Chapter 11
Chloe
You’re out of your fucking minds,” Barry says, tearing the end of a burrito as the crew begin to assemble our Austin garage around us.
The garages here are roomier than in Singapore, but right now, there’s very little but a bunch of crates stacked in one end, a few of which still include the disassembled parts of our cars, and about six of the pit crew taping out the floor in front of us.
We’re also literally on the floor, paperwork everywhere, iPads and computers on laps, coffee in various unfinished states around us.
Weirdly enough, this is what I love. Sitting with my team, deep in the weeds. I don’t want to be the kind of team principal who wines and dines celebrities and prances around on the pit lane taking every interview on offer.
I love the science of racing.
“We just want to improve, Barry,” I press.
“But a head of aerodynamics? I thought that was your job,” he says, flicking his head toward a data analyst. The guy who has the PhD in data science and analytics couldn’t be less in charge of aerodynamics.
I spot Matt sauntering in, fresh from another workout, another kind of hideous green drink in his hands.
He’s looking better already. I know it’s only been just over a week since we touched down in Texas, but his face is less red and puffy, his skin clearer. He’s even cut his hair.
Matt grins at me, straw in his mouth, one hand in the pocket of his charcoal shorts.
He looks so handsome today. And the way he keeps looking at me is really fucking distracting.
I have worked hard to keep out of his way, and it has offered some respite in these past days. I just hope I can keep my resolve up.
I turn back to Barry to continue arguing.
“If you want us to climb up a few places, we have to think about what to improve on,” I say firmly. “This is where we should focus. I’m telling you.”
“I’m not a bottomless pit. Even billionaires need to watch their pennies.”
“My heart bleeds for you,” Matt says.
I glance at the pit crew, embarrassed by the tone of the exchange.
“Then wear the fucking sponsor helmet,” Barry shoots back. “And try to do better than eighteenth place so we can get more sponsors,” he says.
“I can’t do any worse,” Matt replies, shrugging playfully.
“Who can’t do any worse?” says Noah, who has also just arrived, box-fresh cowboy hat on, which he takes off and frisbees across the room, landing it perfectly in an open bin.
“You. Seriously, man, you can’t do worse than that hat,” Matt says with a slight smirk. Noah’s face splits into a grin as he joins us. If this is Matt’s attempt at comradery with Noah,it might just work.
“All right, let’s try to look forward,” I say, holding both my hands up to try to keep everyone focused. “There’s no point in going over and over things.”
I hear a scoff half-heartedly disguised as a cough from one of the pit crew, then a snigger from that damn strategist. Now it’s my turn to shrink a little inside.
An angry owner who doesn’t listen to me, two drivers who need to gel, fast, a crew who doesn’t respect me because I’m a PR hire—how am I going to manage it all?
“Chloe is absolutely right,” Matt cuts in loudly, in a deep, commanding tone, which triggers even Barry to adjust his posture. “We should be focusing on the race ahead. I know I’ve got work to do. And . . . um . . . sponsors to attract.”
I glance at him gratefully, but his eyes are on the crew, shooting any unrest down with a pointed glare in their direction. I am almost loath to admit it, but having Matt tuned in, focused, and on my side is a godsend.
I turn back to Barry. “We have the upgrades coming next week, but we really need someone who can approach the entire car with that holistic view on drag to keep developing into next year and beyond,” I say, tipping my head, slightly widening my eyes.
Fuck it, I’ll use all my resources to get what I need, even the girlish pleading puppy dog look. “It really would impact our results.”
Barry is onto me right away, and half grins at the audacity of me trying to sweet-talk him. “More, more, fucking more,” he says, sighing.
“You can hire him outside of the budget cap,” I remind him. “We are allowed to have three people outside the budget cap, and we only have the two right now.”
“So out of my personal money,” Barry says, scoffing. “The audacity. Meeting adjourned. I’m going to get some air.”
Matt sucks his smoothie loudly through his straw, watching Barry leave, then he looks back to me.
“We need sponsors to take the financial pressure off Barry,” I say pointedly. “He’s not the bottomless pit of Rossini. He’s one guy.”
“One billionaire,” he shoots back, unsympathetically.
But I can see a hint of sheepishness on his face.
