Page 28 of Off the Grid

Am I jealous that he has his? That most of my class who has grown up together in this odd circuit has made it to the penultimate level? Fuck yes. Do I wish harm on him because of it?

Only a fucking arsehole would wish that.

And yeah, I am one on so many levels—but not when it comes to something like that.

But now . . . now? Who the fuck knows if he’s okay?

Because if he can be hurt—then we all can be, and that’s not a thought any of us want to have. Ever.

A thought I’ve lived with the reality of my whole life but that I’ve pushed aside with the justification that technology has advanced miles. The cars are stronger. The safety equipment more protective. The sport safer.

But that justification means shit if Maxim is hurt.

“Have you gotten any word on him? On how he’s doing?” I ask, forcing myself to look anywhere but the screen where the accident plays on repeat. My crew is doing the same. They’ll explain it away as if they’re studying how the car performed—where it gave, how it fell apart, and the like—but I know they’re just as horrified by the crash as I am. By the fact that Maxim got out of it. By the unknown of whether he’s okay or not.

“Neck brace is always precautionary,” he murmurs, lifting his glasses up and rubbing his eyes before shutting the monitor off.

“But they airlifted him out, right? I mean—shit.” I go to grab my mobile. “I’ll text his brother and see—”

“You need to get in the car, Riggs,” Pierre says, stepping in front of me and putting me in my place. The order is more for me to get my head in the right place than anything. It’s a means of forcing me to swallow down that inherent fear that lurks just beneath the surface with every fucking limit we push. With every lap we cheat death.

“We’re short on track time this week,” he says. “We need to make the most of the time we have.”

I hesitate when I shouldn’t and then get pissed at myself for doing so. Leave it to Maxim to fuck with my head even now despite being in separate circuits.

“Fuck it,” I mutter and grab my balaclava and yank it down onto my head.

I don’t say another word as I put my helmet on, get my body belted in, put my gloves on, and lock my steering wheel in place.

I visualize the curves of the track I’m about to drive on. Over and over, I trace the map I’ve etched in my mind. Anything and everything to push the jarring image of Maxim’s body flopping onto the ground out of my head.

Everything to fight the memory I see each and every time my engine roars to life—my dad. His lips stained blue from candy floss. His laugh a rumble above the roar of engines that were always sparking to life. A smile he saved just for me.

My engine revs. My radio checks. And I spend the next fifteen laps becoming as one with the car as I can. As much as I fucking hate it on a good day, right now, I like that the car isn’t adjusted right. It gives me something to concentrate on. Something to lose my thoughts to.

But the minute I pull into the garage and get out of the car, the first words out of my mouth are, “Any word?”

Pierre glances over to Ricky and then back to me. “Not yet. Unofficially? Something about an induced coma to help with swelling or some shit like that. Brain shit is never good. I’m not a doc so I don’t know what the fuck that means other than that.”

I know what it means, but he doesn’t want to tell me. Coma. Swelling. Brain shit. His injuries aren’t just a quick jaunt to the medical tent to be looked over and released.

This is way more serious than that. Fuck, man.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, fighting the urge to ask the fucked-up question that’s on the tip of my tongue. The question that makes me a selfish bastard for simply thinking it, let alone putting a voice to it.

Pierre saves me and answers it for me. “Not that I’m an expert, but his injuries mean he’s going to be out for some time.”

“That’s a rough blow for Moretti. Maxim was starting to kick some arse. That and their reserve driver was picked up for his own ride with Centurion last week,” Ricky says. “Who the fuck are they going to get to fill his shoes?”

Pierre meets my eyes for a beat but doesn’t say a word.

Do you think it’ll be you?

He doesn’t have to.

I’m qualified. More than qualified. I have my Super Licence. I take advantage of the connections I have through my father’s name to get in the cockpit of an F1 car at least once a month. Will they consider me?

“I think we’re all thinking that,” I say to Ricky and then exit the conversation.