Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

“Duty calls.” I tilt my empty glass to him.

He sends me a smirk and mock salute as a goodbye.

I explore Melbourne on Friday since Santi has a busy day with practice and press events. As interesting as his plan sounds, I decline his invitation to join him.

I spend the day taking photos and discovering the city. A local street-art tour gains my interest, and I enjoy the ability to fade into the group while surrounding myself with fellow tourists. When I hang with Santi, it feels like I’m on display. The attention he receives stifles me. People always take pictures, ask questions, or request autographs. And I hate feeling watched. He tells me everyone eventually gets used to

it and I won’t notice them after a while.

That type of complacency scares me.

The rest of the day goes by quickly. Newfound privacy comforts me so much that I eat lunch alone, at a table for two no less. My solo day seems short-lived when an old man sits in the chair across from me. He eventually gains the courage to strike up a conversation after fifteen minutes. I politely engage in the discussion of his arthritis, nodding along like I understand the struggles of chronic pain. He even shows me about one hundred photos of his grandkids.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for never saying no, because how can I look that poor older man in the face and decline seeing photos of his little tater tot? His words, not mine. I can’t. So I end up spending an hour entertaining a man named Steve, even offering him a signed Bandini baseball cap as a parting gift along with a promise to text him a picture of the Prix track on race day. I don’t know the risk of giving a grandpa my cellphone number. But he seems sweet, so I give in.

My mom calls me while I’m walking down a side street.

“Cómo estás?” My mom follows my vlog religiously, commenting on all my posts with encouraging messages and quotes. She’s cute like that. I even get texts with gifs as a way for her to express her feelings.

“I’ve been having fun so far. Santi’s pretty busy with the business side of things. I don’t know how he finds the energy.”

We stayed out late and he got up at the crack of dawn to go drive on the track. Meanwhile, I hit the snooze button about five times before I finally got up.

“He lives for the sport, so he puts up with the social side of things. Keep an eye on him because he works too hard.” There goes my mom, always the worrier.

“I’ll try my best. I can’t do what he does, schmoozing and boozing. People here are snooty and full of themselves.”

“I’ve been reading gossip about those different drivers. Men like Liam Zander and Noah Slade pop up all the time, and you should see what women say about them. Don’t get me started on Jax, that man has trouble following him like a bad smell.” Her voice fails to hide her disdain. I don’t ask for more information because gross details don’t interest me.

“Be careful what you read. They can start spinning stories about Santi one day. Reporters are aggressive. And they love an interesting story, whether it’s true or not.”

“Have you met his teammate?” She can’t conceal her curiosity about Noah, and I can’t blame her.

“Yeah, he’s not as terrible as stories claim. But he’s still the ass who thought I was Santi’s girlfriend.”

“Que bruto. Someone should’ve raised him better, given him extra love and attention. That must’ve been embarrassing for him.”

“I think that’s his problem. It must be such a lonely life for him, screwing around with whomever and having no one to celebrate wins with. His own family barely comes to the races. Like his dad visits a few times a year, his mom even less. Makes me wonder if there is more to this show he puts on. I doubt he even realizes it though, especially when people like him always think they’re happy until they aren’t anymore. But who knows, I’m speculating, and it’s not fair to judge.” Unfiltered words rush out of my mouth.

“Cuídate. Behind the glitz and glam, people live with lies and unhappiness.”

I change the topic, not wanting to talk about Noah anymore. It feels wrong to expose the small truth he shared with me last night about his parents. My mom and I catch up on plans for the weekend, and not soon after, I hang up the phone and go back to the hotel.

6

Noah

Qualifying on Saturday is the second-best part of racing because a successful Saturday is essential to winning on Sunday. A position for Sunday’s race depends on the qualifier. Getting a sucky start on Saturday means you’re fucked on Sunday, unless you put in extra work to get on top.

Pole positions are my and everyone else’s favorite. I can bounce back from a second-or third-place starting point though, not needing to pressure myself to over-perform. Back of the grid tends to be the worst. I haven’t placed there since the start of my career, always preferring spots between P1 and P3.

Squeals of the tires hitting the road bounce off the pit walls as I walk toward Bandini’s area. Each team has their own garage on the pit lane where the team preps before the race, including small rooms above the workstation where Santi and I get ready. I gear up in my suite for my two practice sessions.

I complete two successful practice rounds like I wanted. My qualifier went even better, landing me the pole position for the Australian Grand Prix. Best spot on the grid. Santiago isn’t far behind, qualifying third, right behind Liam Zander. Not bad for the new guy.

For the sake of the team I want him to succeed, since we also compete together during individual races. I’m not totally selfish. He needs to do well for us to win a separate Championship, the Constructors’, which happens at the same time as the World Championship. A total of twenty-one races and two coinciding Championships.

Santi can settle for winning the Constructors with me because I want to be the World Champion this year. My teammate can keep his shiny consolation prize.