Rookie Mistakes, page 3
In my haste to undo my seat belt, I almost took my ear off with it as it caught on my ear cuff. Then I almost fell out of the car, my head still spinning from the sheer speed we’d reached and the thrill of adrenaline pumping around my body. As I turned to close the door, Robert was still sitting in the driver’s seat, his gaze fixed on the spot my arse had been not a minute since. But if I wasn’t mistaken, and it had been awhile to say the least, my instructor was checking me out.
Except, no way would an adrenaline junkie, like he must be, be interested in a guy like me. I’d take the memory of stalling the car to my grave with me, and I could feel the heat rising up my neck just at the memory.
But the idea that he might be was exciting, as was the realization Lee hadn’t killed my ability to feel attraction to another man. And I had more days at the circuit, so who knew if we would run into each other again?
3
Silverstone, England – Round 10
Andilet (Robert)
As I pulled the Lotus to a stop in front of the driving school, I still couldn’t believe Mitch thought I was an instructor. How could he not know I was an F1 driver? It wasn’t that I got recognized a lot—it was only my first year back after six away after all—but I was an F1 driver. At the circuit. On a race weekend.
But after he had stalled the car on the first attempt, I was beginning to believe he was clueless around cars and he had no idea who I was. And I was surprised at how much I liked that he didn’t.
Plus, he was hot. He had the whole “silver fox” vibe going on. His hair was shaved at the sides, but the long strands swept back on top were silver, yet his eyebrows were jet black like the square frames of his glasses that screamed nerd.
Except the tattoos on his arms said he’d have no trouble fucking someone over if they called him that to his face. He had a gauge in his left ear and a cuff with a black cat charm dangling from it that was a little skew-whiff and seemed out of place with the rest of his appearance.
And those lips. I licked my own at the sight of their plump redness emphasized by the salt-and-pepper beard surrounding them that I wanted to stroke to find out if it was as soft as it looked.
My gaze dropped to his arse as he scrambled out of the car—something else I’d like to get my hands on. But that was never going to happen at a Grand Prix weekend. There wasn’t a single out F1 driver, not that I believed for a second that meant I was the only bi, or queer, man on the grid.
Mitch made a soft noise sounding a bit like a cross between a cough and a laugh that pulled me out of my head. “Come on, you get a certificate to show you drove around the circuit. I’ll show you where you can pick it up from.” Libby had told me Mitch wasn’t the same as the other fans who’d been interviewed earlier and that he would get a record of his experience although she hadn’t elaborated on why. And I hadn’t cared enough at that time to ask, but now I wished I had.
“It’s not graded, is it? Like, he stalled the car, so he only gets a bronze.”
I chuckled but shook my head. “Nah. It’s a participation certificate and you definitely smashed that.”
Mitch opened his mouth and closed it again as a lovely pink stain crept over his cheekbones. Maybe he wanted to participate in something else? Or was that wishful thinking on my part? Maybe I could get his number and find out later?
But of course, that was the exact moment Libby turned up to whisk me away. Most of the time I’d be glad of the excuse to have to leave but I found myself wanting to spend more time with Mitch. To get to know him and if he was a terrible driver in real life, or if he did hate cars, what was he doing at the race on his own?
At least I assumed he wasn’t with anyone else. He’d been alone when he’d shown up and there was no one waiting for him.
“Robert, the crew are waiting for you to give—”
“I’ll be right there, Libby.” I’d had so much fun driving those laps for Mitch I’d forgotten there was a film crew following us and waiting for a few soundbites from me afterwards. If anyone was going to tell Mitch I was an F1 driver, I wanted it to be me, and not Libby blurting it out before I could ask her not to. Not that I was hiding the fact I was a driver from him. You didn’t give him your surname though. Sometimes I hated that little voice in the back of my head. Mostly when it was right.
Mitch held his hand out to me, and a handshake felt too formal after being in the car with him but I slipped my palm into his. “Thank you for not laughing at me. And for the lesson on how to race properly. I think those laps were the most fun I’ve ever had in a car.”
Oh, I’d love to show you a different kind of fun. He was like an Aston Martin—a classic with sleek lines I wanted to caress. Of course, I didn’t say any of that to him. “It was my pleasure, Mitch.” Reluctantly I let go of his hand and headed for the paddock and the waiting film crew.
Friday practice
As I pulled out of the garage my mind settled now I was back in my happy place. The hum and vibration of the engine beneath me, and the smell of rubber and petrol was like coming home after a long holiday. When my tires hit the white line at the end of the pit lane, I accelerated away after coming out of the corner, but the car was slow to pick up.
“I have no grip at the rear.”
“Understood. Stand by,” my engineer replied in my ear in his usual calm tone. Not that there was anything he could do about my tires and we both knew it. I slid around another corner, the back end getting away from me.
The rear left wheel hit the rumble strip at the edge of the circuit, and I turned the wheel hard over in the other direction and eased off the accelerator, but it was too late. Momentum took the car over into the gravel trap and I skidded to a stop, the tires buried in the stones. Beached. No way was I getting it out of there. And no matter what I tried I couldn’t select first gear. I pulled on the paddle to stick it into reverse, but the wheels just spun in place and sent gravel flying. Great, that was my Friday practice over.
