Chapter 11 #2
“Proper mother of the year, that one.” Cin steers me back through the rear exit and away from the eyes and lenses that might catch the cracks in my composure. “Though I’m shocked she’s at a race. Thought they were too ‘filthy and noisy’ for her delicate sensibilities.”
“Apparently, Singapore’s incidents require maternal intervention.” The laugh that crawls up my throat sounds unhinged, even to me. “She’s already scheduled interviews. Mother-daughter bonding over being female pioneers in motorsports.”
“Pioneer? Her?” Cin snorts. “That woman wouldn’t recognize a racing line if it drove her Louboutins heels up her arse.”
That startles a real laugh out of me. Trust Cin to know exactly how to deflate Kelley’s pretensions.
“Right.” She considers me with steely attention. “You’re too wound tight for meditation, and we haven’t got time for proper sparring before sprint qualies. But I know where we can find something to hit that isn’t your mother’s perfectly arranged face.”
“Cin.”
“Tonka.” She loops her arm through mine. “Championship points are on the line. You need your head in the game, not dealing with her bullshit.”
She’s right. The fury burning under my skin is fueled by a lethal concoction of old pain and fresh anger.
We reach COTA’s F1 fitness center, scanning our paddock credentials at the secure entrance. The main area hums with drivers and performance coaches focusing on race prep. Cin guides me to a private training room.
Rigo remains near the front door. I don’t always see him, but the man is never far.
“Booked this as soon as I heard she was here.” Cin codes in and the entry beeps and turns green. “Figured you’d need somewhere without an audience.”
The room’s small, but perfectly equipped with a heavy bag in the corner, mats on the floor, and blessed quiet. Most importantly, it’s secure. No cameras, no press, no chance of Kelley manufacturing another memento maternal.
“Twenty minutes.” Cin pulls hand wraps from her duffel and begins wrapping my knuckles and wrists. “Then shower, protein shake, and we get you to Bowie for sprint strategy. Because that’s what matters, Pet. Not KHM’s games, not her PR stunts, not her selective maternal instincts.”
“You know what kills me?” I stare at the clock on the wall as she works.
“Rich sent flowers for my birthday. Rich, who has zero obligation to remember or give a shit. But she forgot again.” I shake my head.
“Twenty years, Cin. She’s missed twenty years of everything, but thinks she can swan in here and manage my image. ”
“Because image is all she understands.” Cin finishes my right hand. “Racing’s a photo op to her and you’re an accessory.”
“A rather dirty, noisy accessory.” I mimic Kelley’s affected tone. “‘Really darling, couldn’t you have chosen a more feminine career? Perhaps modeling? Though you are rather short...’”
“Monaco, 2021.” Cin rolls her eyes. “Right before you put that car on pole and made her eat her words.” She finishes the left hand, then pushes me toward the heavy bag.
“She’s going to make a scene.” I throw my first punch, satisfied by the impact, even if my hand still aches a bit. “You know she is.”
“Let her.” Cin holds the bag steady. “You’ve got Coy, the team, me. Hell, even Richard’s on your side. She’s just noise, Petra.”
“Expensive, designer noise.” Another punch, harder. “Who uses ‘Hayter’ when she wants something.”
“Speaking of which...” Cin’s tone turns careful. “You know what triggered this appearance?”
Combo. Left-right-left. “Besides Singapore?”
“Besides that.”
“The driver’s championship.”
“You’re the first woman to seriously contend for the title.” Cin nods. “Rather camera-worthy moment that.”
“Bitch is positioning herself for the record book.”
“Probably already has the outfits planned.” Cin adjusts my form slightly. “But here’s the thing, Tonka. You know what really drives her mad?”
“What?”
“You don’t need her. Never have.” My cousin’s smile turns fierce. “So show her. Channel all this fury into qualifying. Remind everyone that you’re here because you earned it the hard fucking way.”
“Because I’m a Hayter?” I throw another combination.
“Because you’re better than all the boys.” Cin’s never wavered in her absolute conviction. “You’re faster, sharper, and more determined than all of them, and they know it.”
I nod. “I’m my father’s daughter. Not Kelley Morrison’s prop.”
“Damn fucking right you are.”
The truth of it releases the last of the fury that had knotted up my chest and reveals the calm center I need for racing.
“Now.” Cin checks her watch. “Ten more minutes of hitting this, then we focus on what matters.”
“Racing?”
“Racing.” She grins. “The thing your mother finds so distastefully dirty and loud.”
“Her loss.” I square up to the bag again. “Some of us like getting our hands dirty.”
“You know what else would drive her mental?” Cin braces the bag as I work through combinations. “If you ignore her. No reaction, no drama. Just focus on the car.”
“While she’s trying to arrange mother-daughter interviews?” Another punch, remembering Kelley’s calculated smile. “She’ll escalate.”
“Let her.” Cin catches my rhythm, anticipating the next sequence. “She’s got no power here, Tonka. This is your world, not her social circle. What’s she going to do? Complain to the FIA about your lack of filial devotion?”
I snort. “Can you imagine? ‘Gentlemen, my daughter refuses to acknowledge my carefully orchestrated maternal concern. Surely there are regulations about this?’”
“‘It’s simply not done in proper racing families,’” Cin mimics Kelley’s affected tone. “‘Now, I’ve ordered matching fireproofs and pink Louboutins for our coordinated photoshoot.’”
We’re both laughing now and my tension is bleeding away. Thank fucking God for Jacintha. She always helps me find perspective, usually through saintly patience and targeted ridicule.
“Right.” She checks the time. “Shower, protein, then the garage and Bowie. Your mother may not understand racing, but I guarantee Nico Belmonte’s not letting family drama affect his preparation.”
I freeze. “What’s Nico got to do with anything?” The minute I ask that, I know I’ve shown my hand.
Her slow, evil smile confirms it. “Excellent question.”
“We were just...” I haven’t told her about the karting session and the conversation interrupted by Kelley’s text.
“Just what?”
“Talking… about nothing important.”
“Oh, sure.” Cin hands me a towel. “Like this morning’s practice times weren’t important? The ones where you were pushing each other to go faster?”
“That was racing.”
“Uh-huh.”
I head for the showers, pretending I don’t hear her quiet laughter behind me. I’ve got sprint strategy to focus on, setup changes to discuss with Bowie. I don’t have time to think about karting sessions or almost-moments or whatnot.
Racing. Strategy. Speed. Those are your focus, Petra.
Everything else is just noise.