Page 43 of Over the Limit

And everyone is waiting for the fallout.

“You got something to say, Evans?” Rossi barks from across the room.

I meet his eyes. I see the fire in them. The rage. What the fuck is his problem? “I think I already said it. You can take it how you want to. We had a solid team effort today. The cars were stronger. We placed better. So what the fuck is your problem?” I ask.

He glares at me. The muscle in his jaw pulsing and his hands fisted.

You want to come at me, fucker? Come at me. I’m not scared of you.

“Nothing.” He pushes away from the desk, readjusts his headset, and looks at the monitor in front of him that holds all the telemetry data from the race. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got shit to do.”

“Charming,” I mutter as I sit back in my chair and lower my mic as Johann continues on with the rundown from the race.

Not a stellar performance for the Apex team of old, but a respectable one for the cars we have this year.

So Rossi’s little tantrum is bullshit on all kinds of levels . . . and Johann asking me to stay behind once the meeting is over says as much.

“That was good stuff today,” Johann says when the room clears.

I nod. “Not good enough.”

“You’re going to battle with what you have. That’s all we can ask of you.”

“It’s not enough, Johann. You know it. I know it. The public doesn’t fucking know it though.” My sigh is one of exasperated exhaustion.

“It’s being noticed by who needs to notice it.”

Our eyes meet. “If it’s being noticed then why isn’t there an offer yet?”

Johann clears his throat, my misdirected question clearly leaving him uneasy. Gio’s the only one who can answer that question. “Keep doing what you’re doing. That’s all you can do.”

His non-answer, answer rubs me the wrong way.

“Right. Great.” I sigh and run a hand through my hair in frustration. “Time to go meet the media.” My lack of enthusiasm is apparent. I adjust my Apex baseball cap and start to walk away.

“Lach? You know what his deal is?” he asks with a lift of his chin in the direction where Rossi stalked out.

“Not a fucking clue.” See that, Johann? I’m the team player, not Rossi. Tell Gio that I’m the most deserving of the contract.

“Well, I need you guys in sync. Can you figure it out so you can be again?”

“I can’t control his fucking attitude now, can I?” I snap and then wince. Shit, now I’m sounding like fucking Rossi.

“I thought our time at Sterling did wonders for the two of you. Last thing I need is that shit falling back apart on us. There are a lot of decisions to be made soon and . . .”

“Yep. Got it,” I say. Where in my contract does it say I need to be Rossi’s therapist and babysitter? Like . . . what the fuck?

Because that’s what he’s asking for.

Be the team player, Evans. He’ll remember that over being the hothead. I hope.

Fuck.

* * *

I wait for her. I have the brim of my hat pulled down low over my brow and have absolutely no Team Apex apparel on to try and avoid recognition.

Sure, this is the hotel that F1 employees stay at, but fans aren’t exactly hanging out here to stalk them like they do at the drivers’ hotels. Like they currently are at my hotel.