It was a rookie mistake and one I would never have made if I’d had my head in the game. Instead, I’d let images of Mitch distract me—the combination of sheer terror and delight on his face when I’d shown him what I could do with a race car in my control. Not even halfway through the season and I’d already lost that excitement. Racing wasn’t as much fun when you gave it a hundred and ten percent and still didn’t manage to get into the final quali session. Especially when the guy on pole made his flying lap look effortless and had more than a second on the best times I’d managed so far.
So I should have been spending every spare moment going over the data, extracting every tenth of a second performance that I could so I might at least beat my teammate and not give the team owner a reason to cut me loose.
Instead, I kept seeing those dark brown eyes as they shone with excitement. I couldn’t deny it had been a long time since I’d given another man more than a second glance, even more so when I’d spent less than a couple of hours in his company and had never even got to first base.
But there was something different about Mitch. And not least, it was refreshing to meet someone who had no clue who I was. His appearance was different to the men I was used to meeting. I bet Mitch had never worn a suit.
Instead, I found myself curious about how many tattoos he had and if he had piercings anywhere else. But the reality was I’d likely never see him again.
It wasn’t as though we lived in the same world or that our worlds even overlapped. You could get his number. The thought had crossed my mind more than once. Tess on reception at the drive school could probably be flirted into giving me his number on some pretext, but I wasn’t comfortable doing something like that no matter how much I wanted to see him again.
So instead, after hitching a ride back, I headed out of the garage and to my motorhome for a long night reading over telemetry printouts so my qualifying performance stood a chance of being better than today’s practice session.
Qualifying
The sky was gray and threatening rain, but that didn’t dampen the spirits of the fans and the grandstands were packed for the qualifying session. And that was another of the reasons that I loved racing at Silverstone—the fans. The crowd lifted me, and I could hear their cheers from the cockpit as I finished my flying lap.
After some tweaks to the car in the garage overnight, it was handling much better. And even though it only placed me eleventh—my highest ever position—they cheered as if I’d stuck it on pole.
I pulled into the pits and let the guys turn the car around and push me back into the garage. My quali was over, but eleventh wasn’t bad. It put me on the cusp of a points-paying position if I got the jump on Romain Heinz in tenth at the start. Who knew, with a bit of luck I could make up a few places if the race went well.
I checked the monitor and couldn’t help my grin when I saw that I’d out-qualified my teammate. By three places. With a spring in my step, I pushed myself up and out of the cockpit.
But the grin disappeared when I saw Libby heading my way. I removed my helmet and ran a palm over my hair to smooth it down, then pulled out my earpieces.
“Great qualifying position.”
The smile returned at her words. “Thanks.” And then I remembered the talk I had agreed to do. She laughed, no doubt at the dread etched into every line on my face.
“You ready to go sweet-talk some fans?”
“No. Not at all.”
In a typical Libby style, she snorted and hooked her arm through mine. “You’ll be fine. And you’re not the only driver who’s going to be there. You don’t even have to speak first.”
I rested my free hand on her forearm and let her guide me out of the garage. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
Mitch
The lanyard around my neck gave me access to the Silverstone Racing Club grandstand, which according to the guy sat next to me was one of the best seats to watch the action from. Having never watched a race, I’d told him I’d have to take his word for it. And the look he’d given me, well, anyone would be forgiven for thinking I’d told him I’d killed his cat, not that I’d never seen an F1 qualifying session before.
But as the first few cars trundled past us, I joined him in standing and cheering—swept up in the thrill of the moment.
When they disappeared, I sat back down and thought that was the excitement over. But then a car zoomed past us, so much faster than before. And loud. So loud. I didn’t just hear the roar of the engine, I felt it in my chest, the smell of petrol and rubber adding to the full sensory experience.
I watched in awe as the car sped on around the circuit to be replaced by another that thrummed as loudly. And so, it continued. Another car. Another lap.
There was a giant TV screen across from where I sat, but I didn’t have a clue what was happening. All I could tell was who was in which place when it flashed up on the screen until it changed not ten seconds later. The TV and the action on the circuit were as though they were on two different timings.
It was frantic and even I could admit a little exhilarating. Whenever my dad had watched qualifying or a race on a Sunday afternoon, I’d always made myself scarce. Cars going round and round had never appealed to me. But this was different. I could only imagine what it would be like if I…supported? Followed? A particular driver. Or a team. There were a couple of British drivers, if the Union flag beside their names was anything to go by.
The cars trickled by us after a final flurry and then the circuit was empty apart from the road-sweeper truck trundling along by itself. After all the noise and speed to go to nothing felt a little disappointing. Lord, am I becoming a speed freak now? I rolled my eyes at myself and flipped through the program I’d been given and saw there were support races later, whatever they were.
