Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX | MONDAY
My ringing phone drags me from sleep far too early. Sunlight barely filters through the hotel curtains, and my hand throbs in time with my pulse. For that matter, so do my shoulders, arms, back, hips, and neck. I squint at the screen.
Dad. Brilliant.
“Morning?” I manage, trying to sound sleepy rather than guilty.
“Care to explain why Wyn Pritchard’s sporting a bandaged nose and two shiners and hashtag-What-Happened-At-The-Blue-Wall is trending?” No preamble. Obvious rage. Not good. “And why there are photos of you leaving the bar right before he emerged looking like he’d been in a fight?”
Photos? I sit up, suddenly wide awake. “What?”
“Check your social media. Then get your arse downstairs to the meeting room.”
“Dad—”
“Thirty minutes.” He hangs up.
My social feed has exploded with speculation.
There’s me entering The Blue Wall looking a bit murderous (fair enough).
Nico watching me from the bar. (When had that been taken?) Wyn, very obviously drunk.
Then me leaving, face composed but knuckles red.
Bugger. The last shot shows Wyn with Harun in a back hallway, blood smeared on his face and spotting the front of his white shirt.
Yes, he most definitely looks like he lost a fight, but will anyone buy the story of the wall as the winner?
The comments are wild:
Did anyone see what happened???
Karma for that move yesterday
El Conejo looks concerned
TPs are gonna lose it
I strip off my pajamas, down three ibuprofens, and catalog yesterday’s damage in the bathroom’s full-length mirror.
Purple bruises mottle my left hip and knee where my car hit the first wall.
More bruises mar my right ribs, shoulder, and arm from pirouetting into the second barrier.
The swollen knuckles of my right hand blend in with the rest of the injuries. I hope.
I text Jacintha:
Got a meeting with Dad in 20 mins. Brekkie after?
Then I pull my hair back with an elastic and brush my teeth.
Her reply is slow to come, probably because she’s still pissed at me. After supper last night, I told her I’d meet her in her room for stretching and heat therapy to help with my recovery. I might’ve been a no-show because, well, my fist had a prior engagement.
Fine.
Oh, yes. She’s proper angry. Which is fair and deserved.
I wrap my hand to reduce the swelling, then throw on a Nitro team vest so no one can miss my bruised arms. Next come trackies and my favorite trainers, then I head down to the meeting room the team’s been using.
The hotel’s busy. Everyone’s packing for Austin, and many have already left.
Claudia intercepts me, already in damage control mode. “Straight to the meeting, Petra. Don’t say anything to anyone. Not even ‘Good morning.’”
Dad and Reece are already there when I enter. Reece’s expression is unreadable, but that’s one of his tells, so I know he knows something.
“Sit.” Dad doesn’t look up from his phone. “Bowie’s on his way with company.”
That’s when the door opens and my race engineer enters.
Followed by… Nico?
Bloody hell. What’s he doing here?
“Right.” Dad looks up. “Let’s talk about what really happened at The Blue Wall last night.”
“You said Wyn’s sporting shiners and a bandaged nose.
Presumably he mixed it up with someone? No surprise, considering how shitfaced he was when I left.
” I hold Dad’s gaze, knowing he sees right through my act, but hoping he’ll approve it for the worldwide audience. We all have to be on the same page.
Which is why I’m puzzled by Nico’s presence.
“Petra Lison Meris Hayter, cut the bullshit. Everyone’s seen the pictures of Wyn’s face and your right hand. Explain yourself.”
Oh dear.
Dad’s definitely not happy, but I’m committed to the bit, so I hold up my hand before he builds up any more steam.
“I don’t know much about Wyn’s face, but I got knocked around pretty badly in the crash yesterday.
Would you like to see the rest of me? I look like I’ve gone ten rounds with an elephant.
” I hike a thumb in the direction of our garage.
“Or we can go look at my car. I think they got most of it off the track.”
His eyes narrow, taking stock of my bruised arms and the careful way I’m holding myself. There’s concern there, warring with suspicion.
“The press want answers.” Dad’s tone shifts to Team Principal mode. “About the crash, about last night, about why my driver and Nico Belmonte were seen trailing an obviously inebriated Wyn Pritchard toward the gent’s room.”
I tilt my head, and the wince that follows is real. “I can’t speak for Nico, but has it occurred to the media that I had to piss?”
Reece snorts. Bless him.
Nico, the tosser, lounges in his chair like it’s perfectly normal to start his day in another team principal’s office after witnessing me deck his teammate mere hours ago. His grey eyes catch mine for a moment, and I swear he’s as amused as my teammate.
