Chapter 7 #2
“Petra?” Bowie waves a hand in front of my face. “Sprint format? Austin setup? Any of this ringing bells?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I drag my attention to him and Zara. “What are you lot thinking?”
We dive back into technical discussions, but part of my brain keeps returning to that gent’s room, a pair of steady grey eyes, and an unexpected ally.
“…it’s good to have backup.”
But I have to wonder, What’s his game?
Sharing a private jet with coworkers and my father isn’t exactly romantic, but there’s something intimate about being forty thousand feet above the earth in the middle of the night.
Most of our team personnel fly commercial airlines in business or first class, but Reece and I and our physios ride with Dad, Asuka, and anyone else they want aboard for planning.
It’s a twenty-four-hour trip to Austin, Texas, and most everyone is asleep.
Dad’s snoring softly, Cin is curled up with her tablet still glowing, Reece is stretched across two seats with his hood up, and Maiken’s asleep opposite him, looking as flawless and fabulous as ever.
I should be sleeping too. Instead, I’m staring out the window, mind spinning. The cabin’s dim lighting throws my reflection against the glass. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my expression is raw.
I made the mistake of checking social media, and the rumor mill is churning out bullshit overtime. Which, fine, let people speculate all they want. I don’t worry about that. Except it’s still got me thinking about Nico Belmonte.
Fuck.
I clench the armrest harder, trying not to remember exactly how he’d looked in that gent’s room, then at the meeting in Dad’s office. He’d defended me without hesitation, and his support felt like grip on fresh rubber.
Nico’s always been more relaxed with me than he has with most of the other drivers.
People think he has a stick up his arse, but I know that’s not the case.
He’s seen the ugly underbelly of F1, nothing he talks about, but I know Junior’s a major source of friction.
It’s always surprised me that he’s stayed with WolfBett, but Nico Belmonte never does anything without a bloody good fucking reason.
That includes shoving his nose into my business with Wyn Pritchard.
Why’d he do that?
I think about the Azerbaijan Grand Prix.
It’s the last race I won. I’d nailed qualifying and nabbed pole position, and Nico was second.
In parc fermé, he’d high-fived me and said, “Outstanding lap, Hayter. I’ll have fun chasing you tomorrow.
” He’d said that with real feeling rather than the usual coolness he’d adopted when he’d entered F1, and it had stuck with me.
That memory shouldn’t make my pulse quicken, and it shouldn’t matter more than any other post-quali conversation with another driver. But it does.
He’d grinned then. “Might have to steal your line through the castle section.”
“You can try,” I’d replied, matching his smile. “Might want to work on your exit speed from the main straight first, though.”
Nico had laughed, the sound drawing the focus of nearby photographers. “There she is. I worried pole position made you diplomatic.”
“Never that, Bunny Boy.”
Next I think of Monza in Italy, and his quiet fury when one of the midfield drivers had suggested my qualifying time was “suspicious.” He’d shut down the whispers with cold precision:
“I wouldn’t question someone who’s always faster than you.”
The number of times I’ve overheard women talking about Nico Belmonte.
“—those shoulders in that suit—”
“Those shoulders in anything.”
“Or nothing…”
I close my eyes, but that’s worse. Because now I’m remembering the way his jacket had stretched across said shoulders in The Blue Wall, how he’d moved with that controlled power that all great drivers have, their bodies as well tuned as their cars.
Bloody hell.
I press my forehead against the cool window.
Shut up, brain, you stupid git.
He’s the rival standing between me and the Drivers’ Cup. And he’s the man who stood between me and consequences without hesitation.
“Water?” Cin appears like a mind-reading angel, offering a bottle. “Or something stronger?”
On second thought, sod her for knowing me too well.
“Water’s fine.” I keep my voice low and accept the bottle. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“Shouldn’t you?” She settles into the seat beside me. “Instead of brooding about Spanish drivers with hero complexes?”
