Page 10 of Off the Grid

“Whatever floats your boat, but I’m not providing that visual for you.”

“Oh. I wasn’t aware you had visuals of unicorns to provide.”

“Smart-ass.” She waves her hand. “Let’s go.”

I groan but make my way to the post-race press conference. It’s the last place I want to be—it’s no one’s when you DNF a race—and hell if it’s not the bane of my existence lately.

“First chair to the right.” Fontina directs me and then whispers, “Unicorns and rainbows.”

I take a swig from my water bottle and head to the hot seat. Mundane questions ensue and mostly being asked of my counterparts. Thoughts on their race. Things they hope to accomplish. Then it’s my turn.

“Riggs, there has been a little talk about your inconsistency and reliability and a lot about your recklessness on the track. Do you care to make a comment on that?” a reporter asks.

“I’d say they should climb behind the wheel where you’re directed to drive as fast as you can to win a race, all while riding that fine line on not pushing the engine too far or knowing that your opponent’s tire is an inch from yours. Engines blow. Cars connect. Things happen. There’s a reason few make it this far, and it’s not because it’s easy.”

“So are you saying you’re at fault for the engine blowing today?”

“I’m saying that we’re a team and we’re all at fault when things go bad and all to be praised when things go great.” I toe the company line when I’m damn well pissed that the same goddamn issue we’ve had with the engine the last four out of six races presented itself yet again this race.

“There was talk on the radio about a decision with tires,” another reporter jumps in.

“And?” I prompt, treading lightly. I can’t remember the exchange I had with Pierre. The exchange that is public. All I can hope is that whatever I did say, it’s not about to be used against me or used to put me on the spot.

“It seemed you were upset by the decision not to box,” the reporter says.

I give a half chuckle and a shake of my head. Play the game, Riggs. The desired ending is to move past Formula 2 and onto Formula 1. Voicing the smart-ass remark like you’d love to isn’t an option.

“I can have any opinion I want, but my crew is reading my car for me. They know what’s best and whatever they say is what goes. Teamwork is the only way any success can be had in this sport.” I clear my throat and raise my eyebrows as if to say are we done yet? I’m known for not particularly loving these pressers.

“That’s not exactly what you said on the radio though,” he presses on.

“It was in the heat of the moment. Adrenaline was running high. It happens. My crew knows I respect them and their opinions. At the end of the day, that’s all that matters,” I say.

“And Bickman?” a voice calls out from the back.

“I’m glad he’s okay. No one ever wants to crash or be the reason someone else crashes. Just like things are said on the radio that you regret, things happen on the track that you do too. We touched tires. It could have just as easily been me in the wall and you asking him why he put me in the catch fence. Sometimes it just happens.” I smile and rise from my seat, pretty much done with this.

“Riggs is short on time today,” Fontina says, taking my lead.

“One more question, Riggs,” a voice shouts out that I know all too well. Harlan Flanders. Fuck. “Do you think your last night’s late-night antics contributed to today’s results?”

What the fuck is he talking about?

I stop in my tracks and level a glare at the reporter. “You mean the sponsorship dinner the team had two nights ago?”

“No. I’m talking about the club, the booze, and the dancing on the stage.”

I chuckle. The fucking prick. Trying to paint a picture to the public, to F1 teams, to my own goddamn team, that I don’t take this seriously.

Trying to sabotage me with rumors.

“Unless the club was in my bedroom, I assure you I wasn’t there. But hypothetically if I were there, how would that correlate to a blown engine today?”

“You tell me,” he challenges in a way reporters often don’t. But then again, this one will, considering I unknowingly stole his girl a few months back. Well, not so much stole—perhaps, borrowed is a better term. I’m not one to keep anyone around long—and long means for a night or two.

If I had known I was playing with fire, I never would have slept with her.

And how was I to know they were together? I took her at her word that she was single.