“I spoke with Wyn in the gents,” he drawls, Spanish accent making him sound smoother than I know he is.
“He was, as many have noted, quite drunk. He stumbled and hit a wall. These things happen when you can’t handle your champagne, and vodka, and whiskey, and whatever else he was drinking.
” He shrugs. “Hitting walls is going around this weekend.”
Reece snorts again. When I glance his way, he’s studying the ceiling with suspicious intensity.
“And you’re here out of concern for your teammate?” Bowie asks Nico, voice as dry as Bahrain.
“I’m here because Roxana suggested it would be prudent to ensure our stories align. About the incident.” His gaze cuts to me. “With the wall.”
“The wall,” Dad repeats flatly.
“The very solid, very unforgiving wall.” Nico’s lips twitch, and he focuses back on Dad. “Unlike some drivers, it didn’t move out of the way.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Or possibly screaming. Trust Nico bloody Belmonte to turn this into a commentary on his teammate’s driving.
“Pet.” Dad’s using his ‘this could be serious’ voice now. I almost feel bad for him. He’s been dealing with all of us since we were snot-nosed kids. It can’t be easy to balance history and responsibility. “If there’s anything—”
“I got knocked around in a crash yesterday.” I meet his eyes steadily. “A crash, I’ll remind you, that happened because the stewards have decided running competitors off the track is acceptable racing protocol if you’re a Pritchard.” I glance at my teammate. “No offense, Reece.”
He dips his chin. “None taken.”
“I left the bar early because I was sore and tired. Whatever happened in the gent’s room is between Wyn and his wall.”
“And Nico?” Dad’s focus stays glued to me.
“Was apparently being a good teammate.” The words taste bizarre in my mouth. “Though I can’t imagine why.”
Nico straightens, all traces of amusement gone. “Some things matter more than team politics.”
“Like not having your teammate’s shitty behavior reflect badly on the whole grid?” I challenge.
Something flashes in his eyes. “Exactamente.”
Dad sighs and exchanges a look with Bowie. Then he sits back. “Fuck off, all of you. And do your best to avoid the press for the rest of the week.”
“And when we can’t?” Reece stands.
“Stick to the story about Wyn and Petra meeting unforgiving walls.”
I stand, but Dad adds, “You and I have a meeting with the race director at ten thirty hours, Pet.”
“About Wyn’s face?”
“About the crash.”
“Good.”
He pins me with a heavy stare. “Don’t bring up The Blue Wall, even if they do.”
“Understood.”
Out in the hall, Reece falls into step beside me as Nico disappears into the lift.
“Brilliant punch, Tenacious P.” My teammate’s voice is pitched low, meant for my ears only. “Your hand positioning was better than his defensive driving.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Please.” He cuts his gaze to me. “I've lost count of how many times I've wanted to put his face through a wall over the last few years.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Graham.”
Exactly the answer I expected.
Graham Pritchard has a chokehold on his sons.
Well, on Wyn. Over the last two seasons, Reece has cut the cord on his father’s control, wresting his independence from the man who, yes, gave him and his brother the opportunity to become world-class drivers, but at the expense of their self-determination.
I don’t know the full story behind Reece’s transformation from cold-bastard Pritchard to a guy I love having on my team, but I know Maiken played a large part in it.
“Come on.” Reece catches my sleeve, and ducks into the stairwell instead of catching the lift.
I sigh as the door closes behind us. “Your father’s going to be livid.”
“Graham’s always pissed off. It’s his natural state.” Reece leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. “Besides, he’s more worried about the sponsors than Wyn’s nose. Image is everything, right? Can’t have the Second Coming looking like a hooligan.”
The anger in his tone gives me pause. “You okay?”
“Mm. Funny thing about your crash yesterday.” He’s lowered his voice even more.
“Wyn told me Graham was on the radio right before it, telling him Nico was catching up. That he had to stop being a fucking pussy and letting his teammate and… that British bitch outperform him. Same shit, different day.”
My eyes go wide, not because of the insult.
I’ve heard that and worse plenty of times.
No. I’m shocked because Graham Pritchard has zero fucking business being on the radio with one of his sons during a race.
That’s the purview of Wyn’s racing engineer, Gael Faucheux, and WolfBett’s team principal, Marcus Wolfberg, and the latter only in rare instances.
No one else should be talking to a driver during a race.
No. One. That’s an unbelievable distraction for a driver and a danger to them and everyone else on the track.
“Shit. Reece. Was he distracted or was it deliberate?”