Chapter 3 Sebastian
Sebastian
Madrid
The air was thick with the smell of gasoline, and I realised I was exactly where I wanted to be.
I had missed the feeling of being on the grid, in amongst the action and ready to race.
It had only been three months since the end of the last season, but it always felt longer.
I had been practicing in the new car and felt confident of my ability.
I just had to do my best not to crash and burn like I had last year. My contract was on the line.
Across the paddock, I spied him. Theodore Tyler.
My Teodoro. He was talking with Brooke Savage, one of the other Brits on the grid and the only woman.
She touched his arm as she leaned in to say something and he leaned back and roared with laughter.
It had been a long time since I’d made him laugh.
Up until our chance meeting on the beach in Andalucía it had been a long time since I had seen him smile my way.
I was happy to slowly work my way back up to a laugh.
“Head in the game, García,” said my team principle, Magnus. He was a gruff American in his late thirties, and a constant pain in my ass.
“My head is in the game, chief.” I tried for a quirky smile, but I was sure it came out as a grimace as Brooke leaned in for a hug with Theo.
“Sure about that? If you really want to ask Brooke out, I’m sure she’d let you down gently.
” Magnus laughed like he’d told the funniest joke in the world.
I just huffed and headed back into the shade of the garage.
It was a seriously hot March, and the air conditioning was a blessing.
Being inside also took Theo and Brooke out of my line of sight.
Naturally, and annoyingly, Magnus followed.
“I was just joking, kid,” he said. The cars were in their bays, and a team of mechanics was working on each, fine tuning them and even sticking tape over some of the joins.
Moto 1 was one of the most high-tech sports in the world, but some high-tech problems needed low-tech solutions that wouldn’t break the bank.
“What were you joking about this time?” Damien said.
He was our chief mechanic and technology officer, who’d designed the car we were driving but was never afraid to jump in and help fix things when they went wrong.
His hands were oily from fixing some issues that had turned up in my third practice session.
“Don’t touch me!” Magnus shouted as Damien lunged for him, and I turned my head awkwardly as Damien pulled Magnus in for a passionate kiss, oily hands and all.
They’d been insufferable since their feelings had come to light at the end of the season before, and now that they were living life in the open as the first same-sex couple even barely connected to Moto 1, they seemed to be taking every chance to touch each other in public.
“You can take him to HR, you know,” I whispered to Damien.
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked. They separated, and Magnus gave Damien a tap on the ass as he sauntered back towards the car. “Back to work!” Damien shouted at the mechanics that were gawping at them.
“I’ll ask you again. Is your head in the game?” Magnus asked me more seriously. “I need you to be at your best today.”
“You saw my practice laps. You know I can do this,” I said.
“I know. But I saw your practice laps last year. And then I saw you fail as soon as you got to qualifying. Or a fantastic qualifying and then a royal fuck-up in the actual race. I thought you had real bad luck, but then I wondered if you’d lost your nerve.”
“Then why am I still here?” I asked.
“Because I wanted you here. Now go out there and perform. I need you to be the best you’ve ever been so I can justify you being our main driver and keeping you on. Little Frankie is nipping at your heels.”
I resisted the urge to kick something. Of course Frankie was nipping at my heels, his father owned Remini, the sports drink which gave the team its name. He could be coming twentieth in every race and Magnus would still have to talk about him like the sun shone out of his ass.
“I’m going out onto the grid,” I muttered.
“Head in the game, García,” said Magnus. I just flipped him the bird as I walked back out into the warm March sunshine.
My feet knew where I was heading before my brain did.
I sidestepped some commentators and celebrities on the grid, and made my way over to the ZX Computing garages.
Brooke and Theodore were still talking. Still laughing.
She still had one hand on his shoulder, and his was dangerously close to landing on her waist.
So I did what any self-respecting Spaniard would do. I utilised every stereotype about not respecting personal space to slide between Theodore and Brooke, arms over their shoulders, and gave them each a kiss on the cheek.
“Hola, mis amores,” I said. “How are we both?”
Theo, reddening, extricated himself from under my arm and gave a weak smile. “Ready to whoop your arse.”
Brooke laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”
Theo reddened ever further and took another step backward. Brooke hadn’t moved, but at least they were further apart now. Not that it mattered to me. At all.
Theo Tyler just did something to me that I couldn’t explain. The Spanish sun had barely kissed his skin, turning it just a couple of shades darker than his usual alabaster, but it had lightened his hair to a shocking light blond.
Brooke leaned in to the improvised hug. “It’s nice getting hugs from the competition so close to a race,” she said. “Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.”
I spotted a film camera approaching and quickly dropped my arm. “Well, if she’s watching TV, your grandma is about to start feeling all warm and fuzzy about you hooking up with me. Do I hear wedding bells?”
Brooke punched my arm. “Grandma would have a shock, she’s the one who caught me snogging Amy Jones in her spare bedroom back in high school.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you…”
“Batted for the other team?” Brooke laughed. “I don’t shout about it, but I’ve never hidden it either. But seriously, a woman working in motorsports. I don’t think I could get much more stereotypical.”
