Page 72 of Spin Control

The last thing this team needs is social blowback from a sloppy attempt at spin. Even if David could book a last-minute interview where Wes and Freddie play with puppies, people have been watching the two of them chafe against each other for months. No one would believe they’re friends after such a disastrous crash. So I need to give David an idea that will not only work, but that he believes will work.

My eyes land on Andrew, who is typing furiously on his phone. Social. That’s the play.

“Here’s the plan,” I say. “Wes will get a group of drivers together for a game of padel and will post a video that shows Freddie playing with them. It’s easy, it’s contained, and it’s something people will buy as authentic even if they also side-eye it as a PR stunt. Two things can be true, after all.”

David nods. “Yes. That’s perfect.”

Before we can discuss the details, Tate is back with her second draft. “This works,” I say and when David nods his own approval, she rushes to the graphic designer.

My phone buzzes, and I brace for whatever fresh hell is about to be unleashed. Stas never contacted me last week, much to my chagrin, and Alice has been on a warpath since receiving the video of Stas, Wes, and Liu Zhenghao. Since I can no longer stop the Bugatti story, I’ve been trying to reach Stas. But the private investigator who passed him my previous message can’t locate him now. Apparently, Stas has truly gone to ground.

This would be a hell of a time for him to finally get in touch.

But when I look at my phone, I’m completely shocked—and entirely elated—to find a message from Wes.

WES GRANT

are you still in the paddock

I’m in the motorhome.

WES GRANT

did you know ‘paddock’ is a term associated with horses

Yes. Is that today’s animal fact?

WES GRANT

no. it’s that a pistol shrimp snaps its claw so fast that it can create a sonic boom

A casual superpower.

WES GRANT

could you come with me for my press round

What the hell? He still has to do press? I march over to David and demand to know what Wes is talking about, and he confirms that if Wes has been cleared by medical, then he’s obligated to do post-race press.

“Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter, feeling almost as shocked by this as when I learned that a race starts again even after a car has gone up in flames. “It’s like the governing body of this sport actively wants the drivers to have terrible mental health.”

David huffs out a laugh. “You’re definitely not alone in that thinking. But it’s a good idea for you to accompany Wes. In fact, I’ll head over and meet Freddie.”

I don’t have to be told twice. I set off with purpose, but it turns out I don’t have to go far. Wes is right outside the motorhome, leaning against a wall in a way that Michaelangelo would’ve killed to capture in marble. His hair is tousled, there’s dark stubble lining his jaw, and his racing suit is unzipped and folded at his waist, exposing the tight, black fireproof layer that stretches across the panes of his chest, his shoulders, his arms. If I hadn’t seen him crash with my own eyes, I would never believe this man had just been in a high-speed collision not even an hour earlier.

“Well, if it isn’t Wes Grant.”

“Jacobs,” he says, relief filling his voice. He closes the space between us and wraps his arms around me, leaning down to rest his head on my shoulder.

“You’re okay,” I whisper. “You’re here, and you’re okay.”

“I am,” he says, tightening his grip on me. “Fuck, that was awful.”

I nod. “Yeah. It was.”

It’s only then that I realize I’m holding him. That I’m rubbing his back. That I’m comforting him. That it feels natural. That it feels right.

“I have to go talk about it now,” he groans.