Page 99 of Off the Grid

I take a moment to think before I answer. “He’s still a little rough around the edges, but I think that edge gives him an advantage. He’s racing well and shows he has the skill to rightfully be in F1.”

“True.” He nods and runs his finger and thumb over his chin in thought. “FIA wasn’t thrilled with his overtake in Hungary.”

“They weren’t thrilled with Rossi’s either.”

He nods in contemplation and then says softly, “Yeah, well, Rossi is . . . Rossi. The exception to all the rules.” He chuckles and then gets a wistful look in his eyes. “Spencer’s dad—Ethan Riggs—was . . . really something special to watch. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Larger than life. Commanded attention on and off the track. Reckless in a way that you were afraid to look away for a second because you might miss something incredible—good or bad. We were close in age, and I remember being slightly jealous that he got the fun job.” His smile is bittersweet.

“Do you think the comparison the media is making is fair?”

“I think it’s natural. It doesn’t help that they’re spitting images of each other. It makes the comparison easier to make.” He shrugs. “The same will probably happen when you take over for me someday.”

“True.” I’m not ready to think about that. “But I don’t think it’s fair. The comparisons I mean.”

“Agreed. He seems pretty unflappable though. He bites back when need be.”

“I’m sure that thrills Anya.”

My dad grins. He always did like a rebel. “It does, but that keeps her on her toes.”

“She’s hinted as much.” I glance over to the small side table where the posters are laid out. Riggs in his Moretti red and that devastating grin look back at me. “I know all drivers say they’re fearless, but they have to get scared sometimes. A hard crash. A near miss. Do you think that fear is different because of his dad?”

“Funny you should say that. Omar approached me the other day about something. Maybe that’s why I came to talk to you. To get your opinion.”

“About?”

“It’s been seventeen years since the accident. All the tracks have been updated or the circuit changed to a new location. Every track except for Suzuka, where Riggs’s dad died.”

“Oh.” I think of the Japanese track and picture it in my mind. Such a peaceful setting—as almost all the tracks are—but with the potential to wreak so much devastation.

He nods, his lips twisting. “It’s coming up soon. He’s never raced there so it’ll be a first. Do I let him? Do I talk to him and give him the choice? Do I task the new reserve driver we just signed on with taking the wheel there? I don’t fucking know.” He scrubs a hand over his face and for the first time I see a tremor. Clearly, he’s been agonizing over this.

I stare at my dad, thoughts flying through my head. The bathroom scene during that first race flashes back to me. Riggs vomiting. My panic attack.

Was it nerves in general or was it the fear he’d end up like his father?

Isn’t that the same thing I’ve wondered myself? My dad’s illness? Do I carry the same gene mutation that has made him sick?

How would I feel if someone held me back from something because they’d prejudged me as having it?

“What did you tell me when I asked you why you were hiding . . . everything?” I ask quietly with a quick glance outside my office. “That it’s your choice if and when you decide to tell people about your diagnosis. That keeping your dignity is important. I know it’s not even in the same realm, but don’t you think the sentiment is similar? That Riggs probably feels somewhat the same? That it’s his decision?”

“Yeah. I know. I agree . . . I just . . . Maxim’s accident wasn’t that long ago. The last thing I want is a driver with an unclear head in the car. I don’t need, want, or wish upon us another bad accident.” He still carries guilt over Maxim’s accident. That much is evident in the tone of his voice and the lines etched in his face.

“No one ever wishes that, Dad. It’s the sport. It’s dangerous. The drivers know that and isn’t that part of the draw for them? The thrill?”

“I know, Cam, I know.”

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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Camilla

It’s been a long, very strange day. Shopping with the girls. The talk with my dad. Not killing myself in these heels. And now this.

The Cosmopolitan magazine on my floor where it must have been stuffed under my door. The same magazine that Riggs sat on the other night and that I swiftly moved after he fell asleep—mortified that he read it.

You’ve seen the goods, Cami. You like the goods. Go forth and finally fuck the goods.