Page 29 of Over the Limit

A celebration that will not include an Apex driver. Yet again.

That makes for a fun week before heading out to the next race. Good thing I have a million things to keep me busy while Rossi no doubt broods over today.

And yet when I look up and see him finishing up his post-race interviews, my heart aches for him. For a man so skilled and natural at driving but whose team is currently in a downward slump. He’s standing there, in plain sight, and yet feels so inaccessible anymore.

And not just because of the post-race process.

I’m talking about us. About his disinterest in connecting with me anymore.

What surprises me the most about it all? That I don’t feel devastated by the thought. By his inaction.

He meets my eyes across the distance and gives his head the subtlest of shakes. I can see the disappointment there. The frustration. And while I know it’s part of the sport, I hate that I can’t do anything to fix it for him.

Paolo calls me over the radio to answer a few questions, and I welcome the distraction from my thoughts. For the next while I get lost in the ins and outs of finishing what I’m doing. Of thanking the staff who helped coordinate and corral our guests all day. Of making sure all the swag and memorabilia for our guests is ready for them to grab on the way out of the gates.

And maybe, just maybe, I cheat a few steps down toward the Apex Racing hospitality suite in the hopes of getting a couple of minutes with Rossi as he shuttles between the post-race meetings and the chaos that always ensues once the checkered flag drops.

My patience pays off when he heads my way. I rise from my seat on a retaining wall the minute I see him. There’s a sympathetic smile on my lips and understanding in my voice.

I resist the urge to reach out and hug him, aware that I’m on the clock and that he’s just another driver when I am. “Hey. Tough race, huh?”

He stops and the glare he gives me says it all. Disgust. Frustration. Disappointment. Helplessness. “Why are you over here?”

I shrug off the harshness of his words. “I just wanted to see if you were okay. I guess I wanted you to see a familiar face. A—”

“Like I don’t have those surrounding me constantly with my team and crew?” he snaps and shifts on his feet.

Wow. Okay.

“Look. I get it. You’re pissed and frustrated, but I’m not the car so let’s not take it out on me, okay?”

“Always know how to dig the knife in deeper, don’t you?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I did my goddamn job out there. To a fucking T. Don’t tell me I didn’t.”

Are we having the same conversation here? I study Rossi, the tension set in his shoulders, and decide to let it go. The comment. His anger. All of it. I chalk it up to him needing an outlet.

“No one said you didn’t,” I say to pacify him.

“Right. Whatever. Just forget about it. Let’s go.”

“What?” I bark out a laugh.

“I said let’s go.”

“Rossi . . .” My head spins from the whiplash. One minute he’s telling me to leave him alone, the next he’s demanding that I follow him? Which fricking way is up right now?

“Did you not hear me?” he demands and holds his hand out to me like I’m supposed to take it when he knows damn well I can’t. This is one of those lines we don’t cross. Not while working. And most definitely not on race day when the whole world is watching.

“I heard you, but I can’t go with you.”

“So first you’re late this morning and now you can’t go with me.” The muscle clenches in his jaw as he stares at me.

“Late? I was there to kiss you good luck and fasten the neck of your suit. Just like I always am.” Hasn’t this been our thing for years? The good-luck kiss? Tapping my fingers to the sponsorship patch over his heart before zipping up his race suit the rest of the way and velcroing the neck of it? “I’m the one who risks my job by being there, but I still show up nonetheless. What are you even talking about?”

Today was different though. I was there. We went through the motions of our routine, but it was almost as if my presence was more of a nuisance than a comfort.