Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
Bex
I ’ve spent the entire day unpacking, arranging and then rearranging the contents of my new flat in Guildford. We flew back from Jeddah this morning and I didn’t even consider resting. I jumped right into getting my new home organized because tomorrow, we start preparing for the Melbourne race. My father was a workaholic and used to say, “I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
I’m thinking a little of that has rubbed off on me.
But it’s evening now, and I’m finally done. I have everything put away and the boxes broken down and in the rubbish bin. I took a hot bath, wrapped myself up in a fluffy robe, and now I’m curled up with a glass of wine.
I glance around, noting the lack of artwork and knickknacks. The sole framed photo is one of my family on a small desk near the window where I work in the evenings. A pinboard on the wall is already cluttered with notes, strategy charts, and photos from past FI2 races for inspiration.
I rented this flat close to the Guildford headquarters, sight unseen as I didn’t have time to shop around, and when it boils down to it, I’ll hardly be here. Between working with my team locally and traveling to races, I’ll have very little downtime.
And even if I did, I’d probably still work anyway. I don’t have any friends here, and the few I had back in Vienna weren’t close enough that I’d consider going on a holiday to visit. My family is close in spirit, but we’re all spread apart. My parents are still in London, although retired. My father, Rick, was with Union Jack for over thirty years and my mom, Margaret, retired this year from nursing. My siblings are all amazing overachievers like me, but no one is nearby. My brother, Jamie, is in Edinburgh and works as a professor of environmental sciences. My sister, Cate, is a nurse practitioner in Bristol, and my other brother, Tom, is a software developer in Cardiff. We have a group chat that is active on a daily basis, but we really can only get everyone together at Christmas.
I consider calling Cate, the sibling I’m closest to, but I’m tired and languid. I talked earlier to my dad who wanted all the details about the race. He watched it, of course, and helped me break apart the dynamics of my strategy compared to what actually happened with two egotistical drivers. In the end, he provided validation that I didn’t really need but was appreciated. “Keep your chin up, Bex. You’re going to be an amazing success one day and those idiots who don’t understand that now will regret it.”
My new flat is modest but charming, with exposed brick walls and large windows that let in a soft, golden glow from the streetlights outside. The kitchen is small but functional, with white cabinets and a black granite countertop. It will hardly get used since it’s so hard to cook for one person and lucky for me, the Guildford campus of Titans Racing has an incredible cafeteria.
I take a sip of wine and let my head rest back on the couch, the tension from yesterday still prickling under my skin. The race in Jeddah did not go to plan, to put it lightly. But it wasn’t my strategy that failed—it was my drivers. I’d like to say they’re not good enough to handle the stress of it, but they are. They simply didn’t want to listen to me, and I can only gather it’s because I’m a woman.
It was not a pretty sight after the checkered flag was waved. Lex Hamilton took first, Carlos second, and Reid Hemsworth held on to third. Titans Racing didn’t partake in watching the podium trophies or spraying of sparkling juice (since champagne isn’t allowed).
Instead, we gathered in a debriefing room large enough to hold twenty around a conference table, but the group was small—just me, Luca, Hendrik, Nash, Bernie and Matthieu. I knew it was going to be a bloodbath by the look on Luca’s face. Bernie didn’t finish the race and Matthieu ended up at P11, one spot out of the points.
The walls of the room were bare except for a large screen showing a replay of the race, with telemetry data running underneath it. Matthieu and Bernie slouched in their seats like sulking schoolboys, while Luca and Hendrik stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with quiet intensity. Nash stood beside the door, casually leaning against it with his hands tucked in his pockets.
Before we walked in, Luca had touched my shoulder and said, “This is your meeting to start. I’ll finish.”
I was fired up, pissed at all the lost opportunity because of big egos, and the moment Matthieu opened his mouth, I pounced. “You screwed up big time,” I said.
“Your strategy was shit,” Matthieu whined, his French accent thick with disdain. “The undercut wouldn’t have worked.”
I didn’t even blink. “It absolutely would have worked if you’d followed the call. Reid used it and look where he finished.”
