Chapter 42
JACK
SINGAPORE
We’re coming to the stage of the season where a hot mix of desperation and exhaustion causes nothing but carnage on track. Who doesn’t like carnage? The driver at the top of the leaderboard. That would be me.
I want nice, smooth races. Races without restarts; races without safety cars; races without everyone around me making stupid mistakes on the first corner.
I’m not here for an easy ride but this late in the season, the costs are staggering and the pressure’s even worse.
To be within touching distance of the Championship and lose it in on the home straight would live with a driver forever.
With a measly seven races to go and Martinelli too close for comfort, I’m not ashamed to say I’m bricking it. The only driver I’m not supposed to worry about is my teammate. He’s been given strict orders to defend me and put Pagari first. You know, teammate shit.
Tell that to the racing line he’s just taken, almost clipping my rear wing.
I’ve been doing my best to ignore him for the last forty-six laps – if he jeopardises anything, and I do mean anything, he’ll get his balls handed to him by Lorenzo – but he’s way too close for comfort.
He’s running on fresh tyres and has been tearing them up lap after lap, hitting times to rival qualifying.
And now with one lap to go, he’s clogging up my rear mirror as if he’s going to overtake on the straight.
Yeah, right. Like Lorenzo would let that—
He’s making a move. Fucking hell, he’s using DRS to level with me.
‘Yo!’ I bark down the radio. ‘What the actual—’
‘I don’t know what he’s doing.’ My race engineer sounds panicked.
There’s not much I can do without getting my elbows out, and that’s far too risky.
Marina Bay’s an uber-tight street circuit with hardly any run-off areas.
The smallest mistake would guarantee both Pagaris are DNFs and Martinelli are scooping up our points.
My tyres are on their last legs. I can’t do anything.
I didn’t even think I needed to because HE’S MY FUCKING TEAMMATE.
‘Mayday! Mayday!’ I holler.
But he’s already in front. The finish line’s around the next corner. I couldn’t take the position back even if I had factory-fresh tyres. He’s won. He’s won the Singapore Grand Prix.
‘I don’t know, Jack. I don’t know.’
Why the fuck was I so complacent? This is Micah Adetunji.
Why did I think he’d bow down to team orders?
He technically didn’t jeopardise my race, but he wasn’t meant to steal my points either.
He’s supposed to defend. I’m the number one driver.
I’ve beaten him fair and square in twelve of the fourteen races Pagari have won this year.
I’m the number one driver for a god-damn reason. He can’t outqualify me; he can’t overtake like me; he can’t manage his tyres like me; he can’t defend like me – but he can take advantage of my complacency. I’m such an idiot. I just sat there like a duck!
‘Jack,’ says a different voice over the static. ‘It’s Lorenzo. We’ll talk to him, don’t worry.’
I remind myself every single thing I say will be beaming live across the world, and no one likes a sore loser. ‘What a result for the team,’ I say through gritted teeth.
The crowd are going ballistic as I stop behind the number two spot and hop up onto the chassis.
I’m one big ball of sweat; the humidity here’s horrific.
I raise my arms in celebration even though the last thing I feel like doing is celebrating – more like smacking him over the head with the champagne bottle.
I have to take the higher ground. One thing I’ll always have on him is public perception.
Volare’s Tiago Cabrera pulls up in third place and his raw delight at making the podium for the first time makes me feel like an ungrateful prick.
After brief interviews, we file into the cool-down room, cameras clocking our every move.
I’m a mask of quiet confidence even though inside I’m writhing.
An almost three-time World Champion doesn’t worry about one near miss.
He’s not threatened by his teammate. Me, on the other hand – I want to chuck a brick through his window.
You couldn’t tell who’s won by appearances alone.
Tiago can’t stop beaming, Micah’s his usual expressionless self, and I’m towelling off so roughly it’s exfoliating.
I take my place on the podium and watch as Micah flashes a closed-lipped smile to the crowd and waves. It takes all my restraint not to plug my ears during our national anthem and throw my bottle of Moet on the floor.
My veneer disappears the second I’m back in the privacy of our Team Hub.
I seize Micah by the back of the neck and shove him in the comms office.
His reflexes are quick but not that quick, and before he knows what’s happening, my forearm’s pinning his chest to the wall.
I’m bigger in every way. I don’t have to sweat hard to detain him while he struggles.
I’ve wanted this all season and boy does it feel worth the wait.
‘What the fuck was that?’ I demand.
He rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be a sore loser.’ I drive my elbow higher, forcing a cough out of him. ‘I’m a racer, Jack. I’m not here to be the Robin to your Batman.’ His voice is strained but not quite a wheeze.
‘We’re part of the same team!’
Finally anger breaks through his neutral facade. ‘It’s not a team sport! To Lorenzo, yes, but to us?’
‘Of course it is! Who makes you look good, Rambo? Hm? You’d be nothing without the team.’
‘If the roles were reversed, you’d be happy defending me? Really?’
‘I’d do what I was told without question.’
‘You’re so full of shit.’
I push harder and he inhales sharply. I’m not being tough. He’d know if I was. Guess they don’t rough and tumble at private school breaktimes.
‘You’re full of shit,’ I counter. ‘Do you know the damage you’ve done? To me? To Minnie? You know you nearly got her fired? She has nothing to do with this. She’s an innocent bystander.’
Am I imagining things or did shame just pass over his face? ‘I didn’t do anything to Minnie.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘I asked her to interview me. Did I ruffle her a bit on the hot lap? Yeah. Did I want to get back at you for Silverstone last year? Obviously I did. But I never tried to get anyone fired. I actually valued that interview, if you must know.’
‘Your dad has been threatening to take Channel 3 to court. That sounds pretty—’
‘Nothing to do with me. I didn’t even know until recently.’ He looks like he’s telling the truth but I’ve known this lad too long to fall prey to his calculating ways.
‘You took that picture in Holland. I don’t have proof but I will.’
He blinks slowly like he’s tired of this conversation.
‘I’m not the only one in the paddock fed up of your winning streak, Jack.
Everyone knows it was RaceX – like it would help them with that suspension system.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Accuse me of whatever you want but I’m not as dirty as you think I am.
You’re doing a good enough job screwing your relationship up yourself. ’
Scheming twat say what? ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Course you don’t,’ he says through an out-breath. ‘I might be a hard racer and I’m not above messing with my opponents’ heads, but at least I don’t lie to myself. Not like you do.’
I don’t—
His uppercut comes out of nowhere. Pain spears straight through me. The world blurs. I double over, spluttering and clutching my middle. I think I’m going to be sick.
‘Dickhead,’ I squeeze out.
‘Yeah, yeah, tell that to my trophy,’ Micah mutters, shutting the door behind him as I tumble to the floor.