“I’m not—” But the denial dies at her raised eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s known you your whole life.” She smirks. “There’s quite a list of women who’ve tried, and failed, to keep his attention over the last decade.”
“They’re welcome to him.” I uncap the bottle.
“Mm.” Her smirk widens. “I’m sure they appreciate that lie.”
I turn back to the window. “This is a stupid conversation.”
My cousin whispers, “You know, he hasn’t given anyone a second look in three years.” She tilts her head. “Since you entered F1, none of the paddock princesses who throw themselves at El Conejo have received the time of day.”
“Fascinating.” I take a long drink of water, wishing I’d opted for something stronger. “Also irrelevant.”
“Is it?” She looks pointedly at my hand, still wrapped from its encounter with Wyn’s face. “Because he didn’t have to cover for you and risk his relationship with his team.”
“It wasn’t about me specifically.” The words sound false even as I say them. “He just... Nico hates bullies. Always has. You know that.”
“True.” She settles back, studying me with that too-perceptive gaze. “Remember what he said in Shanghai after your first F1 podium?”
Of course I remember. I’d finished second, behind Nico and ahead of Aigar.
The champagne had been sweet, victory sweeter.
But what I remember most is after, when the cameras had finally turned away.
Nico had stopped me as we were leaving the podium and said, “Welcome to where you’ve always belonged. ”
I shake my head. “That was just professional courtesy.”
“Was it? Because I remember watching him watch you during the anthem. The way he kept glancing over, like he couldn’t quite help himself.”
That earns her an eye-roll. “You’re reading too much into it.”
“Barcelona in parc fermé when he said there’s no one he’d rather yield to?”
“He was talking about racing.”
She turns sideways in her seat and looks at me from beneath her perfectly shaped brows. “When you took first in Monaco last year?”
I know what she’s talking about. In the cool-down room, waiting for Lynch, Nico had leaned close and murmured, “Today was just another step toward what we both know is coming, Petra.”
I cut my eyes at her, regretting telling my cousin about that. “He meant the championship.”
Didn’t he?
Cin isn’t giving me an inch of space. “Singapore? Sunday night?”
I close my eyes. “Definitely about racing.”
She makes a little snorting noise. “Keep telling yourself that, Tonka.” She stands, stretches, then leans close. “But also ask yourself why you’ve memorized his post-race press conferences. Or why you always know exactly where he is in a room. Or why—”
“Shouldn’t you be planning my weekly workouts or something?”
Her soft laugh feels like surrender and victory all at once. “Sleep well, Petra. Dream of racing.”
I flip her off, but there’s no heat in it. We both know she’s right, even if I can’t admit it.
Because doing so means acknowledging that somewhere between “he’s my rival” and “he’s got my back,” Nico Andrés Belmonte became something else entirely.
Something that makes my chest tight and my pulse hammer in ways that have nothing to do with speed and everything to do with how he says my name when he thinks no one’s listening.
“Fuck.” This cannot happen. Not now. Not with him. Not when everything I’ve worked for is finally within reach.
Nico is a distraction I can’t afford or trust. I haven’t forgotten Reece’s warning. Nico Belmonte is a world champion and he didn’t get there by playing nice-nice with all the other drivers. He’s not above psychological warfare. None of us are, and I owe it to my team and myself to remember that.
Besides, I know what it’s like to think I was loved only to be left behind. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people I truly trust, and all three of them are aboard this plane.
Of course Graham Pritchard’s timed this perfectly. The mass of cameras and reporters waiting just inside COTA’s paddock entrance tells me everything before Claudia can even open her mouth.
“He’s live now.” Her fingers fly over her phone as our team car pulls up to the track. “Going full concerned father, worried about ‘dangerous rivalries’ and ‘unsportsmanlike conduct’.”
He should’ve held this at COTA’s media center, but Graham needs everyone to see his show.
Because that’s what this is, a performance.
