Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

“What the fuck were you thinking? What type of reckless, amateur shit are you trying to pull here? That crappy move cost us everything today.”

My body stiffens at the way Noah talks to my brother. I peek around the hall’s corner, wanting to get a look of the scene. Noah’s back faces me while my brother looks furious, a rare happening for him. He has flushed cheeks, narrowed eyes, and pinched brows.

My brother’s eyes flare. “I already said I’m sorry twice, Slade. Do you want to kiss and make up?”

Last-name dropping and the sarcasm dripping from Santi’s voice is never a good sign.

“If you want to prove your worth, try to do it without crashing a million-dollar car. It’ll serve you better in the long run. But if you wanted to ride my cock, all you had to do was ask nicely.” Noah’s hard voice carries through the halls.

“Fuck you. You act like your God’s gift to Earth. Newsflash, I’ll beat you one day and so will everyone else. Get over yourself.”

My eyes strain and I press a hand against my mouth. Noah doesn’t respond. He turns toward my hiding place in the hallway and practically runs me over on his way to his room. His hands grab onto me, stabilizing my body before I topple over.

Dull eyes and rosy cheeks greet me.

“Sorry,” he mumbles before shutting the door to his room.

My heart squeezes at how unhappy he looks. I don’t want to feel bad for him because he acts like a dick to my brother, but I can’t help pitying him. It sucks how my brother made a stupid move that has severe repercussions for the team. Points aside, morale between these two can’t be lower.

I enter Santi’s suite to sit on the couch when Noah’s phone rings next door. He rarely gets phone calls, so I can’t fight my curiosity. I try my best not to listen in on what happens in his suite. And by trying my best, I mean I currently have a cup held up against the wall to try to amplify the noise. All I get are muffled words. A pretty unsuccessful spy mission if I do say so myself, my ears only catching a few words like father and crash.

Santi comes into the room while I google how people use glasses to eavesdrop. He eyes the empty cup in my hand curiously but doesn’t mention anything about it, choosing to ignore my playful smile.

Santi plops himself on the couch next to me and lets out a sigh, the defeated look on his face pulling at my heartstrings. His fingers fumble with unzipping his race suit while his feet toe off his sneakers. He puts his head in his hands. The room fills with the sound of his deep breaths in and out.

I give him a few moments before I probe. “How did the talk with the chief engineer and Noah go?”

I learn from my mistakes, making sure to keep my voice low enough for Noah to not overhear us.

“Noah’s pissed to say the least. And I get it because I fucked up bad. But I apologized to him the moment we got out of the cars and when we got back here. I hadn’t even seen the footage yet, but I knew it was my fault.”

“He shouldn’t have yelled at you like that in front of everyone, making a scene. It’s wrong and embarrassing for both of you. And not mature when you already said sorry.”

Okay, the volume of my voice has increased a bit. Noah may or may not be listening in on our conversation at this moment, no thanks to me.

“I screwed him out of a good amount of points. It’s going to take time to recover from that loss. I would be angry too if it were me.” His hands pull at his hair while his face stares at the floor.

“You both are teammates trying to figure each other out. The two of you have different styles of racing, and you need to find your groove and work together.” I root for both of them. For the sake of Bandini and the Constructors, they need to put aside this rivalry between them.

“F1 Corp will make us do a post-race conference together to represent Bandini.” He looks up at me finally. His red-rimmed eyes lack their usual shine, and his sadness makes my heart hurt for him.

I take a deep breath, knowing what I have to do. “I’ll join you. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like you can crash again.”

Famous last words.

The press meeting is not the same as watching Santi and Noah crash in real life. On the racetrack, you can’t see or feel the tension between the drivers. Except for the team radio, but not many people listen in unless the videos end up on YouTube.

See, in a press meeting, all the emotions hang around like unwanted female groupies. Reporters salivate at the idea of these two guys sitting on a duo panel. Tension fills the room like a dense cloud, my brother shifting in his seat while Noah’s gaze focuses on the bright lights in front of him. I cringe at the awkwardness between them. The guys have many cameras on them, making it hard to hide anything.

I take back my previous comments about press conferences being yawn-worthy. I’d take snooze fests over train wrecks any day of the week.

Noah’s jaw ticks when the reporter asks Santi a question.

“It shouldn’t have happened today. Our team lost a lot of points because of it.”

The reporter doesn’t let Santi off easily because good answers don’t sell magazine covers.

“Is it true that the team engineer told you to brake the car and pull off of Noah’s tail, but you didn’t listen?”