Matthieu’s jaw tightened. “That’s different. His car—”
“Is comparable to ours,” I cut him off, my voice sharp. “The data doesn’t lie, Matthieu. Your lap times were falling off a cliff, and instead of trusting the process, you decided to play hero. You cost not only yourself a shot at the podium but crucial points that this team needs. And for what? To prove you’re smarter than the data?”
Bernie looked like a caged animal when I turned to him. “And you… you think you’re smarter than the data?”
His gaze dropped, refusing to look at me.
Fucking coward. “Because you couldn’t have patience and follow the plan, you tangled with another car and damaged yours beyond repair. You ignored my call to maintain pace because you thought you knew better and look where that got you—retired.”
Bernie bristled, but I didn’t let up. “You want to know why you’ll never be more than a backup driver, Bernie? Because you think this is a one-man show. It’s not. This is a team sport. And until you figure that out, you’ll be sitting exactly where you are—on the second string.”
The room was deathly silent as Bernie sank lower in his seat, his face a mix of anger and humiliation. I turned back to Matthieu, glaring at me like he wanted to throw something. “Matthieu,” I said in a low voice, filled with a request to listen to reason. “If you keep ignoring strategy calls, you won’t win anything. You’re not just sabotaging your races—you’re sabotaging the team. And let me be clear, I’m not going to get fired for this. You are. So go ahead and keep acting like you know better. See how long it takes before Luca and Brienne decide you’re not worth the trouble.”
His face darkened, but before he could respond, I went in for the kill. “And one more thing—your attitude toward me? The dismissiveness, the arrogance? I have a hard time believing you pulled this crap with the previous chief strategist. So unless you’re going to tell me you’ve suddenly developed a personality flaw, I can only conclude it’s because I’m a woman. You need to get over it because I’m not going anywhere.”
Nash rubbed a hand over his mouth to hide what I know was an amused smirk. I saw Luca and Hendrik exchange a glance and I swear, Luca might have been trying hard not to smile.
But it slipped right off his face when Matthieu confronted him. “Are you going to let her talk to me that way? I’m the fucking driver and she’s just an engineer. Without me, you have an empty car.”
I don’t know how things are done under Luca’s leadership and he’s new in the position. It’s true the drivers have more clout than I could ever hope to have, but I am a senior management executive with this team. I provide a huge part of the formula for success, and I’m the one who puts driver and car on the road to victory.
Luca didn’t answer Matthieu at first and turned to Bernie. He merely nodded to the door. “I’d like you to leave.” He then looked to Hendrik and Nash. “I’d like you two to step out as well.”
Oh shit. Luca was clearing the room, and it was just going to be me, him and Matthieu. I immediately became concerned I’d overstepped, wondering if I’d just flushed my career before I’d even gotten started.
Matthieu looked smug as Nash was the last to leave and then turned his ire on me. He pointed an accusing finger. “Let this be a lesson in the way that—”
“Shut up, Matthieu,” Luca growled, slamming his hand on the table, causing both of us to jump. His glare was ice cold. “The only thing you’ve proven to me today is that you don’t know how to be a team player, and in case you didn’t notice, this is a race team. Titans Racing employs a little over eight hundred people at any given time, and this woman”—Luca pointed at me—“is one of the most important. Without race strategy, we win nothing. Without engineering, we fail. And without a fundamental belief that you depend on Bex to make you the best possible driver, then you are not worthy of being on this team.
“From this moment on, when you speak to her, you do so with respect. When she tells you to pit, you pit. When she passes you in the hall, you fucking smile at her. Anything less than that and I’ll get involved, and that’s going to make me very irritable. You saw how fast Brienne Norcross moved when she wanted Nash on this team. Imagine how fast she’ll move when I inform her of your disrespect to our chief strategy engineer. Now, I don’t intend to talk to you about this again. I’m only going to ask you one question: Do you understand me fully?”
Matthieu’s head bobs so fast, I’m afraid it might fall off his shoulders. “I understand,” he rasped, his face red with embarrassment, eyes wide with shock.
Luca kept his gaze pinned on his driver but asked me, “Do you have anything to add, Bex?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m good.”
And that was that.
Matthieu left without another word and Luca called Hendrik back in so we could break down the race and file the data away for a rainy day.
