“This is quite extensive, Ms. Alix,” I stumble, still skimming over the printed details. I hate stumbling, hate that she caught me off guard. I’m a social media whiz and I reform the public opinion of ill-behaved celebrity athletes. I’m used to sponsor requirements and endorsement deals. But even for top tier athletes, this is a lot.
“Yes, well, as I said, you have a great deal to learn about F1. This is the playground of the elite, not a football field.” Sandra makes air quotes for the word football and I don’t know if she’s making fun of American sports or, because here, football is actually soccer. I decide to ignore that thought, either way, as she continues, “I believe the salary more than compensates for the additional duties, does it not?
“The salary is quite generous,” I agree. Ha, generous. That’s a good one. The salary is enough to cement my dreams. I was in this to get the experience and contacts that only a behemoth of an industry like F1 can bring, to rebuild my reputation after that piece of garbage NBA player tanked me almost a year ago.
But this, this changes everything.
“In addition to the salary terms, you have your expense account agreement,” Sandra starts whipping more paperwork at me from her bottomless folder, “corporate housing agreement, NDA as discussed, benefits package dossier, all of your work visa documents. Here, just take it all. Look it over tonight and tomorrow morning we will meet with Mr. Sanders, the HR attorney, to finalize everything.”
“Ms. Alix, I want to be very clear. Are you offering me the position?” I’m fairly sure this is a redundant question and she’s made it obvious, but I need to hear it. I need to hear the words so I can internally scream and then start plotting how I am going to stuff my success down everyone’s throats. Maybe after I celebrate tonight with that frosty cocktail. Or during. Definitely during.
“Yes, we are officially offering you the position. After the paperwork is finalized tomorrow I will show you to your flat on premises and make introductions to Mr. Lennox and other personnel.”
I stand from my chair and reach to shake Sandra’s hand. “Thank you, Ms. Alix, thank you.”
“Get your affairs in order quickly, we leave for Australia in ten days. And good luck to you, you’re going to need it.”
Ah, but Sandra, you cantankerous shrew you, I don’t need luck. I make my own success and Paddock Playboy or corporate sponsors be damned, I will rock this job and everything I want will fall into place.
Two
Lennox
“I,” grunt, “hate,” grunt, “you.” I sputter as I pull my head and up and over the chin-up bar over and over again in the gym at headquarters. Sweat is running down my back because the heat is turned up to mimic race weather conditions. Or terrorize me, one or the other.
“Uh-huh, cry me a river, Lennox, another 20,” Matty mumbles from his stationary position on a weight bench beside me, crunching down an apple with extra gusto because he knows I hate the sound of food slurping. “Less than two weeks left, you need to pick it up.”
“Don’t see you up here,” I groan in between pulls.
“I’m already in peak physical condition,” Matty replies while chewing and in his customary tone where most people can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious. I’ve known him long enough to know that he’s not making a joke right now.
The stereo is loud in the background and I’ve been running and rowing and heaving myself over assorted bars for hours. Just need to make it through this set and then my sadistic physio will let me eat something again. Perhaps another delicious helping of quinoa and kale or whatever the last bowl of slop was.
“I love when you two squabble, you know it gets me hard.” Jack is sitting on the floor in front of me with his back against the wall, face glued to his iPhone and fingers tap-tap-tapping on the surface.
“Jesus, why are you even here?” Matty calls to him over the stereo and rolling his eyes.
“Making the Melbourne travel arrangements, getting his promo materials in order, picked up his new helmets from the designer. You know, being good at my job.” Jack sashays his head back and forth though he still hasn’t lifted it from the iPhone.
I give Matty shit for putting me through these grueling workouts and making me stick to the world’s most boring diet plan, but he and Jack are like an old married couple, constantly at it. Gives me something to get my mind off of, anyway. Makes things interesting.
“Also, I want to meet the new nanny,” Jack adds like this is a secret afterthought he’s letting slip out.
I drop from the pull bar and beads of sweat break off me and hit the floor. “What new nanny?”
“Yes. Do tell, Jack,” Matty pitches his apple core into a trashcan several feet away and leans forward on his seat to hear the latest gossip that neither of us knew about.
“Well,” Jack lifts his head and comes alive because there’s gossip. He’s obnoxious like that. “From what I hear, this one is American and she…”
Jack is cut off when the stereo stops and all three of our heads turn to the door. Sandra, the main dragon lady from Marketing, has cut the stereo and beside her stands, I’m assuming, the latest pawn in her bullshit scheme of ‘restoring my image.’
Jack pops off the ground and Matty stands from the weight bench while my eyes flicker and my brow creases. This better not be another new babysitter.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” the dragon lady squawks as she begins her approach with the wide-eyed doe next to her, “Come meet Mallory.”
Jack and Matty circle in, the new chick’s heels clacking on the tile gym floor. Dressed in a tight little fawn-colored pencil skirt that ends mid-calf and a white blouse, she’s wearing the official uniform of new employees everywhere. I scowl.
“Mallory,” Sandra starts pointing like the rude bird she is, “this is Matthias Vitanen who is Mr. Gibbes’ physio.” Matty shakes her hand and smiles a little more than is normal for him.