Page 93 of Downforce

I turn to peer out of my floor-to-ceiling window, viewing the thousands of people strolling the sidewalks and the workers who are constructing the bleachers and chairs that will accommodate the swell of visitors for this weekend’s Grand Prix.

Behind me I hear my mother saying something about needing her own key. I share a glance with Edwin and give a slight shake of my head. He nods in understanding.

“Edwin, do you know my career stats?” I ask.

“Stats,” he parrots. “What like height, weight, and the like?”

“Career wins. Fastest lap times. Number of pole positions.”

He glances to the side. “I know you’re a F2 Champion and on your way to becoming a winner at the Formula 1 level, mate.” He slaps my shoulder.

My mother’s squeak from behind me has the both of us turning to face her before I can reply to Edwin.

“Yeah right.” She laughs. “He’s not winning the championship this season or any other season.”

“He’s in the top two for contention,” Edwin defends. “And if he has another blow out race this weekend like he did in Miami, he can move into first position.”

“It’s still very early in the season.” My mother plops down on my couch, crossing her legs and spreading her arms over the back. “It doesn’t matter what happens early on in the season. It’s the second half that matters the most, and Travis is right there with him. They have the same car and …” She looks me up and down, shrugging.

I brace myself, knowing her dressing down is about to turn from dull to razor sharp.

“Travis is the better driver.”

I want to say that her words don’t sting, that they no longer have the ability to pierce the kevlar I carefully constructed over that soft tissue in my chest, but the flinch I have to suppress when she says this, says otherwise.

I turn away from my mother, who’s staring at me, awaiting my reaction. I have learned that not giving her a reaction is my best play. For some reason, she’s always taken pleasure in being able to manipulate me like pulling the strings on a marionette.

Though I refuse to outwardly react, her words do have the power to take me back to the moments throughout my career where I’ve been compared to my now teammate.

It began early in my career. The comparison was natural since we both had been champions in our respective regional races. By the time Travis started competing in the European races, he’d made a name for himself. As had I.

When a teenage Travis mentioned my father in an interview as one of his main inspirations, the comparisons between him and me increased exponentially. It was also around that time that my mother started to tell me that I wasn’t and never would be as good as Severino.

I ball my hand into a fist.

“That’s not fair,” Edwin says, coming up beside me and clapping me on the shoulder. “I was just on the line with Eluxis,” he says of the century-old luxury watch brand. “They are ready to sign him.”

Edwin puffs out his chest as he says this, since he’s likely prouder of himself for brokering this potential deal than he is of me for earning it.

“Eluxis?” My mother pitches forward from her reclined position. “They sponsored Severino.”

She sounds offended.

“Exactly,” Edwin says, not picking up on my mother’s irritation. “It’s a match made in heaven. They love that he’s performing so well this season and doing it in Amato red. They want to be associated with luxury, naturally, so once Max secures the points for the championship, they’re ready to sign him on the dotted line.”

“No pressure.” I glance over at Edwin.

He holds up his hands as if to say it’s no big deal.

“Yes, well,” my mother continues, “they sponsored my husband back when racing was real. Before all of the technology and gadgets your engineers have today. Back then you had to use grit and the sort of mechanical intelligence you can’t simply buy.”

She looks at me. “Unlike today’s drivers.” She shrugs. “And with the European races coming up, we’ll see who the true racers are anyway.”

I school my features to display an unfazed expression but inside is a different story. My mother, in her own bitchy manner, is correct. We’re only approaching midway through the season. The European races kick off this weekend with the Monaco Grand Prix. Historically, these have been my weakest races of the season.

I tend to get into my head during this portion of the season. My gaze drifts over to my mother who’s carefully watching me. She’s usually in attendance at every one of my European races, playing the doting mother and reminding everyone of her status as Severino Ferreiro’s long-suffering widow.

It’s not the first time that I’ve pieced two and two together.