Snuggling into the couch, which is quite comfortable thankfully, I replay Luca’s words to Matthieu. They were brilliant and seem to sound better every time I go over them. It was such validation that my strategy was spot-on, and it set the tone for behavior that will be expected among the team. I certainly don’t know what type of team principal Michel Dubois was, but I’m grateful to be under Luca’s leadership.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts, and I set the glass down, tying my robe tighter as I head to answer it. I met one of the neighbors today, a lovely widow who seemed very lonely, and I invited her over for tea when she had a chance.
I glance through the peephole, expecting sweet Mrs. Hensley with her iron-gray pin curls and bright red lipstick. Instead, I see Nash standing there in a casual hoodie and jeans. But it’s what he’s holding that leaves me momentarily stunned—a six-pack of our favorite beer from our Vienna days.
I hesitate, wondering what the hell he’s doing here, before unlocking the door and swinging it open. “Hey?”
It comes out as a question.
He smiles sheepishly. “Figured you might need to talk about Jeddah. If you want to—or not. Your call.”
I stare at him, unable to fathom what’s going on. Sure, we made amends, and I feel good that we’ll have a working relationship with no issues going forward, but this… this isn’t business.
“I should have called,” he says, looking past my shoulder. “If you’re busy…”
Waving a hand at my robe, I say, “Just relaxing with some wine. I’ve been unpacking all day.”
Nash laughs. “Should have sent my mom over to do that for you. She’s got me all squared away.”
“Did they go back to the States?” I ask.
“No. They’re going to stay the rest of the week and hang out in London a bit to do some shopping and other shit. They’ll go to Melbourne to watch me race.”
I nod, holding the lapels of my robe closed.
“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks, rattling the six-pack.
“Oh my word, yes. Sorry. Come in.”
I back up, usher him in and shut the door. He immediately walks into the small efficiency kitchen, places the beer in the fridge, and asks, “Want a beer or are you going to stick with the wine?”
I’m flummoxed by his visit and even more so by him bringing the beer that we would often sip while relaxing at our shared home. We’d sit on the couch, propped up on opposite ends with our legs intertwined, and talk for hours. It seems a little too… personal, so I shake my head. “I’ll stick with the wine.”
The scent of his cologne—a mix of something woodsy and fresh—lingers as he moves past me into the living room, setting his beer down on the coffee table.
I follow behind, picking up my wine and settling on the couch. Nash takes the other end and looks around. “Nice place.”
“It’s got a roof and comfortable furniture. All I need.”
He nods and sips his beer. “Remember that couch we had in Vienna, and you kept swearing it moved when you sat on it, and I thought you were crazy?”
Laughing, I give him an admonishing glare. “It was moving. I can’t believe it was a mouse!”
“I didn’t know they could live in the cushions like that.” He chuckles, and says quietly, “You had a really shitty day yesterday and you were always the type to bottle things up. Thought you could use a sounding board.”
“Oh, well… thank you,” I murmur, completely flummoxed by his thoughtfulness. But then again, that’s classic Nash. He was always so intuitive about my feelings and always gave me that safe space to talk.
“So, how bad was it after I left the room?” he asks, leaning back and watching me with those piercing hazel eyes.
I didn’t see Nash after that. He was gone when Luca, Hendrik and I filed out, and while I saw him on the return flight to England, we weren’t sitting near each other and didn’t speak. “Actually, it wasn’t bad at all. Luca had my back—”
Nash holds up his hand. “I mean… how bad was it for Matthieu? I assumed Luca had your back.”
Chuckling, I curl my feet under me and rest my wineglass on my thigh. “Yeah, well… I’m glad you had more faith in me than I did. But let me tell you, Luca lit into Matthieu hard. He could barely say anything when Luca was done.”
“What could he say?” Nash snorts. “You pretty much put both Matthieu and Bernie in their places and they deserved it. You had a winning strategy, and those two dipshits fucked it all up.” He takes another sip of his beer. “You really handled yourself well. I was impressed. You didn’t back down, didn’t let Matthieu or Bernie steamroll you. That’s not easy, especially with egos like theirs.”
His praise surprises me, and I feel a flush creep up my neck. “Thanks. It didn’t feel like I was handling it well in the moment.”