Theo laughed, though it sounded forced. “Yeah, get with the times, Seb. Gay is OK, it’s the 21st century.”
“You know what,” I muttered, “screw both of you. I’m going to sit in my car in silence until Qualifying.”
“Love you!” Brooke called as I stalked away.
“Capullos!” I shouted back. Perhaps the minutes spent figuring out what that meant would stop them from coming after me.
Qualifying sometimes felt tougher than the races themselves. The first qualifying session had run for eighteen minutes, and cut down the number of drivers from twenty to ten. The second had cut the field down to ten drivers. Ten who remained to determine their places for the next race.
Qualifying didn’t mean what it used to. All the drivers who competed would get their chance to race nowadays, but qualifying determined the order we would start tomorrow’s race.
After crashing out in the first qualifying session, Rebel Force’s Alfons Schester would be starting tomorrow’s race in twentieth place.
Brooke had barely lost out on the third Qualifying session by coming eleventh, so that’s where she’d start the race.
Me? I had scraped into the the last qualifying session by the skin of my teeth, coming tenth. The best thing about continued survival was that I could do much better in this third session. The worst I could be is what I’d already managed.
Unlike a race, Qualifying started from the pit lane.
We didn’t all have to be on the track at once.
Whoever had the fastest lap would start at pole position.
Twelve minutes to set the fastest lap time possible.
We had waited six minutes already, just to see the lie of the land and to get most of the other racers off the track.
I knew Theo had yet to set a time either, and I wondered whether they were following an identical strategy.
“Do you want to start on the softs?” Damien asked, pointing to a pile of tyres stacked up against the pit wall.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead. “Yeah, why not?” Soft tyres degraded much faster than medium or hard, but provided the best speed up-front until they started to fall apart. They would do for a couple of laps of qualifying.
I situated my helmet back on my head and strapped it in securely as the pit crew swapped out my old set of tyres for a fresh set of softs, and wheeled me out into the pit lane.
I didn’t have to switch the engine on as the team wheeled the car out on its big trolley and set it down in the pit lane.
They disengaged the trolley, lowered the car to the floor, and only then did I push the button to turn on the engine.
When given the signal to go, I pulled out into the lane proper and then onto the track.
I zigzagged across the track on my first lap to warm up my tyres and use up a bit of gas, to lighten the car.
“You remember our strategy? Two laps, all out. We’ve loaded up enough petrol in your car,” said my race manager through my helmet comms. I responded in the affirmative as I took one of the sweeping turns in the middle of the track.
Madrid had been purpose-built for the new season, and the drive was beautifully smooth.
The track was partly a dense inner-city circuit using existing roads, but some parts had been created especially for racing, and allowed the cars to reach a fantastic speed.
I approached the second-to-last turn, a real hairpin, and then the last, and I was on the straight to the finish line.
I floored the gas. It was time to let loose and drive for 2 laps.
The wind whipped at my helmet as I sped through the starting line, and my lap time officially started.
I had to do at least a second faster than I’d managed in Q2 to get into the top five.
I knew I could do it if I pushed myself hard, on new soft tyres.
My second lap would be slowed down by the condition of the tyres, but that would be balanced out by using up enough fuel in the first lap that the car would be much lighter and therefore faster in the second.
Motor racing in Moto 1 was all about balance. And speed.
And adrenaline. Because these laps mattered so much, it felt like the car was gliding under me. Even when I had to overtake one of the Aston Martin drivers on a narrow straight, I managed to without losing speed. I felt proud of my first lap as I approached the finish line.
“More of that, please,” said my racing manager through the comms.
“How did I do?” I asked.
“Just focus on the next lap, then box and we can talk.”
Right. I kept my foot on the throttle on the straight, shooting past Theo, who was coming out onto the track for his out lap. I would not crane my head to look at him. Would not be distracted by his presence on the track. I had to be cool, calm and collected. And not think about Theo…
I jerked the wheel and braked late going into the first corner, and felt the car fishtail as I fought to gain control back over it. Idiot. No more Theodore Tyler.
I urged my car through every corner, taking risky braking moves that shredded the surface of the tyres in an effort to make up for lost speed from my mistake.
I was keenly aware that Theo was right behind me, using my speed and slipstream as a tow so that he could start off his own lap at speed.
As I reached the final straight, I floored it past the finish line, hoping desperately that I had done enough.
As I eased off the throttle and the lights turned red to stop anyone starting a new lap, Theo shot past me like a rocket.
He was aiming to be the last person on the grid, and I could have bet that his team were feeding him my lap time even before I knew it.
“Good one today, mate,” said my racing manager. “That lap was brilliant. You’re currently slated to start third.”
I grinned. I could win from third place, with a little push.
It wasn’t until I pulled into the pit lane after one slow lap that my team’s expressions confirmed it for me. One pointed at the track and held up a finger to indicate that Theo had come first. And that would push me down into fourth.
Theo Tyler had managed one hell of a lap. Perhaps I’d be pulling back on the betting this time around.