Chapter 32 Scaffolding
SCAFFOLDING
Apex Headquarters, Shoreditch
Because the contract still wasn’t finalized.
It was drafted, printed, sitting in a red folder on the corner of Thea Blackwood’s glass desk. Senior Correspondent, Global Motorsport.
Base salary: double what I made in Philadelphia. Travel budget: enough to follow every race. Start date: January 2026, covering the full next season.
“How’s the revision to the American motorsport piece coming?” Thea asked, appearing at my desk with coffee and the kind of focused energy that made Apex successful. “The Pocono analysis was brilliant, but we need broader context for the print feature.”
I pulled up my draft, scrolling through 2,800 words comparing European and American racing culture. “Almost there. I’m working on the conclusion about whether F1’s American expansion is sustainable long-term.”
“And your conclusion?”
“Depends on American drivers succeeding consistently. Netflix brought curiosity, but sustained interest requires sustained success.” I paused, choosing words carefully.
“Someone like Hirsch winning races helps, but one or two drivers aren’t enough to build a permanent fanbase.
You need multiple American drivers competing at the front. ”
“Speak of the devil,” Thea said, nodding toward the television mounted above the features desk. Sky Sports was running a summer break special: “Championship Contenders,” featuring extended interviews with the title fight’s main protagonists.
Jonathan appeared on screen in a professional studio. He looked rested and confident, wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit that made his eyes look impossibly blue.
Very different from the exhausted, doubting man who’d left my hotel room at Spa.
“The championship fight is closer than anyone expected at this point,” the interviewer was saying. “After Spa, you’re third in the standings, forty-three points behind Verstappen. How do you assess your chances going into the second half of the season?”
“I’m focused on our own performance rather than the standings,” Jonathan replied with diplomatic precision.
“Spa was frustrating. We had the pace for a podium but couldn’t execute.
But we’ve won twice this season, and the team’s making progress.
The points will take care of themselves if we keep doing our jobs. ”
I found myself studying his body language, the way he carried himself with practiced confidence. This was his public face, the one that didn’t show doubt or fear or the questions he’d asked me in private.
“Any truth to the rumors about your personal life affecting your racing?” The interviewer’s tone carried the subtle probing that characterized British motorsport journalism.
“My personal life is exactly that, personal,” Jonathan said smoothly. “What happens on track is all that matters for the championship.”
Thea glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. “Interesting non-denial.”
I tried to look professionally curious rather than personally invested. “Tabloids always speculate about drivers’ relationships. Comes with the territory.”
“True. Though speculation becomes news when it’s accurate.” Thea’s smile suggested she suspected more than I’d revealed. “Just remember our conversation about transparency. Applies to everything, not just race coverage.”
After she left, I stared at the television where Jonathan was discussing technical regulations and tire strategies with the kind of detailed knowledge that separated champions from merely fast drivers.
My phone buzzed with a text.
JONATHAN: Watching Sky Sports?
WALDO: Unfortunately. You look very sexy in that suit.
JONATHAN: Elena chose it. Says I need to look “championship caliber” for these interviews.
JONATHAN: What are you working on?
WALDO: Why American motorsport is different from European racing. Riveting stuff.
JONATHAN: Miss you.
Those two words hit harder than they should have. We’d been apart for eight days since Spa, maintaining contact through texts and occasional phone calls, but the physical separation was more difficult than either of us had expected. Especially with the unresolved tension between us.
WALDO: Miss you too. How much longer in Germany?
JONATHAN: Two more weeks. Team wants me here for simulator work and fitness testing. Plus Dad insisted on some family time.
WALDO: And then?
JONATHAN: Then we figure out how to make this work for the rest of the season.
I screenshot the exchange and forwarded it to Thea with the subject line: Disclosure - August 3, text exchange with J. Hirsch.
Her response came back: Received. Keep documenting.
The guardrails were still in place, even during the summer break.
August 10th - Video Call
We settled into a routine of late-night video calls when both our schedules allowed. Jonathan appeared on my laptop screen at 11 PM British time, looking tired but more relaxed than he’d been at Spa.
“Are you in your childhood bedroom? Is that a Manchester United poster?” I asked, noticing the faded decoration behind him.
“Don’t judge me. I was twelve and impressionable.” His smile was warm despite the pixelated video quality. “My parents are in New York at the moment, so it made sense to stay here. I’m close to both the Hirsch offices and the Meridian training facility.”
“How’s the training going?”
“Brutal. My trainer says I need to be in better shape for the championship fight.” He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognized from when he was processing something difficult.
“The simulator work is paying off, though. We think we’ve found some aerodynamic improvements. Won’t know for sure until Zandvoort.”
“And… how are you doing? Really?” I asked carefully. “After Spa?”
His expression shifted, became more serious. “You mean after I had a minor existential crisis and asked you an impossible question?”
“That would be the one.”
“I’m okay. Better than I was.” He shifted on camera. “Waldo, I’m sorry I put you in that position. Asking you to choose between being honest and being supportive, that wasn’t fair.”
“You were frustrated. The car let you down.”
“The car let me down, and I took it out on you.” He looked directly at the camera. “For what it’s worth, I’ve been thinking about what you said. About being one of the ten best drivers in the world. About championships being as much about engineering as driving.”
“Do you believe it now?”
“I’m trying to.” He smiled ruefully. “The time away has helped. Some perspective. And Dad had some surprisingly insightful things to say about performance and expectations.”
“Michael Hirsch, philosopher?”
“Shocking, I know.” Jonathan laughed. “He told me that the only difference between good and great is whether you let one bad result define you. Said that Spa was just one race, and I’ve got thirteen more to prove myself.”
“Wise advice.”
“Coming from a man who built an empire by refusing to accept limitations, yeah.” Jonathan’s expression softened. “He also asked when you’re visiting. Says he wants to have dinner with both of us.”
I sat up straighter. “Your father wants me to visit?”
“He’s decided you’re good for my racing. Says I’m more focused when you’re around, that my post-race interviews are more thoughtful.” Jonathan grinned. “Plus I think he likes you. Which, given how protective he is, is saying something.”
The admission caught me off guard. Michael Hirsch’s approval had seemed grudging at best during our Silverstone dinner, but apparently Jonathan’s two wins and improved performance had convinced him that our relationship was beneficial rather than distracting.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think I’m tired of living on my own and having conversations through screens.” His voice grew quieter. “I think three weeks is too long to be apart.”
After the call ended, I sat in my London flat staring at the blank screen, processing the conversation. Jonathan seemed better, more grounded, less consumed by doubt. But the question from Spa still hung between us, unresolved.
Did I think he was championship material?
And more importantly: could our relationship survive if the answer was no?