Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Saturdays are crazy on race weekends, more so when there’s a sprint race. After coming down from the high of the sprint win, I immediately had to pivot mentally for qualifying because winning Saturday’s sprint doesn’t give you pole for Sunday’s race.
Richard finds me as the post-qualifying business is winding down around the track. “Outstanding racing today, Petra.”
“Thanks, Rich.” I return his hug.
“Can we chat when you have a minute?”
“How about now? Otherwise it’ll be Monday before I have time.”
He nods. “Walk with me?” He leads me to where the transport trucks are parked, far from the ears and eyes of the paddock.
His usual easy manner is strained, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his worn jeans.
“Kelley came here with a plan. Several, actually. All of them involving your reconciliation in front of as many cameras as possible.”
“Of course she did. She always has something brewing where I’m concerned.” The leftover adrenaline from the sprint turns sour in my stomach. “Let me guess, she’s suddenly remembered she’s my mother now that I might make history?”
“She’s giving interviews about the sacrifice she made.” His voice carries rare bitterness. “How stepping back let you focus on racing without family pressure, and watching from afar has been the hardest thing she’s ever done.”
“Watching from afar?” I snort. “Is that what she calls abandoning a six-year-old for richer prospects?”
He’s that richer prospect but, weirdly, that’s never tainted our friendship. I respect Richard Morrison, enough to always be bluntly honest with him. Especially about his marriage to Kelley, because I’ve never understood what he sees in her.
Okay, that’s not entirely true. I understand more than I like to admit.
Richard was her first love, the one she left to marry Dad when she got pregnant with me during their torrid, whirlwind affair.
Six years later, she went back to Rich, choosing love over motherhood.
He’s spent twenty years living with a woman who abandoned her child to be with him, and I think the guilt of that eats at them both.
Richard nods. “Fair question.”
“I’m curious about this revised history she’s writing. Does it mention how she can’t remember my birthday but never misses a photo op?”
He sighs, looking every bit his sixty-one years. “She’s pushing for garage access. Says it’s cruel to keep a mother from supporting her daughter. She’s already got three magazines lined up for exclusive coverage of your emotional reunion.”
That gets a laugh from me, albeit not a happy one. “Oh, that’s amazing.” I stop walking, needing to process this epic level of bullshit. “And the Singapore incident? What’s Mommy Dearest’s take on that?”
“Proof that you need maternal guidance. That your ‘aggressive response’ comes from lacking a mother’s influence.”
“What response? Wyn hit a wall with his face. Remember?” Clearly no one’s buying this, but it’s the official story and I’ll go to my grave swearing by it.
He gives me such a look. “Riiight.” We both know I’m bullshitting, but I can see he’s amused by the whole thing. And he’s not the only one. “Anyway. Kelley’s positioning herself as a concerned parent.”
“Who what? Suddenly gives a shit?” Oh, it’s a vicious laugh that escapes me this time.
“Where was this maternal concern when I stopped eating when I was fifteen? Or when I had my first shunt in F4? Or when I broke my hand in F3 or literally any other non-media-worthy moment in the last twenty years?” When I was hospitalized for disordered eating, Dad and Richard attended therapy sessions.
Kelley didn’t. It confused the hell out of my therapists.
He sighs. “I’m sorry.” He’s had to say that too many times. “I know having her as my wife complicates things. I never meant to hurt you.”
“Stop, Richard.” I meet his eyes, finding the same genuine warmth that’s made him send birthday flowers every year for twenty years.
“You’re not responsible for Kelley’s choices.
Any of them.” This is a conversation we’ve had way too many times.
He and I. He and Dad. He and I and Dad. I hate that he feels he needs to keep saying it.
Rich runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, she’s escalating her campaign. The closer you get to making history, the more determined she becomes to be more than just a footnote in your story. And when she doesn’t get what she wants...” He shrugs. “Well, you know.”
“Yes. She makes everyone miserable. Including her loving, generous husband who has more patience than Job himself.” I remember that much about my mother.
“Look, Rich, whatever she’s planning I don’t care, and I won’t play along.
She’ll look like a fool, but she’ll have done it to herself.
Who knows? Maybe she’ll learn something from being embarrassed this time. ”
“Ms. Hayter?” A circuit official approaches. “The race director requests your presence. The FIA is ready to announce a decision about Singapore.”
Jesus, the timing.
