Page 65 of Spin Control

Despite how confused and frustrated and altogether helpless I’ve been feeling lately, I laugh at that.

On Sunday morning, while the rest of the team talks through race strategy, weather forecasts, and other science-based matters, I sit in my favorite conference room, considering what Wes is hiding about that video from the Chinese Grand Prix.

I planned to ask him about it yesterday, but after Freddie out-qualified him, I figured it was better to wait. Especially since the entire paddock is buzzing with the delicious irony that Wes might lose his seat because Freddie is now in possession of an upgrade that Wes created.

If I weren’t so cynical, I’d think this entire sport is just obsessed with Wes. Since he’s both divisive and a fan favorite, even the quietest rumors about him are something worth repeating. But that can be true and there can be someone out there ensuring the entire paddock is gossiping about his future to get in his head and ruin his season. I have a high-pressure job and I still don’t fully understand how he manages the stress and expectations that are on him at all times. It’s impressive.

I lean back in the ergonomic chair and pick up my phone, scrolling through my playlists until I find one I turn to when I’m particularly stressed that is very literally titled, “I want nothing more than to watch the world burn, but unfortunately I have a job to do.” I shake my head at my dramatics, but copy the link and open my messages with Wes. The thread is now filled with random information about animals since he, for whatever reason, has decided to educate me in zoology.

Though I’ve read them all and find them oddly comforting, I haven’t responded. The realization that I not only acknowledged I care about Wes, but admitted it out loud to Stas is something I haven’t wanted to deal with—especially since “confront your feelings” is very low on my to-do list right now. And though I know it’s petty and that a therapist would likely have a field day with this whole situation, I’ve decided the best thing to do is avoid Wes.

But here I am now, sending him a link to a playlist.

He messages back immediately.

WES GRANT

how did you know exactly what I was thinking

I’m a crisis specialist.

I stare at my phone, expecting another near-instantaneous reaction where he gloats about me texting him first or drops some obscure knowledge about aardvarks since he hasn’t sent today’s fact yet.

I blink hard. Why the hell am I waiting for a man to respond to me? What I should do instead is get my ass out in the paddock and tune in to the F1 whisper network.

But then my phone buzzes and the message makes my jaw drop.

Wes Grant

could you come to my room and specialize in mine? please?

It’s not the first time he’s needed me before a race. He’s sought me out, annoyed me, and asked others to bring me to him. But this is the first time he’s given me a choice about it.

I could say no. I could tell him I’m not at his beck and call, that I’m not his personal crisis specialist, that he needs to grow up and figure out his own shit. Weeks ago, that’s exactly what I would have done. But now I know he listens to me. He follows my directions so closely he won a damn race. And he has so easily accepted the way I am and respected it, I can’t imagine saying no to him.

On top of all that, there’s the fact that I want to see him.

That’s why I knock on his door a few minutes later. “I heard there’s a crisis?”

There’s a mixture of genuine surprise and immense relief on Wes’s face. Something settles deep in my bones, and I know that I made the right decision.

But then I register what he’s wearing: a pair of grey sweatpants and nothing else. In fact, his hair is damp and curling, there are literal water droplets still clinging to his chest, and his warm, woodsy aroma envelopes me as I step inside.

As nice as the Martine mobile headquarters is, this room is fairly unremarkable. Similar to a college dorm, there’s a plush futon, a small rectangular table strewn with exercise equipment, drinks, and gels, a television sitting on a chest of drawers, and an open door to a bathroom where the mirror is still fogged up.

“Hey,” Wes says as he shuts the door softly. “I didn’t actually expect you to come.”

“I would hate to be predictable. You okay?”

Wes runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t think so.” With that, this man who is usually so vibrant fades before my eyes.

“What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, Wes says, “Do you want to sit?”

It’s an obvious delay tactic, but I settle on one side of the surprisingly comfortable futon anyway. Wes eyes the spot beside me. “May I?”

My breath damn near hitches at the question. I’ve never been in a man’s personal space and still had him defer to me. It makes me wonder if I could do whatever I want in here. With his things. With him.