Chapter Twenty
Victoria
Ilya decides against making me the team’s errand girl during setup.
Instead, he sticks me with the engineers.
I manage to interface with the analysts back in HQ, and after promising Oliver more cookies than I can ever bake, he gives me access to their live telemetry feed.
It’s a bit outdated, but it does what I need it to do: track metrics during the race without any delays.
If my model doesn’t lag, it’ll tell me exactly what I need to know to make recommendations for Asher.
I don’t see the surly driver much during setup—he spends a lot of time with team management. I catch him a few times in the hotel lobby, but we only have a few minutes to talk. After spending hours every day with him for two weeks, the distance feels kind of wrong. I almost miss him.
By the time qualifying rolls around, I’m a bundle of nerves.
I’ve tested the parts of my model I’ll be using over and over again, and the system as a whole is solid enough, but I’m terrified that I’m missing something.
Positions determined in qualifying could set the scene for massive success or major failure; where the drivers place today determines where they’ll start on the grid tomorrow.
It’s not a deciding factor for race outcome, but it heavily contributes.
The only people at the pit wall are me, Ilya, Declan, Ethan, and Elio’s engineer. Since I’m a last-minute add-on, I have to stand next to Ethan. My tablet is clutched in a death grip as I watch Asher get buckled in.
“Elio should be able to make it to Q2,” Declan says, referring to the second round in the three-round qualifying knockout. Each round, the slowest drivers get eliminated, until only the top 10 fight for the front of the grid in Q3. “Asher will probably be knocked out in Q1.”
Anger singes up my spine, but I keep my mouth shut. Asher’s brought this doubt on himself, but still… it frustrates me just how much he’s dismissed.
Ethan swivels in his seat to face me. “Don’t distract me during sessions, yeah? If you have something to say, wait until the break in between.”
We never did get around to talking on the flight here, and he’s been pretty short with me each time I’ve tried to approach him this week.
My brows slam down. “I’ll be giving you advice that you should feed Asher. It’ll be directly from my model.”
“I have a model, too,” Ethan responds drolly. “And I’ve been working with mine for years. Stay in your lane, greenie. If you don’t get in my way, we won’t have any problems.”
“Ethan, you’ll want to hear my input for Asher—” the pit lane light goes green, and cars start filing out onto the track.
In qualifying, there’s no grid or formation—drivers just head out whenever their team sends them, chasing the fastest timed lap, or flying lap, they can manage within the session clock.
I gaze down at my tablet, where I’ve already made notes for a broad strategy based on everything I’ve collected from Asher’s time in the simulator.
My fingers tighten around it so much it’s a wonder the screen doesn’t crack.
“Disaster time,” Ethan mutters under his breath.
I glare at him. I do not like his tone, or his assumptions.
“For strategy, you should recommend—” the session clock starts counting down from the eighteen minutes allotted to Q1.
Immediately, Ethan starts speaking rapid-fire. They’re standard—get the tyre temperatures up, warm the brakes, make sure the battery’s fully charged before the flying lap—so I don’t interject, but nerves flutter at my breastbone.
Asher’s under the impression that Ethan and I are collaborating. If Ethan gives an order that my model and I both disagree with and Asher does poorly because of it, he might take it out on me—like he did two races ago. He might blame me. Back then, that just pissed me off; now it would hurt.
“Alright, we’re going to start with two out-laps,” Ethan says. Two warmup laps to bring the tyres and breaks up to temperature before Asher even attempts a timed run. In an eighteen-minute session, that’s over four minutes gone just circling the track at reduced speed.
“No,” I cut in, even though Asher can’t hear me. “One out-lap, then a flying lap.” That’ll work with Asher’s habits and strengths far more effectively than wasting track time.
Ethan lowers his microphone. “Shut up,” he hisses.
“This is the way he always does it.” Ethan’s voice is low, but not quiet enough to avoid attention.
Declan’s eyes flick toward us. Elio’s engineer pointedly turns away, pretending not to hear.
The space on the pit wall suddenly feels too small and cramped, like everyone is aware I’ve overstepped.
Maybe I have, but the way he always does it hasn’t been doing him any favors, now, has it?
My jaw clenches. Waiting an extra lap before having Asher push isn’t the end of the world, but it’s not optimal, either.
“Then have him do back-to-back flying laps,” I say, trying to think on my feet.