“That’s because you’re in the thick of it,” he says, his voice low and steady. “But trust me, Bex—you’re doing exactly what you need to do.”
The sincerity in his tone loosens something in my chest, and for the first time since Jeddah, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not in over my head.
But I want to change the subject. “Are you getting excited about Melbourne?”
“Yeah, of course I am,” he says. “Got the expected nerves but looking forward to getting in the car this week.”
Nash has only been in the simulator, but this week we’ll take him to Silvercrest so he can practice in the real deal. He sets his beer down, only half emptied, and settles back on the couch. Propping one foot on his knee, he drapes his arm over the back of the couch, and I can’t help but notice the back of his hand just a foot from me.
The skin is ridged, some of it red and glossy with white patches. It’s not the first time I’ve looked at them the past few days, but it’s the first time I’ve seen them so up close. He notices me looking and doesn’t say a word.
“Are you fully recovered?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He lifts his hand, holds it up and twists it back and forth as if studying it. “It was just damage to the skin. Luckily the muscles and tendons were fine, and the grafts helped with the elasticity, so I don’t have too much tightness.”
He drops it back onto the couch and my eyes move to his. “What happened?” I ask quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, I think he won’t answer. I mean… I know what happened, as does everyone who was in formula racing. We saw it happen in real time, watched replays, read all the news articles and then even broke the crash down within our own teams so we could learn from it. It was horrendous losing Matteo Ricci that way and no one wanted to see it happen again.
But I’m not asking that.
I’m asking what happened to Nash because that’s something I’m not privy to. We had broken up and my one attempt to reach out to him was shot down.
“It was the third lap,” he says, his tone as if he’s watching it from a muted distance. “Matteo and I were side by side, going into Turn 3. He clipped me—just barely—but it was enough to send us both spinning. When we hit the barriers, my car caught fire almost immediately.”
I hold my breath, not daring to move a muscle to distract him from what I’m guessing isn’t a pleasant retelling.
“The flames were everywhere. I could hear Matteo screaming and I was trying to get out, but the heat… it was unreal. My hands…” He trails off, flexing his fingers. “They were on fire. I was on fire. And Matteo…”
His voice cracks on the last word, and a lump rises in my throat. “Nash…”
He shakes his head, holds up a hand. “For a long time, I blamed myself.”
“No,” I exclaim. “The race stewards analyzed it thoroughly and Matteo came onto you. There was nothing you could have done to avoid it.”
“I blamed myself for not getting him out,” he clarifies.
“No,” I say again, shaking my head adamantly. “I watched that video a dozen times. There was no way you could have. The investigation revealed his harness locked and he couldn’t get out. You couldn’t make it past those flames. There wasn’t a single thing you could have done to help him.”
Nash tips the beer up, takes three long swallows. I watch his throat working and he gives a mirthless laugh. “Yeah… that’s what I’m told over and over again, but it’s still…” He shrugs, studying the bottle label, as if he can’t quite put it into words.
“Hard to understand how you made it out and he didn’t?” I guess.
Eyes lifting to meet mine, he looks surprised but nods. “Yeah… it makes no sense. Why am I the lucky one?”
“Why are you questioning it?” I counter. “It just happened.”
Nash shrugs. “I guess.”
“Why does it matter? You’re alive and that’s what’s important. At least to me, anyway.”
Nash jerks, looking at me in question.
“What?” I exclaim with a laugh, standing from the couch and taking my nearly empty wineglass into the kitchen. “I’m allowed to care for you, you know.” I glance over my shoulder. “Want another beer?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I grab a bottle for him, top off my wine and settle back onto the couch. He takes the beer from me. “Cheers.”
“So tell me more about your recovery from the injuries?” I ask before taking a small sip of the red. “You had to have multiple surgeries, right? I can’t imagine that was pleasant at all.”
“Oooph,” he says, rubbing a free hand over his head. “That’s a long story.”
I hold up my glass. “We’ve got wine and beer. We can order Thai takeaway if you want.”
He considers the offer, which means not just food and drink, but a bit deeper discussion than either of us had probably anticipated we’d get into after we called our truce.
Nash smiles and inclines his head. “All right… let’s order some food and we’ll catch up.”