I sat in the chair they’d assigned me, one leg bouncing despite myself as someone adjusted the lighting for what felt like the tenth time.

“Can you tilt your chin up a little?” I stared at them for a second, debating how difficult I wanted to be today. “…Please?” they added, softer.

I tilted my chin. Just enough to technically comply.

“Perfect.” Of course it was.

Beside me, Austin let out a quiet laugh under his breath. “You know, most people try to look like they want to be here.”

I glanced at him. “I don’t.”

“Yeah, man. That’s the problem.” He was relaxed, like he always was during this stuff. Leaned back, easy grin, answering questions like he was having a conversation instead of performing for a camera. It made no sense to me how he could switch it on like that.

“How are you feeling coming into this weekend?” the interviewer asked.

“Good,” Austin said smoothly. “Car’s been strong, team’s in a good place. Just looking to build on that.”

They turned to me. I gave them what they wanted. “Confident.”

Austin shot me a look like he wanted to laugh again. I ignored him. The questions blurred together after that. Expectations, pressure, performance. I answered them the same way I always did—short, clean, nothing they could twist into something else. It was easier that way. Eventually, they moved us into the social segment, which was always worse.

“Alright, quick game,” the host said, too cheerful for the hour. “Most likely to—” I tuned half of it out, answering when I had to, letting Austin carry most of the energy. He seemed to enjoy it—or at least he was good at pretending he did.

“Most likely to forget race strategy?” the host asked.

Austin pointed at me immediately.

I turned to him slowly. “Seriously?”

“You look like you don’t listen to anyone.”

“I don’t listen to you.”

“Exactly,” he said, like that proved his point.

Despite myself, a small smile pulled at my mouth.

It didn’t last long.

“Alright—last one,” the host said. “Most likely to fall in love?”