Chapter 3 I have a championship to defend.

~Joe~

By the time Valentina Cross stormed out of the conference room, I had already worked out seven different ways to quit Blackthorn Racing without getting sued.

The first involved setting my contract on fire in Richard Sterling's office. The second, driving my car through the glass doors of headquarters. The third was the most satisfying: the entire board lined up in their expensive suits while I told them, in very colourful language, exactly where they could put their brilliant decision.

None of it would work, of course, unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life paying lawyers to explain why a three-time world champion had lost his mind. So I did the only sensible thing left. I stood by the conference table, stared at the door she'd vanished through, and wondered what I'd done in a past life to earn this.

"Well," Richard said, gathering the papers scattered across the table, "that went better than expected."

I turned to him slowly. "Are you having a medical emergency?"

He paused. "What?"

"Because I'd love to know which part of that looked better than expected. Was it when your new driver threatened to refuse her training, or when she looked at me like she was deciding which bit of me to run over first?"

Richard gave me the smile people use on an exceptionally difficult child. "You two have history. I expected some tension."

"Tension? She looks at me like she's spent three years planning my murder."

"She's understandably upset about what happened."

I laughed, and nothing about it was funny. "What happened. Is that what we're calling it now?"

His face shifted. I knew that look. He'd perfected it over the years, and it showed up whenever a conversation drifted into territory he'd rather avoid.

"The accident was investigated, Joe. The report was conclusive. Neither driver was found to have caused the collision deliberately."

"Then why does everyone talk as if I drove onto that track meaning to wreck her career?"

"Because she was injured, and you walked away."

I stared at him. There were days I doubted the people who ran this sport had ever grown a working conscience. They understood sponsorship, championship points, advertising revenue and the value of being photographed beside expensive cars. Real human beings, though, they treated as a technical fault, something to be logged and fixed.

"She knows I didn't hit her on purpose."

"Does she?"

I opened my mouth and shut it again, because the honest answer was that I no longer knew what Valentina believed.

Three years ago she'd ring me in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep before a race. She asked me things she was too embarrassed to ask her engineers, argued with me about strategy, and laughed at my terrible jokes with an enthusiasm that had nearly convinced me I was funny. Then the accident happened, and whatever we had died in a hospital corridor.

I tried to visit twice. The first time, her father told me she wasn't ready to see me. The second, she sent word through her agent that I was never to come near her again. I respected that, and I spent the next three years wondering what I'd say if she ever gave me the chance to explain.

Now I'd been ordered to train her, and she had made it painfully clear she would rather set herself on fire than accept my help.

"She won't cooperate," I said.

"Then you'll have to find a way to make her."

"Have you met her?"

"Yes, Joe. I hired her."

"Then you know that shoving us into the same room won't produce some miraculous reconciliation."

"Nobody's asking you to reconcile. We're asking you to work together."

"Wonderful. I'll put it on a motivational poster."

Richard ignored that. "The board has made its decision. Valentina is our new driver, and you're responsible for helping her adapt to the car and the team. I expect you to take it seriously."

"I have a championship to defend."

"And you'll get the chance to defend it."

"While working as a full-time babysitter."

"While showing the board why Blackthorn should keep investing in you."

I went still.

So that was it, the real reason nobody had asked whether I wanted to spend the next twelve months sharing my working life with a woman who hated me. My contract.

I'd seen it coming. My manager had been warning me for months that the board would want another title before agreeing to my terms. After five years at Blackthorn and three straight championships, I'd earned the right to ask for more money, more say over my racing programme, and a deal that didn't leave my future riding on a single season. I was twenty-eight, and I'd spent most of my adult life being told I had to win one more race, one more championship, one more trophy before I could finally relax.

I'd stopped believing that years ago. The board, apparently, hadn't.

"So that's the deal?" I asked. "I train Valentina, she has a good season, and you renew my contract?"

Richard adjusted his cufflinks. "Nobody said it would be that simple."

"Of course not. That would make too much sense."

"The board wants to see leadership from you. They want to know you can contribute to the team's future beyond your own results. You're the most experienced driver we have, Joe. If you can help Valentina become competitive while still delivering yourself, you'll strengthen your position considerably."