“Again, no, and for the love of god, shut it. You’re here to observe, not direct.” Ethan flips the microphone back down. The word observe is filled with derision and lands hard.
Intern.
Girl.
Extra body on the wall meant to be invisible.
And, as always, second best.
My blood just about boils, and I bite my tongue until I taste blood. If I make a stir, I’ll get kicked off the pit wall, and then I won’t have any input.
But I don’t have any input now, either. I’m standing two feet from the man effectively holding Asher’s fate in his hands, and I may as well be invisible.
After his two out laps, Asher does his first flying lap—a full-speed run that’s timed and determines his placement in the grid—before Ethan immediately brings him back down. “Cooldown lap.”
That’s standard. Drivers need them to manage tyre wear and let the brakes cool between flying laps.
But one cooldown lap bleeds into two, which bleeds into three.
I watch the session as the clock ticks while Asher just…
circles. Lap after lap at gentle speeds, until his car cools far past the point of any benefit.
This isn’t just a conservative strategy; it’s not a strategy at all. Ethan’s doing the absolute bare minimum to get Asher classified. His flying lap places him at P20, but I know he could do better.
I gaze down at my algorithm and find that its suggestion is in line with my intuition.
“You have to send him back out,” I say urgently. We’re running out of time to make real progress. “Have him do a banker flying lap,” a safe, fast lap that locks in a decent time, “then go all-out for a second flying lap. He can do better than P20.”
Ethan doesn’t respond. On screen, the session clock ticks under six minutes. Every second Ethan wastes is a second that Asher will not get back.
Five minutes and fifty-nine seconds. Five fifty-eight. The numbers keep bleeding down, and my anxiety shoots to the sky.
“Ethan,” I hiss. He still doesn’t respond.
I look up, desperately searching for something or someone to agree with me—and meet Ilya’s eyes.
He arches a challenging eyebrow, as if taunting, what are you gonna do about it?
There’s no help in his gaze, no correction or intervention; just calculation.
He’s watching me the way he watches live telemetry, waiting to see if I spike or flatline.
That’s when it hits me. He put me in this tough predicament to see how I perform under pressure. If I stay silent, I’m forgettable, and if I speak, I’m reckless. Either way, Ilya’s taking notes.
Will I fold and let someone else make the wrong call, or will I rely on my model, my intuition, and everything I’ve learned about Asher and fucking apply it?
My next move is something that could well get me fired, and it’s completely impulsive. My pulse hammers so hard I’m certain it’s visible in my throat, and my hands tremble with anxiety, but I know what I have to do.
I rip off Ethan’s headset, slap it over my ears, and say into the microphone. “Asher, two flying laps now. Banker first, then another one immediately. Everything you’ve got on the second.”
Translation: one slower flying lap, and then one all-out flying lap. Both of them will be timed.
For half a second, the entire pit wall freezes, and all eyes swing to me. I’m breaking every protocol imaginable and risking my neck in the process, but if I don’t, Ethan will keep making a fool of Asher.
My recommended strategy is risky in itself; if it fails, I’ll be the one making a fool of Asher.
Ideally, Asher would have an out lap to warm his brakes and tyres before two consecutive flying, timed laps, but there’s not enough time left on the clock for that.
So, I’m hoping that his banker lap will serve the purpose of a usual out lap.
Not having a cooldown between his first and second flying laps could also cause issues, but he’s run this in simulations before. I know he can do it.
And I know that if he does well, he’ll place a lot better than P-fucking-20.
“Got it.” Asher’s voice is labored, but contains a hint of warmth. I glance up at the screens tracking his car, a thrill like static electricity charging the air when he takes my instructions, puts the car into boost mode, and flies across the course.
Ethan snatches his headset back, giving me a glare that almost makes me want to shrivel. Almost, because his directives were shit.
“Are you fucking insane?” he hisses furiously. “Lawrence’s tires are shot—”
“They’re not. They can take two more flying laps.”
“You don’t know that!” Ethan explodes. “You can’t do that!” he looks at Ilya, who watches our exchange with a bored expression.
Ilya waves a hand at the screen, where Asher’s sector times are coming in live. He’s already well ahead of his earlier flying lap. “Give her the headset, Ethan, and stop being a prima donna. We have enough drama with our drivers already.”