Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 6: Seb (Part 1 of 2)

Saturday, September 7 – Qualifying

It's been a good day. Overcast conditions have been keeping the air temperature in the low-twenties and my bike has had no major mechanical issues. Gravel on the track had frustrated some of the riders out later in the afternoon's qualifying session, but by then, I'd already done a lap that ended up being nearly the fastest, securing a second place start for tomorrow's race. Unfortunately, true downtime is still hours away.

After a quick shower, I'm leaving the trailer with every intention of sneaking out the long way to the parking lot when I see Lauren talking to Shane Hooper. I don't even know why, but my feet automatically take me in the opposite direction, straight to a group of fans. I hate to say no to them since they waited all afternoon to meet me, but with every ball cap, brochure, and t-shirt I sign, I scoot one step closer to the exit, hoping they'd get the hint. It's not that I mind being popular, but it's exhausting to have so much of my life devoted to work. Racing is definitely not a nine-to-five gig, especially on an event weekend.

"Ehi, Seb! Andiamo!" My salvation comes in the form of a skinny twenty-year-old in a grey beanie. The rest of Nando's outfit is just as out of place for the racetrack, but ever since he hit puberty, he's only ever worn cuffed jeans, tight tees, and a black, leather vest that is now probably permanently attached to his body. The only other thing he needs is a lumberjack beard, and he could be the poster boy for Italian hipsters.

I mumble my apologies to those I couldn't get around to and hurry away before anyone starts to complain. A white transport van is idling by gate seven with its side door open. The Zermatt KTM team's press guy is in the front passenger seat, and he waves for us to hop in.

"That's everyone then," he says before the driver closes the sliding door with the flip of a switch.

We take two of the three empty seats in the second row. The vehicle lurches forward, and I look around. As expected, Schulz and Pichler from the Zermatt team are here. So is Butler from the other KTM outfit, Madhya MC. And right behind me, Lauren sits alone.

I hope she didn't expect me to join her, especially if she saw me intentionally avoiding her a little while ago. I turn back, but the fool next to me has already struck up a conversation.

"Ciao. I am Nando," he says.

"Oh, hey." She pulls the buds out of her ears. "What was that?"

"My name is Nando," he repeats, peeking over the backrest.

She smiles. "Like the chicken place?"

"Yes. Because I never hear that before," he deadpans, but I snicker. It annoys the hell out of him, but the joke never gets old.

"Sorry," Lauren says, twirling the black cord around her finger. "You're Seb's personal assistant-slash-cousin, right?"

"No." He shakes his head like the information is the furthest thing from the truth. "I am his best friend-slash-scheduling coordinator. My job is very important—"

I swat him in the stomach with the back of the hand before he can start full-on flirting. God help me, the last thing I need is for those two to get together. Not that she's horrible or anything, but it's bad enough for me to have to spend so much time with her in a professional capacity, let alone in my limited personal time.

He turns to me, confused. "What's your problem?" he asks in Italian.

"What are you doing?" I whisper even though I'm almost positive Lauren can't understand my native language.

Nando shrugs. "Being friendly. But if you have an issue with that, I guess she'll just have to think we're all assholes."

I flinch. "What?"

My buddy stares out the window at the passing scenery. As the van drives eastward off the island, water laps at the golden beaches on both sides of the increasingly narrow strip of land. "Well, she didn't exactly get a glowing welcome," he says.

I poke him in the shoulder. The least he can do is look at me when he's making such stupid accusations. "What do you mean? From other riders?" Sure I've heard snickers and the occasional off-color comment here and there, but I thought those had stayed private.

Nando turns, tilting his head and raising a brow.

Okay, now this is too much. "Who? From me?" I ask.

"I dunno, man. You basically said at that first presser that you didn't care either way whether she was here or not, then you talked Nigel into second-guessing her setup . . .."

"Hey, I know I was right about the suspension." I point my finger in his face. "It's not my fault she's a high-side waiting to happen."

"Like I said, you may not have made the best first impression," Nando says, adjusting the knitted cap on his head. "I personally would rather not burn any of my bridges before I try to cross them."

I burst out laughing. Sometimes my friend tries too hard to be the Confucius of the Mediterranean. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means loosen up and don't be such an ass. You're making me look bad." Nando grins, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes to signal that he's done with the topic.

With a sigh, I shake my head. I usually value my friend/cousin/assistant/scheduler's opinions, but this time, Nando clearly has no idea what the hell he's talking about. The unique relationship between teammates in racing is something outsiders—Nando included—can't fully understand. We both work to bring the most out of a shared brand, but on the track, we're on our own. Lauren is nowhere near my level in terms of performance, so obviously I'm not threatened. Japan's Kojima, Spain's Martin, the UK's Watts and even America's Harris—still leading with enough points from all his wins earlier in the season to mathematically outscore me without taking part in another race—are my prime opponents for the championship.

Yet Lauren's mere presence has grabbed everyone's attention like no one else did before, and it kind of hurts. Perhaps I am a bit jealous. There, I admit it. Maybe I do need to back off from meddling in her technical issues. Fine. I can do that. But that doesn't mean I have to be all buddy-buddy just for the sake of appearances. I couldn't care less about how it looks.

What was it that Austin liked to say when talking about the struggles of his favorite sports team the Tennessee Volunteers? There's no crying in baseball? Well, there's no partisanship in road racing. Not even if you are the first—and so far only—girl in my series.