So much hangs on his performance and his ability to attract sponsors.
He tosses the rest of his drink in the bin.
“Kale, cucumber, avocado, wheatgrass, sea algae, hemp powder, and vegan protein powder. I’m doing enough today. ”
“Matt,” I scold, trying not to smile, as two of the garage technicians tut away behind me. He might be showing me some support, but he’s going to have to work hard to undo the damage of his behavior from last race weekend.
“I’m doing my job, happily drinking the damn pond slime,” he says, raising both hands in the air. “No worries.” He shoots me a cheeky grin, his eyes sparkling.
“Well. I’m pleased to say your seat molding arrived,” I say. “We can do some checks and make sure you’re a good fit.”
“About fucking—” Matt stops himself, appears to take a breath, turns to the crew, who look braced for more criticism. “Sorry. That’s great news. Can’t wait to check it out.”
Three hours later, we’ve made some great pre-race progress.
Noah and Matt are on an iPad watching some of the footage from Singapore, whooping and groaning intermittently.
The pit crew are doing drills and Barry has mercifully left for a seven-course dinner across town with Vanity Fair.
A dinner he wanted me to attend to shmooze, but I declined.
Around seven, I get a call from the reception of the pit garages.
“Ahh . . . Did someone order dinner?” I say, holding my hand over the phone. “There’s a dinner delivery?”
I turn to the pit crew, who don’t hear my small voice as it’s swallowed up by the sound of drills and crashing metal. “Guys!” I shout louder.
They stop their drills and turn to me. “Anyone order dinner?”
“Nah, we’re going out for tacos,” says one. “Last night of fun before we got to knuckle down for the race.”
“Thanks for the invite,” I joke, and when they look incredibly shamefaced, I wave a hand. “Don’t worry. I’m just joking. Have fun!
“Matt?” I say, turning to him.
“Oh yeah,” he says, closing the iPad and looking a little flustered, as he springs up, patting his trousers down looking for his wallet. “That’s my dinner.”
“Do you mind if I take that as our cue, chief?” says Noah. “I got a date.”
Noah glances at Matt, looking for some bro-to-bro nod of approval, which Matt reluctantly gives. “Better not wear that cowboy hat, though.”
Noah beams back at Matt. “See you tomorrow, Dials,” he says and scurries out of the garage before Matt has the chance to strangle him.
“Let’s all call it a night, then,” I say to the room, folding down my laptop and arranging all my belongings into my tote. “Everyone! Same time tomorrow?”
The rest of the crew start to clear up their things.
It was a slightly lighter mood in the garage today.
Matt even tried to act like a nice, normal human being, coaxing some laughs out of the crew.
We might be the shittiest team on the circuit, but there is a little hint of hope with the upgrade.
Let’s just pray it does well in testing.
As everyone clears out, a guy in a bright orange delivery driver outfit walks in with several paper bags filled with food and two six-packs of beer.
His eyes brighten as he spots Matt Warner moving toward him with a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and it becomes quickly apparent that this wasn’t dinner just for Matt.
I hesitate. He bought the crew dinner?
“Matt, what is this?” I say, my voice dropping, but he ignores me, posing for a selfie with the delivery guy, before they slap their hands together in an enthusiastic shake.
“Well,” Matt says, pausing as the last member of the crew leaves through the side door, and we are suddenly, despite all my best efforts, alone once again.
“I thought I’d get dinner for everyone, but I guess I forgot other people have lives.” He laughs, but the smile never quite reaches his eyes. “Got room for a bunch of ribs and an ice-cold beer?”
“Ribs!” I jump up and examine the insides of the bags to find enough ribs, slaw, and warm bread to feed half the pit lane.
My stomach rumbles. I look back at Matt, whose mouth is fixed in a straight line, a hand in his hair, and my heart bruises for him.
I can’t run off and leave him alone with all this barbecue, which smells, frankly, insanely good.
I hesitate, as we catch each other’s eye, and I make the call.
“You know what? I have enough room for ribs.”
You can do this, Chloe. This is a good way to normalize things.
I put my purse down and pull a foil pack of ribs from one of the bags, tipping my head for Matt to join me. “Come on, then. Is there any barbecue sauce in there?”