This, Noah Wood thought, was an awfully inconvenient time for a phone call.

He peered over the edge of the plane. Open air stretched out below him, broken only by milk-white clouds, half-dissolved into the teacup sky. Noah shifted. His harness was digging into his thigh, and the buzzing of his phone wasn't helping the situation. The noise stopped, and he breathed out a sigh of relief.

Then it started again.

"Are you going to get that?" Matthew asked.

His best mate was sitting beside him, his long legs dangling over the edge. Wind ruffled his blond hair. He could have been an advert for Lonely Planet, Noah thought, if Lonely Planet liked churros and had a sarcastic and brooding personality.

Noah waved a hand. "It can wait."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"I'm amazed we even get reception up here."

"Excellent customer service," Matthew said. "In fact, I really ought to leave a TripAdvisor review. Five stars for ensuring that you can ring the funeral home right before you jump out of the moving—"

Noah's phone rang again. Matthew pulled a face.

"For fuck's sake, Wood." His voice was exasperated. "Just take the call."

Noah shoved the phone deeper into his pocket. "I'll call her back."

"Who is it?"

Noah shrugged. "Probably Holly."

He could see Matthew doing the mental calculations. Trying to place the name. "Is that the dressage rider?"

"Showjumper," Noah corrected him.

Matthew leaned back on his elbows. "I thought you broke things off."

"I did."

He'd had a conversation with Holly just last week, actually, which had ended with her pelting him with bits of Dragon Roll and storming out of his flat. Damn shame, too, Noah thought; that sushi had been delicious. Matthew sighed.

"You've just reminded me," he said. "I still owe Isla a fiver."

Incredulity filled him. "You bet on my dating life?"

"Not very well, apparently," Matthew said glumly.

Noah went to give him a shove, and then glanced at the steep drop. He was weighing up whether it was worth risking Matthew's life when his phone rang again. Matthew sat up, pulling a face.

"Answer it, Wood," he said. "Or I'm throwing your phone out of this goddamn plane."

Noah dug in his pocket. "I'll just put it on silent. One moment—" He broke off, taking in the name on the screen. "Oh. Shit."

"Who is it?" Matthew asked.

"Mum." His stomach tightened. "I should take this."

Had to take it, Noah thought grimly; he'd never been able to ignore his family's calls. Not when he was always waiting for that one phone call. The one piece of news that would change everything. He was dreading that phone call.

Matthew studied him thoughtfully. Something must have changed on Noah's face because his friend nodded, gathering his parachute.

"I'll give you some privacy," Matthew said.

He leapt out of the plane.

Noah made a noise — a very feminine yelp, really — but Matthew was already tumbling through the air, cackling like a cartoon villain. His parachute opened, a red flower blooming in spring. Noah exhaled hard and pressed a hand to his chest.

"Well, fuck me dead," he muttered.

Matthew Carr really needed to grow a sense of self-preservation. Or about twenty more lives. Noah pressed his phone to his ear.

"Hi, Mum," he said.

"Hi, darling." His mother's voice was tinny. "Where are you? It's awfully noisy."

"I'm just at the..." Noah paused. "Grocery store."

He watched Matthew whip violently sideways, caught by a gust of wind. There was no way, Noah thought, that he was admitting to his mother where he was. Catherine Wood would lose her shit. He might as well tell her that he was in a drug den, surrounded by men at gunpoint; at least then, she could ring the police.

"Oh." He could practically hear his mother frowning. "I thought you'd be at that testing thing. Preseasoning."

"Preseason," Noah said automatically. "I'm on my way."

"Did Matt give you a lift?"

He winced as Matthew twisted to avoid colliding with a bird. "In a sense. Is something wrong?"

"Oh, I just fancied a chat." Catherine sounded cheerful. "Can you hear that noise? Is it too noisy? I'm at the gardening store and it's chockablock in here. The spring onions are finally ready to be dug up, so I'm making soup tonight, and I..."

Noah half-closed his eyes, listening to his mother prattle on about the benefits of homemade compost. A sharp pounding had started in his temples. He wanted to be relieved. Really, he did. But sometimes, he felt that his mother didn't understand that she couldn't simply call ten times out of the blue; it scared the shit out of him.

Noah pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mum?"

She paused, mid-rant about the troubles of root rot. "Yes?"