As I made my way to leave my seat, the guy next to me turned to face me with a grin almost as wide as his face. “Best qualifying session I’ve seen in a long time. It’s going to be a great race, I can tell. When Q2 started I thought I knew who was going to be dropped but that was intense.”
Yeah, a bit like this guy was as he leaned in too close for my liking and talked using his hands. One of which almost clipped my ear several times.
Everyone else was making their way out of the grandstand but he had me cornered between him and the metal wall behind my back. Because I had the last seat in the row, I’d have to climb over the ones in front or behind me to get past him. And then he started giving me a play-by-play of the qualifying session as though I hadn’t watched it all from beside him.
But then from inside the racing club I heard the announcement that the drivers would be showing up soon. At that the man shut up and leaped to his feet. “Got to get a place near the front. You’ll probably be able to get autographs!”
I shook my head as I watched him hurry inside. Qualifying was over, I should just go back to the hotel, but then a voice that sounded a hell of a lot like my dad’s told me to stay. I could record it for him because he was going to be gutted he’d missed all of this.
I made my way inside the racing club and found a hot drink station set up and helped myself to a black coffee. Spotting the man from the grandstand, I headed in the opposite direction and leaned against the wall as I waited for the drivers to arrive.
A commotion started by the entrance, and assuming they were here, I straightened up and set my cup on the nearby table so I could get myself ready to record them. Except when the final driver sauntered in, I almost dropped my mobile as the last person I thought I’d ever see again walked in. What’s my instructor doing here?
The voice of the woman standing on the makeshift stage filtered through my confusion. “And of course, last but not least, is Robert Andilet. The returning driver for the rookie team, Maverick Racing.”
Robert.
Robert Andilet.
Not an instructor, then.
Well, at least not only that. And fuck my life I was probably the only person in this room who didn’t know who he was. I closed my eyes against the swift rush of emotions. I opened them again in time to catch the wink Robert threw my way. And I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me or not. It didn’t stop me from finding him attractive, especially when his grin just emphasized that chin dimple.
I rolled my eyes at my own reaction to that wink. Not only had Robert witnessed how terrible I was behind the wheel, he likely thought I was a complete idiot too. Who went to an F1 circuit and didn’t recognize one of the drivers?
4
Silverstone, England – Round 10
Andilet (Robert)
I tugged the peak of the ball cap down lower over my forehead running the talking points over in my head again. One of the reasons I hated doing stuff like this was the nightmare I had that I’d either stand up in front of everyone and they’d have no idea who I was—unlikely—or, more likely, I’d forget how to use words and say nothing at all. I’d just wither under the hundreds of eyes boring into me.
I shook off the negative thoughts and followed the other drivers into the Silverstone Racing Club. I’d never been in here before, but I’d heard about the small club for fans. The building was functional, cream stone walls and brown carpet, but the space was packed.
The room erupted with cheers, applause, and whistles. There were people lined up against the walls, crushed against each other. But there, in a corner all by himself, was the man I’d never thought I’d see again.
I did a double take to make sure it was indeed Mr. I Can’t Drive trying to hide behind an old man who had moved up beside him. His cheeks were turning a delightful shade of red as if he’d run a lap of the circuit, and I couldn’t stop the grin spreading across my face. Especially when Libby said, “And of course, last but not least, is Robert Andilet. The returning driver for the rookie team, Maverick Racing,” and he turned Fibonacci scarlet across his cheekbones.
But then I was at the stairs to the makeshift stage area, so before I lost eye contact with Mitch, I gave him a wink, ridiculously happy at seeing him again. Even if it meant I didn’t get the chance to tell him I was a driver and not an instructor.
I followed the others up the steps and took the seat at the end. My gaze wandered over towards Mitch, glad to see he was still there and hadn’t snuck out.
My attention was drawn back to the reason I was there as Libby introduced my fellow drivers Dean Williams from Cadigan Racing and Alexander Benson from Team McCarthy, followed by thunderous applause from the fans, which would never get old. Without them, I’d have no job and I couldn’t imagine doing anything other than racing now I’d got the chance to return.
I listened to the other two talk about their season so far and their teams and then it was my turn. The words flowed more than usual. Nothing to do with the fact you want to get this over with so you can talk to him again. I grinned at the thought, not even bothering to argue with myself. Although I wondered how he would react to finding out I was an F1 driver and not a driving instructor.
The Q & A session seemed to go on forever, and when Libby wrapped it up, the stage was surrounded by people wanting autographs, to shake hands, and to ask how I thought the race would go.
I’d been keeping one eye on Mitch, and he seemed to be trying to head for the exit unnoticed. Not happening. It had been a rookie mistake to let him disappear after being out on the track with him and I wasn’t about to make the same one again.
I thanked the fans, then waded through them to catch up with him. “Mitch.” He turned at my shout with a sheepish expression that made me smile. “You weren’t leaving, were you?”
He shook his head no, but then said, “Yes, I erm…” He waved a hand in my general direction. “How could I not know you were an F1 driver? I have to confess”—Mitch glanced over his shoulder before leaning in as though we were co-conspirators and had to whisper—”I don’t actually watch the races at home.”