He’s assumed his “authority figure” stance, the one he uses for cameras that makes him look like he has a tire iron shoved up his arse.
I loathe that the man treats racing like his personal reality show.
I hate even more that everyone goes along with it.
Claudia pockets her phone. “Ready?”
I check my reflection in the window. Dark hair smooth, pink streaks perfect, media smile firmly in position. Nothing showing of the woman who spent half the flight thinking about grey eyes and hidden meanings.
“Always.”
Jacintha touches my arm as I reach for the door. “You don’t have to do this, Pet.”
I tip my chin toward her. “You know I do.”
The October air is warm and dry as I step out. Cameras swing my way immediately, but Graham doesn’t miss a beat.
“—speaking of which, here she is now.” His smile is as real as Astroturf. “Ms. Hayter, care to comment on the growing concerns about driver safety?”
“I’m always happy to discuss safety.” I match his tone exactly. “Especially regarding dangerous driving during races.”
The gathered press shifts, scenting blood in the water. Graham’s smile tightens.
“I was referring to off-track incidents—”
“I’m more concerned with on-track incidents.” I gesture to the circuit behind him. “Like deliberate contact at high speeds and forcing competitors into barriers. The kind of behavior that endangers lives.”
“Now, see, this hostility is exactly what we’ve been discussing.”
“My concern is racing, Mr. Pritchard, and fair competition, and making sure every driver, regardless of their name or connections, follows the same rules.”
He steps closer, using his height to try to intimidate me. Typical middle-aged male power move. Not a fucking chance. Rodrigo flanks me, though I don’t need protection.
Cameras click around us.
Graham almost sneers. “Rules like not assaulting fellow drivers?”
“I wouldn’t know anything about assault.” I keep that professional, camera-ready smile plastered on my face. “But I do know about walls. Very solid things, walls. Unlike some drivers’ commitment to safety.”
Murmurs spread through the press. Graham’s mask slips, flashing something ugly underneath.
“My son—”
“Has a history of dangerous driving that the stewards are finally reviewing.” I start walking. Rodrigo, Claudia, and Cin move with me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, PNW Nitro has a race to prepare for. Unless you’d like to discuss actual racing incidents?”
He doesn’t follow, but his voice does. “This isn’t over, Ms. Hayter.”
“Good, Mr. Pritchard.”
It’s not until we’re inside Nitro’s business unit that I let my shoulders drop.
“That’s going to be everywhere in under ten minutes,” Claudia mutters, already typing.
“Let them talk.” I grab my gear bag from Cin. I need to focus on racing, not politics. “I’ll do my speaking on track.”
“Yes, but what will the sponsors say? That’s what I need to control.”
I face Claudia. “Tell them I’m a driver who fights for the win the right way, and I’m willing to scrap on track and off.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s all but admitting you punched him.” Shaking her head, she points at herself then me. “I’ll figure it out. You don’t say anything to anyone else, Petra. You’re making me earn my salary this month.”
“Petra.” Reece’s voice is low as he strides down the narrow hallway that leads to our driver’s rooms.
Bloody hell. I’d hoped he wasn’t at the circuit yet. “You saw that?”
“Yeah, and Graham gets extra prickly when he’s challenged publicly.”
“I know.”
Graham Pritchard loves to make racing his personal soap opera and manipulate his sons like bloody storylines.
“But someone has to say ‘enough’ to his bullshit, Reece. You shouldn’t have to and Wyn wasn’t there to do it.” Which is interesting. Where is the Pritchard prodigal?
Cin’s chewing her lip as she follows me to my room. “Does it have to be you?”
“No, Cin, but it just is.” I close the door and drop my bag. “I didn’t choose this fight. But I sure the fuck won’t let Wyn and Graham run over me.”
“Even if going to war costs you everything?” Her worry is written all over her face, and I love my cousin that much more.
I give her a huge hug. “It won’t.”
I hope.