I spend time with my family before excusing myself. Santi looks at me weirdly before returning his attention to my parents, their wide smiles bright after his success today.
I go to the kitchen and grab an ice pack, the cold plastic numbing my hand as I walk up to Noah’s suite. My stomach rolls from nerves because I don’t want to overstep after his bad day. Another deep breath expands my lungs. I wait for a moment, unsure if I should knock on his door.
I dig deep and lightly rap my knuckles.
The door opens a crack. A moody Noah looks down at me, blue eyes shadowed by a Bandini hat situated low on his face, a poor attempt at hiding his reddened skin.
“Hey, I come bearing gifts.” I jiggle the ice pack. No point in hiding what I saw earlier.
Noah pushes his door open wide, and I pass through. His suite has the same layout as Santi’s with plain white walls and red accents with Bandini's logo covering one wall. He takes a seat on one of the white couches, grabbing the extended ice pack while I take up a spot on the opposite side.
“Come to admit you suck at eavesdropping?”
My cheeks flush at his tactlessness. “Well, sorry.” Might as well apologize even though they left the door open.
“And sorry you saw that. I should have closed the door, but he surprised me for the first time in a while.” Noah’s words tug at me.
His statement is a lot to unpack, and I don’t understand why he apologizes. My head pounds as I wrap my mind around Noah’s toxic history with his dad.
“You don’t need to be sorry. He’s a total ass. You warned me a while ago, but I guess I didn’t think it was that bad.”
Noah winces as he presses the ice pack against his face. “No one knows.” He lets out a deep and shaky sigh. My stomach dips with unease at his lowered defenses, a rare sighting for someone as confident and self-assured as him.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume this isn’t the first time he’s hit you.”
Noah’s blank gaze reveals enough.
“How long has he been doing this? That’s not right. It’s not how parents should be, especially at your age. You could kick his ass into next week.”
“A while, but I’d rather no one finds out, so let’s keep it between us.”
My heart cracks at his admission. I can’t imagine growing up with someone rude, condescending, and disgustingly competitive. Hard to picture what Noah’s life was like. He puts on an image for others, but is this what he deals with once the Prix lights shut off?
Santi and I don’t share his same problems because our parents have always treated us with respect and love. Growing up without wealth could be a better option. I live a happy life, and no one holds money over my head. Not Santi, who pays for a lot of things. Even though I make money from YouTube ads and sponsorships, the funds don’t have the same weight as an F1 contract.
“I won’t tell anyone. But I don’t understand why you cover up for him.” A wave of nausea hits me as I consider how people act around his dad, idolizing him as a racing legend. Fans call Noah the American Prince. One stuck wearing a crown heavy from deceit and expectations. No matter how much Noah dislikes his dad, he lives in his legacy.
“Who would believe me? He’s a racing icon and a big sponsor for this team. People see what they want to see anyway.” His head faces up to the ceiling. Liquid from the ice pack drips onto his race suit, running down the red fabric like tears. How symbolic.
“I don’t know. Anyone. There’s always someone filming something. Cameras catch everything nowadays.”
I recognize how I saw Noah how I wanted, believing the show he puts on for everyone. Smug, overconfident, rebellious. My chest tightens at my quick judgment.
“Please leave it alone.” His voice has a sense of finality to it. I drop that part of the conversation because I don’t want to push him too far when he opens up to me.
I choose to address the second issue because I can’t help myself. “Is it true what he said? About your steering wheel?”
He lets out another deep sigh. “Don’t trust everything you hear. My dad gets pissy when I don’t place first. My steering wheel was loose, no matter what people say.” Words leave through gritted teeth.
“But you were in the lead for like forty laps. Defensiveness is your thing.”
“Maya.” His gravelly voice captures my attention, making me look up into his intense blue eyes. My name rolls off his tongue, hitting me in the heart and below the belt at once. “Drop it. Forget what he said. Your brother won the Spanish Grand Prix fair and square. You should be happy for him instead of thinking up conspiracy theories.”
His eyes dart to the side as he avoids my gaze for a second too long.
Holy shit. Noah totally threw the race. Why would he lose?
We sit together in silence. I attempt to work through these new revelations, getting lost in my own world, not noticing how he gets up and sits next to me.