"Look, I'm sorry. I really need to go."

"Oh." There was a pause. "No worries."

Guilt pinched his chest. He was a shitty son, Noah thought; no amount of flowers could make up for the fact that he never came home, with the exception of the Australian Grand Prix once a year. "I'll call you this week, though. After testing."

"Alright, love." Catherine's voice was slightly too cheerful. "Enjoy preseasoning."

"Love you. Bye."

Noah hung up the call.

He reached for his parachute. Matthew was a red speck in the distance, no bigger than a grain of rice. He shifted closer to the ledge. Blood sang in his ears, and he was about to make the plunge when his phone rang again. A picture of Cedro Fontana dressed in a lobster costume flashed up on the screen.

Noah rolled his eyes, pressing the phone to his ear.

"You'd better be dying," he said.

Cedro's response was immediate. "You are absolutely not allowed to sleep with Amelia Cartwell."

Noah shifted the phone. "What?"

"I've just met her in person," Cedro said. "And she's very..." He said several words in Italian, none of which sounded particularly nice. "Just promise me, Noah."

Irritation pricked at him. Still, Noah kept her voice friendly; sometimes he worried that friendly was the only tone that he possessed. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't go around shagging every fit girl that I meet. I do possess some self-control, you know."

"Promise," Cedro said.

Noah sighed. "This is stupid."

"Say it."

He buckled his parachute on. "It's against the rules, anyway. Didn't you see the email that the FIA sent around?"

"Wood." Cedro's voice was flat. "Say the words."

Noah scratched his ear. Right. He loved Cedro more than Tim Tams and race cars, but he'd had enough people bothering him for one day; he held up the phone to the wind, slapping the speaker several times for good measure.

"You're breaking up, Cedro," he shouted.

His friend's voice was exasperated. "Noah. I know you can hear me."

"Can't... what... I..."

Noah hung up the call.

He stuffed the phone back into his pocket, leaning forward. Matthew had disappeared from view. Open sky greeted him, a bottomless pool of cerulean and sapphire. He inhaled sharply, half-closing his eyes—

His phone rang.

Noah stared at it incredulously. "You've got to be bloody joking."

No photo popped up. Instead, the words "Alex Yarmouth" filled the screen. Noah let out a string of colorful words. If it was anyone else — literally anyone else — he wouldn't pick up the phone. Not even if it was the Prime Minister of Australia. Hell, not even if it was the Prime Minister offering him a knighthood and half of Queensland.

As it was, Noah pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hi," he said.

"Wood." Alex sounded tired. "Is this a bad time?"

"Yes," Noah said. "It absolutely is."

The Mercedes Team Manager sighed. "Right. I don't actually care. Look, I'm just giving you a ring to make sure that you got my email about the car; the engine isn't quite where we want it to be this year." A pause. "But at least it isn't exploding anymore."

"How comforting."

Papers rustled. "Our engineers are on it."

"Good."

"Noah..." The rustling noises stopped. "I meant what I said last year. The sponsors are on my arse. If you don't win this season, then I'm going to have to let you go." Alex's voice was laced with pity. "No hard feelings; it's just business."

Something fierce swelled in his chest. "I'll win."

"I hope so."

Alex sounded like he meant it. Then again, Noah thought, it would be a nightmare to try and find a replacement driver; maybe Alex just couldn't be arsed with the paperwork. He adjusted his parachute again.

"Alex?" he asked.

"Yes?"

Noah checked his watch. "I'm suspended about 14,000 feet in the air. And if I don't jump from this plane in the next ten seconds, I'm going to miss the dropzone and crash into a field of cows."

"That sounds messy," Alex said.

"Exactly."

His Team Manager sighed. "Try not to die. We've spent a lot of money on you."

"Noted."

Noah hung up. Cold air nipped at his face, stinging his eyes and cheeks. The engine was a dull roar in his ears. And as he prepared to jump, the same words pounded in time with his heartbeat: I have to win. I have to win. I have to win.

A/N: Hello lovely readers,

Happy Wednesday! I'm so sorry that this update is a day late, but better late than never, right? (*hides face*)

Also, I've added a Spotify playlist link to this story if you fancy checking it out! I'm open to suggestions, so feel free to send over some songs that fit this story's vibe and I'll add them to the playlist ;)

Affectionately,

J.K.