Champagne Problems

T H I R T E E N

Chantal is standing on the side of the circuit, her arms crossed as she watches her brother Remy practice his racing skills. The roar of the engines is almost deafening, but her thoughts are louder.

"He's never going to win against Max like this," Remy's manager mutters to the trainer standing beside him. His tone is frustrated, his arms crossed tightly against his chest.

"Well, he's obviously been drinking this weekend," Remy's trainer responds, a note of resignation in his voice.

"What are you talking about?" the manager asks, clearly confused.

"He's also been doing something worse than drinking," the trainer explains, lowering his voice as he glances at Remy on the track. "His pupils were way bigger this morning."

Chantal sighs, overhearing the conversation. She already knew. Remy had smoked a joint yesterday, and this morning too. She'd told him not to, warned him that he could seriously hurt himself, but Remy was stubborn. She wasn't exactly innocent either—none of their friends were—but Remy was risking his entire career as a Formula 1 racer, and it was reckless.

"I don't want to worry you, but Remy's trainer just told his manager about his drinking," Benoit says, arriving with Daphné and standing next to Chantal. His eyes are narrowed in concern.

"I know," Chantal whispers, rubbing her arms nervously. It only heightens the knot of anxiety in her stomach. Remy was skating on thin ice, and they all knew it.

"Keep an eye on him," Remy's manager barks at the trainer before storming off, his body language tense and angry.

Remy slows his kart as he approaches the flag, signaling for the flag boy to wave him in. He decelerates to a stop and climbs out, tossing his helmet aside. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, sweat dripping down his face.

"Come here," his trainer commands, his finger beckoning Remy like a disappointed parent. Remy groans but walks over reluctantly.

As soon as he's close enough, the trainer grabs his face with one hand, forcing him to meet his eyes. "What have you been using?" he demands angrily, his tone low but firm.

Remy jerks back, pushing his trainer's hand away in irritation. "Nothing! I just had a bad day, okay?" he snaps, his voice defensive.

"You're risking your career, Montoya!" his trainer hisses, his eyes narrowing.

Remy crosses his arms. "I haven't been drinking, and I definitely haven't been doing drugs, if that's what you're accusing me of," he lies smoothly.

The trainer glances over at Chantal, searching her face for confirmation. "Is it true?" he asks her, catching her off guard.

Chantal hesitates, her stomach twisting. She hates lying, especially to people who only want to help Remy. But she knows that admitting the truth would make everything worse. "He hasn't been doing anything," she says quietly, avoiding eye contact with the trainer. The lie slips out, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Training is over," the trainer announces, his voice clipped as he storms off. Remy clenches his fists in frustration and hurls his helmet to the ground. It bounces once before landing in the dirt.

"Fuck all of them," Remy mutters under his breath, jumping over the fence and stalking off toward the dressing room, his jaw tight with anger.

"Remy!" Chantal shouts after him, taking a step forward, but he ignores her, his footsteps heavy and fast.

"I think it's best if you leave him alone for now," Daphné says softly, placing a comforting hand on Chantal's shoulder.

Chantal sighs, her shoulders slumping. She hates seeing Remy like this, trapped in a cycle of self-destruction. "I know," she whispers, her voice filled with frustration and helplessness.