“Go.” Richard squeezes my arm. “Just be prepared. Kelley’s not gonna stop until she gets the narrative she wants.”
“Yeah, well. She’s forgetting who she’s fighting.”
His face screws up into an expression only Rich can make. “I know you hate to hear this, but you got half your determination from her.”
I think my eye-roll displaces the planet from its axis. “Oh my God, stop staying it then.”
He laughs. “No.”
Shaking my head, I follow the official to the media center, a room so crowded with press reps it feels too small for the drama about to unfold.
Graham’s there, puffed up with righteous indignity and an extra shot of arsehole-ishness.
Wyn stands slightly behind him, expression so blank I think he used one of those Magic Eraser thingies on his face. Dad arrives just after me with Reece.
Carlos Belmonte’s presence surprises me until I remember he filed the primary complaint.
Plus he’s not just Nico’s father, he’s his manager.
And given he’s a former president of the FIA’s safety committee, his voice and opinions carry an astonishing amount of weight.
Which he knows and doesn’t swing around lightly, earning the respect of everyone. Except Graham, obviously.
“Let’s get started.” Emil Krastev, the race director, clears his throat. “Regarding the on-track incident during the Singapore Grand Prix between Wyn Pritchard and Petra Hayter, after reviewing all available data and testimony concerning the actions of WolfBett Racing driver Wyn Pritchard.”
A thrill runs through me as Nico enters the room. He joins Carlos and his gaze meets mine briefly, then he focuses forward. Professional. Controlled. Like we didn’t almost do something foolish.
His coolness raises the Oh, Bollocks flag in my mind, and I have to wonder, yet again, if he’s just playing games with me.
If he is, I swear, I will choke him with his own fucking testicles.
“The stewards find significant evidence of dangerous driving practices.” The words hit like a shunt into the barriers and yank my attention back to the front of the room. “Multiple instances of aggressive blocking, forcing competitors off track, and—”
“My son was racing.” Graham’s voice carries practiced authority. “These modern interpretations of acceptable racing lines are overly conservative.”
“They are designed to prevent fatal accidents.” Carlos’s quiet response carries more weight than Graham’s bluster.
The tension ratchets higher in the room. Everyone in F1 knows about Carlos’s fights with the FIA over safety regulations.
Krastev continues. “The stewards have decided the Singapore incident represents a pattern of behavior requiring significant response.”
My heart pounds. Beside me, Dad stands straighter.
“Therefore, the following penalties are imposed: A ten-place grid penalty for tomorrow’s race. Six penalty points on the super license. And a twenty-five thousand euro fine.”
Ten-place penalty? Holy shit. It means Wyn will start in seventeenth place for tomorrow’s race. That’s a potentially massive blow to WolfBett’s Constructors’ points. And points mean money. A lot of fucking money. A lot more than the twenty-five thousand euro fine.
The room erupts. Graham’s already protesting, words like “appeal” and “prejudicial” spewing from his mouth. Wyn’s shoulders curl inward slightly. Carlos and Dad exchange looks. They’ve traveled this road many times.
They listened. The FIA actually listened.
“Additionally.” The race director raises his voice to quiet the room. “All teams are reminded that dangerous driving will not be tolerated, regardless of championship implications.”
That last bit’s aimed directly at Graham, whose influence clearly didn’t extend far enough this time.
“This decision is final.” Krastev closes his folder and stands. “Good evening.” He’s not entertaining any questions from the press.
As we file out, I catch fragments of conversation:
“—appeal process—”
“—championship points—”
“—proper racing tradition—”
But it’s Nico’s quiet words to Wyn that stick with me as the two WolfBett drivers slip past.
“Race clean tomorrow. Get through the pack. Show them who you really are, Wyn.”
The press descends before I can escape. Claudia and Rodrigo materialize at my side, but I know the drill, and my years of media training kick in automatically.
“Petra, your reaction to the stewards’ decision?”
“The FIA’s commitment to driver safety is crucial for our sport. Their thorough review of the incident demonstrates that.”
“Will this affect your approach to tomorrow’s race?”
“My focus remains on clean, competitive racing and scoring maximum points for Nitro. Every driver on the grid wants to deliver the best possible show for the fans, safely and professionally. That’s what I’ll do tomorrow.”
“Any response to Graham Pritchard’s accusation that this decision shows bias?”